Trust no lovely forms of passion :
Fiends may look like angels bright.
Trust no custom, " school,” or fashion—
"Trust in God, and do the right!

Simple rule and safest guiding,

Inward peace and inward might, Star upon our path abiding—

“Trust in God, and do the right!"

Some will hate thee, some will love thee;
Some will flatter, some will slight;
Cease from man, and look above thee-
"Trust in God, and do the right!

Cleon, true, possesseth acres,

But the landscape I;

Half the charms to me it yieldeth

Money cannot buy ;

Cleon harbours sloth and dulness,
Freshening vigour I;

He in velvet, I in fustian

Richer man am I.

Cleon is a slave to grandeur,
Free as thought am I:
Cleon fees a score of doctors,
Need of none have I;
Wealth-surrounded, care-environ'd,
Cleon fears to die;

Death may come, he'll find me ready—

Happier man am I.

Cleon sees no charm in nature,

In a daisy I;

Cleon hears no anthems singing
In the sea and sky ;

Nature sings to me for ever,

Earnest listener I;

State for state, with all attendants,

Who would change? Not I.

MACKAY.

CALIFORNIA

A PORTION OF GRAY'S BARD.

"RUIN seize thee, ruthless king!

Confusion on thy banners wait;

Though fanned by conquest's crimson wing,

They mock the air with idle state.

Helm nor hauberk's twisted mail,

Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant! shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:
"To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couched his quiverin
lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,

Robed in the sable garb of woe,

With haggard eyes the poet stood;
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair

Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air,)
And with a master's hand and poet's fire
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

Hark how each giant oak and desert cave
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
O'er thee, O king, their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more since Cambria's fatal day

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

Cold is Cadwollo's tongue,

That hushed the stormy main,

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed,

Mountains! ye mourn in vain.

Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,

Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale:

Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail,
The famished eagle screams and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries!
No more I weep. They do not sleep:
On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,

I see them sit; they linger yet,

Avengers of their native land;

With me in dreadful harmony they join,

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

Weave the warp and weave the woof,
The winding sheet of Edward's race;
Give ample scope and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year and mark the night

When Severn shall re-echo with affright,

The shrieks of death through Berkley's roofs that ring Shrieks of an agonizing king!

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs

That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,

From thee be born who o'er thy country hangs

The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him wait!
Amazement in his van, with flight combined,
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

GRAY.

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE.

LADY Clara Vere de Vere,

Of me you shall not win renown;
You thought to break a country heart
For pastime, ere you went to town.
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled
I saw the snare, and I retired :
The daughter of a hundred Earls,
You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine,

Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break, for your sweet sake, A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find,
For were you queen of all that is,
I could not stoop to such a mind.
You sought to prove how I could love,
And my disdain is my reply.
The lion on your old stone gates
Is not more cold to you than I.