Say, should the philosophic mind disdain
That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ?
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,
These little things are great to little man;
And wiser he whose sympathetic mind
Exults in all the good of all mankind.

Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd;
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round;

Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale;

Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale,
For me your tributary stores combine :
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine.
As some lone miser, visiting his store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er;
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still;-
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,

Pleas'd with each good that Heaven to man supplies.
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find

Some spot to real happiness consign'd,

Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest,
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.

8.--ELEGY.-Pope.

What can atone (O ever injur'd shade!)
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear

Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier;
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd.
What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances, and the public show?
What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?

What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress'd,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;

A heap of dust alone remains of thee;
"Tis all thou art—and all the proud shall be!

9.-THE POET.-Couper.

Nature, exerting an unwearied power,

Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower;
Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads
The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads:
She fills profuse ten thousand little throats
With music, modulating all their notes;

And charms the woodland scenes and wilds unknown,
With artless airs and concerts of her own;
But seldom (as if fearful of expense)
Vouchsafes to man a Poet's just pretence:-
Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought,

Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought;
Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky
Brings colours, dipped in Heaven, that never die;
A soul exalted above earth, a mind

Skill'd in the characters that form mankind;

And, as the sun in rising beauty dress'd

Looks to the westward from the dappled east,
And marks, whatever clouds may interpose,
Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close,—
An
eye like his to catch the distant goal;
Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll,
Like his to shed illuminating rays

On every scene and subject it surveys:

Thus grac'd, the man asserts a Poet's name,
And the world cheerfully admits the claim.
-Pity Religion has so seldom found
A skilful guide into poetic ground!

The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to stray,
And every Muse attend her in her way.

Virtue, indeed, meets many a rhyming friend,
And many a compliment politely penn'd;
But, unattir'd in that becoming vest
Religion weaves for her, and half undress'd,
Stands in the desert, shivering and forlorn,
A wintry figure, like a wither'd thorn.

The shelves are full, all other themes are sped;
Hackney'd, and worn to the last flimsy thread,
Satire has long since done his best; and curst
And loathsome Ribaldry has done his worst;
Fancy has sported all her powers away,
In tales, in trifles, and in children's play;
And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true,
Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new.
"Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire,
Touch'd with a coal from heaven, assume the lyre,
And tell the world, still kindling as he sung,
With more than mortal music on his tongue,
That He who died below, and reigns above,
Inspires the song, and that His Name is Love.

10.-TO A LITTLE GIRL.-Philips.

Timely blossom, infant fair, fondling of a happy pair! every morn and every night their solicitous delight; sleeping, waking, still at ease; pleasing, without skill to please; little gossip, blithe and hale, tattling many a broken tale, singing many a tuneless song, lavish of a heedless tongue: simple maiden, void of art, babbling out the very heart; yet abandon'd to thy will, yet imagining no ill, yet too innocent to blush; like the linnet in the bush, to the mother linnet's note moduling her slender throat, chirping forth thy petty joys: wanton in the change of toys; like the linnet green, in May, flitting to each bloomy spray; wearied then and glad of rest, like the linnet in the nest: this, thy present happy lot, this in time will be forgot: other pleasures, other cares, ever-busy Time prepares; and thou shalt in thy daughter see this picture once resembled thee.

11.-BEAUTY AND THE BUTTERFLY-A COMPARISON.-Byron.

As rising on its purple wing, the insect-queen of Eastern spring, o'er emerald meadows of Cashmeer invites the young pursuer near, and leads him on from flower to flower a weary chase and wasted hour; then leaves him, as it soars on high, with panting heart and tearful eye;-so Beauty lures the full-grown child, with hue as bright, and wing as wild: a chase of idle hopes and fears, begun in folly-closed in tears! If won, to equal ills betray'd; woe waits the insect and the maid: a life of pain, the loss of peace, from infant's play, and man's caprice. The lovely toy, so fiercely sought, hath lost its charm-by being caught! for every touch that wooed its stay hath brush'd its brightest hues away; till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 'tis left to fly, or fall-alone! With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, ah! where shall either victim rest? Can this, with faded pinion, soar from rose to tulip as before? Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, find joy within her broken bower? No: gayer insects fluttering by, ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die; and lovelier things have mercy shown to every failing but their own; and every woe a tear can claim, except an erring sister's shame!

12.-MY NEIGHBOUR.-Mackay.

1 He was prudent, brave, and gentle, living as a man should do; kept a conscience, did his duty, loved his fellows-served them too. Modest, virtuous, self-reliant, rich and learned, wise and true. 2 He had faultsperhaps had many,—but one fault above them all lay like heavy lead upon him; tyrant of a patient thrall-tyrant seen, confessed, and hated, banished only to recall. 3" Oh! he drank ?" "His drink was water!" "Gambled ?" "No! he hated play." "Then, perchance, a tenderer failing led his heart and head astray!" "No! both honour and religion kept him in the purer way." "Then, he scorned Life's mathematics, could not reckon up a score-pay his debts-or be persuaded two and two were always four." "No! he was exact as Euclid, prompt and punctual no one more." 5 "Oh! a miser ?" "No!"-"Too lavish ?" "Worst of guessers, guess again !" "No! I'm weary hunting failures; was he seen of mortal ken, paragon of marble virtues, quite a model man of men ?" 6"At his birth an evil spirit charms and spells around him flung, and, with well-concocted malice, laid a curse upon his tongue; curse that daily made him wretched-earth's most wretched sons among! 7 He could plead, expound, and argue; fire with wit, with wisdom glow; but one word for ever failed him-source of all his pain and woe; luckless wight! he could not say it—could not-dared not answer, No!"

13.-THE SUNBEAM.-Mrs. Hemans.

Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall :
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all!
A bearer of hope unto land and sea—
Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee?
Thou art walking the billows and Ocean smiles;
Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles;
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam,
And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home.
To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
Thou art streaming-on through their green arcades ;
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow,
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.

I look'd to the mountains—a vapour lay
Folding their heights in its dark array :
Thou brokest forth-and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.
I looked on the peasant's lowly cot-
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot ;
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell,
And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell.
To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart;
And thou scornest not from thy pomp, to shed
A tender smile on the ruin's head.

Thou tak'st through the dim church-aisles thy way,
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day:
And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old,
Are bath'd in a flood as of molten gold.

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave,
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave:
Thou scatter'st its gloom like the dreams of rest
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.
Sunbeam of summer! oh! what is like thee,
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea?
One thing is like thee to mortals given―

The Faith touching all things with hues of heaven!