These are the joys that wait the simple swain Bold independence elevates his soul Above the blast of Fame, the power of crowns. He spurns the despot's, and the mob's control, Nor courts their smiles, nor apprehends their frowns. Solicitations, anxious hopes, and fears, Sweep not his bosom with alternate tides; He heeds not how the wind of favour veers, What int'rest rises, or what power subsides. He sells not truth for popular applause, Nor haunts the levees of the man in place; But pleads, with dauntless voice, his country's cause, When folly blinds, or sordid arts disgrace. He traverses with sapient eye the fields Yet culls the sweetest flowers that fancy yields, Beyond this scene of trouble, doubt, and fear, Where transient joys scarce soothe our lasting pains, He looks into a region, calm and clear, Where happiness resides, and virtue reigns. -Poetical Register, 1804. DR W. L. BROWN. WHAT IS LIFE? WHAT is the existence of man's life Till death's cold hand signs his release. It is a storm-where the hot blood It is a flower-which buds and grows, Then sinks into that fatal mould It is a dream-whose seeming truth Till in a mist of dark decay The dreamer vanish quite away. It is a dial-which points out It is a weary interlude— Which doth short joys, long woes, include: DR HENRY KING, 1591–1669. TIME THE COMFORTER. O TIME! Who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away! And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear. I may look back on every sorrow past, And meet life's peaceful evening with a smileAs some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower, Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while : Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure! W. L. BOWLES, 1762-1850. GRATITUDE AND HUMBLE CONTENT. LORD, Thou hast given me a cell A little house, whose humble roof Under the spars of which I lie Where Thou, my chamber for to ward, Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by the poor, Who hither come, and freely get Like as my parlour, so my hall, A little buttery, and therein Which keeps my little loaf of bread Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier Close by whose living coal I sit, Lord, I confess, too, when I dine, And all those other bits that be There placed by Thee. The worts, the purslain, and the mess Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent: Makes those, and my belovèd beet, 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth ! And giv'st me wassail-bowls to drink, Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That sows my land: All this and better, dost Thou send |