WHERE THERE'S A WILL THERE'S A WAY. WE have faith in old proverbs full surely, And you'll find they believe, like bold wooers, The hills have been high for Man's mounting, The woods have been dense for his axe, The stars have been thick for his counting, The sands have been wide for his tracks, The sea has been deep for his diving, The poles have been broad for his sway, But bravely he's proved in his striving That "Where there's a will there's a way." Have ye vices that ask a destroyer? Resist with all strength that you may; For "Where there's a will there's a way." Have ye Poverty's pinching to cope with? And dawn may come out of the night. On "Where there's a will there's a way." ELIZA COOK, 1818— TIMES GO BY TURNS. THE lopped tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Times go by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow; She draws her favours to the lowest ebb: Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web : No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend, H Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net that holds no great, takes little fish ; In some things all, in all things none are cross'd; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, have never all. ROBERT SOUTHWELL, 1560-1595. DISCONTENT. THE mariner whose little bark is toss'd Upon the rude ungovernable waves, 'Midst rocks and quicksands, often toils and slaves, Uncertain if he shall or not be lost, And buried in the mighty deep he cross'd So often and so safe-in vain he craves Assistance, whilst the foaming torrent laves His labouring vessel. Thoughts which once engross'd And cheer'd his brighter days, are now forgot; The dreadful scene. "How wretched is my lot!" He cries. The danger o'er, he tempts his fate Again. Thus weak repining man doth sigh, And discontented lives, yet fears to die. ANONYMOUS. HAPPINESS IN MODERATION. HAPPY the man whose wishes never roam What nature asks, to him is richly given; By prudent culture to invite the soil To pay, with bounteous gratitude, his care, To fill the part by ruling Heaven assign'd A cloudless judgment and a conscience clear. These are the joys that wait the simple swain Bold independence elevates his soul Above the blast of Fame, the power of crowns. He spurns the despot's, and the mob's control, Nor courts their smiles, nor apprehends their frowns. Solicitations, anxious hopes, and fears, Sweep not his bosom with alternate tides; He heeds not how the wind of favour veers, What int'rest rises, or what power subsides. He sells not truth for popular applause, Nor haunts the levees of the man in place; But pleads, with dauntless voice, his country's cause, When folly blinds, or sordid arts disgrace. He traverses with sapient eye the fields Yet culls the sweetest flowers that fancy yields, Beyond this scene of trouble, doubt, and fear, Where transient joys scarce soothe our lasting pains, He looks into a region, calm and clear, Where happiness resides, and virtue reigns. -Poetical Register, 1804. DR W. L. BROWN. |