NONE pities him that's in the snare,
And warn'd before, would not beware.
Beneath our feet, and o'er our head,
Is equal warning given;
Beneath us lie the countless dead,
Above us is the heaven!
Their names are graven on the stone,
Their bones are in the clay;
And ere another day is done,
Ourselves may be as they.
Thou, who in the noon-time brightness
Seest a shadow undefined;
Hear'st a voice that indistinctly
Whispers caution to thy mind:
Thou, who hast a vague foreboding
That peril may be near,
Even when Nature smiles around thee,
And thy conscience holds thee clear-
Trust the warning-look before thee,-
Angels may the mirror show,
Dimly still, but sent to guide thee,
We are wiser than we know. --Charles Mackay.
PEACE to corrupt no less than war to waste.
See the wide waste of all-devouring years!
How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears!
With nodding arches, broken temples spread,
The very tombs now vanished like their dead.
Now wasting years my former strength confound,
And added woes have bowed me to the ground;
Yet by the stubble you may guess the grain,
And mark the ruins of no vulgar man.
LITTLE water clears us of this deed.
Bright, bright in many a rocky urn,
The waters of our deserts lie.
Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink!
Wine, wine, thy power and praise
Hath ever been echo'd in minstrel lays;
But water, I deem, hath a mightier claim
To fill up a niche in the temple of Fame.
For the cool water we have quaffed,
Source of all Good, we owe thee much, Our lips have touched no burning draught This day-nor shall they ever touch.
How beautiful the water is!
To me 'tis wondrous fair-
No spot can ever lonely be
If water sparkle there;
It hath a thousand tongues of mirth,
Of grandeur, or delight,
And every heart is gladder made
When water is in sight.
The dear and blessed thing,
That all day fed the little flowers
On its banks blossoming.
The water! the water!
That murmur'd in my ear
Hymns of a saint-like purity,
That angels well might hear;
And whisper in the gates of heaven,
How meek a pilgrim had been shriven.
William Motherwell.
THOUGH it be hard, man's right to every thing Wanes with his wealth: wealth is the surest king.
That wealth should be the appanage of wit,
The God of light could ne'er have been so blind,
To deal it to the worst of human kind.
There are, while human miseries abound,
A thousand ways to waste superfluous wealth,
Without one fool or flatterer at our board,
Without one hour of sickness or disgust.
Why lose we life in anxious cares,
To lay in hoards for future years?
Can these, when tortur'd by disease,
Cheer our sick hearts, or purchase ease?
Can these prolong one gasp of breath,
Or calm the troubled hour of death?
If happiness on wealth were built,
Rich rogues might comfort find in guilt.
As grows the miser's hoarded store,
His fears, his wants, increase the more.
Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffus'd;
As poison heals in just proportion us'd;
In heaps, like ambergris, at stink it lies,
But well dispers'd, is incense to the skies.
That wealth that bounteous fortune sends
As presents to her dearest friends,
Is oft laid out upon a purchase
Of two yards long in parish churches,
And those too happy men that bought it
Had liv'd, and happier too, without it.
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts. Goldsmith.
SIR, you are very welcome to our house;
It must appear in other ways than words,
Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy.
Welcome, pure thoughts; welcome, ye silent groves,
These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves;
Now the winged people of the sky shall sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring;
A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass,
In which I will adore sweet virtue's face.
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears;
Then here I'll sigh, and sigh my hot love's folly,
And learn to affect an holy melancholy;
And if contentment be a stranger then,
I'll ne'er look for it but in heaven again.
IN poison there is physic; and this news
That would, had I been well, have made me sick,
Being sick, hath in some measure made me well.
Circles are prais'd, not that abound
In largeness, but th' exactly round;
So life we praise, that does excel
Not in much time, but acting well. Waller.
Oh! the pleasant woodland well,
Gemmed about with roses;
Sweetest spot in dale or dell,
Bright when evening closes:
Sparkling gushing clearly,
There it was first love begun,
And, amidst eve's shadows dun,
There it was I wooed and won,
Her I loved most dearly.-Richard Howitt.
THY heart is big! get thee apart and weep!
Passion I see is catching; for mine eyes,
Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine,
Begin to water.
Hide not thy tears; weep boldly and be proud
To give the flowing virtue manly way;
'Tis nature's mark to know an honest heart by.
Shame on those breasts of stone that cannot melt
In soft adoption of another's sorrow.
And if I laugh at any mortal thing,
'Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep, 'Tis that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy, which we must steep First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring, Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep.
Weep not for her! There is no cause of woe,
But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the stormy path below,
And from earth's low defilements keep thee back, So when a few fleet swerving years have flown, She'll meet thee at heaven's gate, and lead thee in:
The eye that weeps, shall yet be dry,
And cloudless as a summer sky;
Though watering now with countless tears,
The garden of departed years.
The eye that weeps shall yet be bright
As golden morning's flashing light;
Though clouded be its ray awhile,
That eye shall beam a radiant smile.
Alas for him who has but tears
Along his path of pain,
But, oh! his long and weary years,
Who may not weep again!
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