When sanguine youth the plain of life surveys,
It does not calculate on rainy days;
Some, as they enter on the unknown way,
Expect large troubles at a distant day,-
The loss of wealth, or friends they fondly prize;
But reckon not on ills of smaller size,—
Those nameless, trifling ills, that intervene,
And people life, infesting every scene;
And these, with silent, unavowed success,
Wear off the keener edge of happiness:
Those tearing swarms, that buzz about our joys
More potent than the whirlwind that destroys;
Potent with heavenly teaching, to attest
Life is a pilgrimage, and not a rest.
That lesson learned aright is valued more
Than all Experience ever taught before;
For this her choicest secret, timely given,
Is wisdom, virtue, happiness, and heaven.
Long is religion viewed, by many an eye,
As wanted more for safety by-and-by,
A thing for times of danger and distress,
Than needful for our present happiness.
But after fruitless, wearisome assays
To find repose and peace in other ways,
The sickened soul,-when Heaven imparts its
Returns to seek its only resting place;
And sweet Experience proves as years increase, That Wisdom's ways are pleasantness and peace.
Jane Taylor, England, 1783-1824.
65. The Mountains.
Howe'er the wheels of Time go round,
We cannot wholly be discrowned.
We bind, in form, and hue and height,
The Finite to the Infinite,
And, lifted on our shoulders bare,
The races breathe an ampler air.
The arms that clasped, the lips that kissed,
Have vanished from the morning mist;
The dainty shapes that flashed and passed
In
spray the plunging torrent cast,
Or danced through woven gleam and shade,
The vapors and the sunbeam's braid,
Grow thin and pale: each holy haunt
Of gods or spirits ministrant
Hath something lost of ancient awe;
Yet from the stooping heavens we draw
A beauty, mystery, and might,
Time cannot change nor worship slight.
The gold of dawn and sunset sheds
Unearthly glory on our heads;
The secret of the skies we keep;
And whispers, round each lonely sleep,
Allure and promise, yet withhold,
What bard and prophet never told.
While Man's slow ages come and go
Our dateless chronicles of snow
Their changeless old inscription show,
And men therein for ever see
The unread speech of Deity.
Bayard Taylor, Penn, 1825—.
66. The Soul's Emblem.
A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun;
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on
O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow;
E'en in its very motion there was rest,
While every breath of eve, that chanced to blow,
Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west;-
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven; Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies.
John Wilson, Scotland, 1785-1854.
Low walks the sun, and broadens by degrees,
Just o'er the verge of day. The shifting clouds
Assembled gay, a richly gorgeous train,
In all their pomp attend his setting throne.
Air, earth, and ocean smile immense. And now,
As if his weary chariot sought the bowers
Of Amphitrite and her tending nymphs,
(So Grecian fable sung,) he dips his orb;
Now half immersed; and now a golden curve
Gives one bright glance, then total disappears.
Jas. Thomson, England, 1700-1748.
68. Happiness.
True happiness had no localities,
No tones provincial, no peculiar garb.
Where Duty went, she went, with justice went,
And with Meekness, Charity, and Love.
Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart
Bound up, a bruised spirit with the dew
Of sympathy anointed, or a pang
Of honest suffering soothed, or injury
Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven;
Where'er an evil passion was subdued,
Or virtue's feeble embers fanned; where'er
A sin was heartily abjured and left;
Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed
A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish;
There was a high and holy place, a spot
Of sacred light, a most religious fane,
Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled.
Robt. Pollok, England, 1799-1827.
69. Memory's Power.
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy.
They come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long, be my heart with such memories filled,
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled;
You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
Thomas Moore, Dublin, 1779-1872
For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich;
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,
So honor peereth in the meanest habit.
What! is the jay more precious than the lark;
Because his feathers are more beautiful?
Or is the adder better than the eel,
Because his painted skin contents the eyes?
Oh no, good friend: neither art thou the worse
For this poor furniture and mean array.
Wm. Shakespeare, England, 1564-1616.
71. The Sabbath Morning.
With silent awe I hail the sacred morn,
That slowly wakes while all the fields are still!
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne;
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill,
And echo answers softer from the hill;
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn;
The sky-lark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred sabbath morn!
The rooks float silent by, in airy drove;
The sun a placid yellow luster throws;
The gales that lately sighed along the grove,
Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose;
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move;
So smiled the day when the first morn arose!
John Leyden, Scotland, 1775-1811.
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