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Yet at the darkened eye, the withered face,
Or hoary hair I never will repine:
But
spare,

oh time, whate'er of mental grace, Of candour, love, or sympathy divine, Whate'er of fancy's ray or friendship's flame is mine.

BEATTIE.

MUTUAL FORBEARANCE,

NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE.

The Lady thus address’d her spouse-
What a mere dungeon is this house !
By no means large enough ; and was it
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet,
Those hangings, with their worn out graces,
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces,
Are such an antiquated scene,
They overwhelm me with the spleen.

Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark,
Makes answer quite beside the mark;
No doubt, my dear; I bade him come,
Engag'd myself to be at home.
And shall expect him at the door,
Precisely when the clock strikes four.

You are so deaf, the lady cried,
(And rais'd her voice, and frown'd beside,)
You are so sadly deaf, my dear,
What shall I do to make

you

hear!
Dismiss poor Harry! he replies,
Some people are more nice than wise ;
For one slight trespass all this stir !
What if he did ride, whip, and spur ?
'Twas but a mile-your fav’rite horse
Will never look one hair the worse.
Well I protest, 'tis past all bearing !
Child, I am rather hard of hearing!

Yes truly—one must scream and bawl,
I tell you, you can't hear at all.

Then with a voice exceeding low,
No matter if you hear or no.

Alas! and is domestic strife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be fear’d,
As to be wantonly incurr'd ;
To gratify a fretful passion,
On every trivial provocation ?
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear,
And something every day they live
To pity, and perhaps forgive.
But if infirmities that fall
In common to the lot of all,
A blemish, or a sense impair'd,
Are crimes so little to be spar'e,
Then farewell all that must create
The comfort of the wedded state.
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar
And tumult, and intestine war.
The love that cheers life's latest stage,
Proof against sickness and old age,
Freserv'd by virtue from declension,
Becomes not weary of attention ;
But lives when that exterior grace,
Which first inspired the flame decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
To faults compassionate or blind,
And will with sympathy endure
Those evils it would gladly cure :
But angry, coarse, and harsh expression,
Shows love to be a mere profession,
Proves that the heart is none of his,
Or soon expels him if it is,

COWPER.

THE CONVICT SHIP.

Morn on the waters ! and purple and bright
Bursts on the billows the flashing of light;
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on;
Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,
And her pennon streams onward like hope in the gale;
The winds come around her, in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice as they bear her along,
See she looks up to the golden edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in her shrouds
Onward she glides amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters, away and away!
Bright as the visions of youth ere they part
Passing away, like a dream of the heart !
Who, as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high,
Pauses to think amid glitter and glow,
Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below!

Night on the waves ! and the morn is on high.
Hung like a gem on the brow of the sky,
Treading its depths in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light;
Look to the waters ! asleep on their breast,
Seems not the ship like an island of rest ?
Bright and alone on the shadowy main,
Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain,
Who, as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty, could deem with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And souls that are smitten, lie bursting within ?
Who, as he watches her silently gliding,
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,
Hearts that are parted and broken for ever ?

Or dreams that he watches, afloat on the wave,
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave?

"Tis thus with our life, as it passes along,
Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song,
Gaily we glide in the gaze of the world,
With streamers afloat and, with canvass unfarled;
All gladness and glory to wandering eyes,
Yet chartered by sorrow and freighted with sighs :
Fading and false is the aspect it wears,
As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears,
And the withering thoughts that the world cannot know,
Like heart-broken exiles lie burving below;
Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore,
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanish'd and
o'er.

T. K. HERVEY.

CHRISTIAN BENEVOLENCE.

Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief?
Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold ?
Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief ;
Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold.
'Tis when the rose is wrapt in many a fold
Close to its heart the worm is wasting there
Its life and beauty; not when, all unrollid
Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair,
Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air.
Some high or humble enterprise of good,
Contemplate till it shall possess thy mind,
Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,
And kindle in thy heart a flame refined.
Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind
To this thy purpose-to begin, pursue,
With thoughts all fixed, and feelings purely kind,
Strength to complete, and with delight review,
And grace to give the praise where all is ever due.

No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit
To light on man as from the passing air ;
The lamp of genius, though by nature lit,
If not protected, pruned, and fed with care
Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare ;
And learning is a plant that spreads and towers
Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare,
That 'mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers
Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers.
Beware lest thou from sloth that would appear
But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim
Thy want of worth; a charge thou could'st not bear,
From other lips without a blush of shame.
Or pride indignant; then be thine the blame,
And make thyself of worth ; and thus enlist
The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame ;
'Tis infamy to die and not be miss’d,
Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist.

Rouse to some work of high and holy love,
And thou an angel's happiness shall know~-
Shall bless the earth while in the world above,
The good begun by thee shall onward flow,
In many a branching stream, and wider grow,
The seed that in these few and fleeting hours,
Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow,
Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers,
And yield thee fruit divine in heaven's immortal
Lowers.

WILCOX.

THE LAST MINSTREL.

The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old ;
His withered cheek, and tresses gray,

emed to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy;

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