The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would not this be strange?
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live," For ever on the brink of being born: All pay themselves the compliment to think They one day shall not drivel, and their pride On this reversion takes up ready praise; At least their own; their future selves applaud; How excellent that life they ne'er will lead ! Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails; That lodged in Fate's to wisdom they consign; The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone. 'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool,

And scarce in human wisdom to do more.

All promise is poor dilatory man,

And that through every stage. When young, indeed,
In full content we sometimes nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish,

As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool;

Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ;

At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purposes to resolve;

In all the magnanimity of thought

Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same.

EDWARD YOUNG, 1681-1765.

-Night Thoughts.

THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND.

THE sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the isle ;

The soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while;

But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers'

halls,

And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals.

We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn,

To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine the saffron morn ;

We'll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land;

The Ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy peasant band!

The work it does is good and blest, and may be proudly told;

We see it in the teeming barns, and fields of waving gold;

Its metal is unsullied, no blood-stain lingers there : God speed it well, and let it thrive unshackled everywhere.

The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather dust;

But never may the prow that cuts the furrow lie and rust.

Fill up, fill up, with glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land,

The Ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy

peasant band!

ELIZA COOK, 1818—

'TIS INDUSTRY SUPPORTS US ALL.

NATURE expects mankind should share
The duties of the public care.

Who's born for sloth? To some we find
The ploughshare's annual toil assign'd:
Some at the sounding anvil glow;
Some the swift-sliding shuttle throw;
Some, studious of the wind and tide,
From pole to pole our commerce guide ;
Some, taught by industry, impart
With hands and feet, the works of art ;
While some, of genius more refined,
With head and tongue assist mankind:
Each, aiming at one common end,
Proves to the whole a needful friend.

Thus, from each other's useful aid,

By turns are obligations paid:
The monarch, when his table's spread,
Is to the clown obliged for bread;

And, when in all his glory drest,
Owes to the loom his royal vest.

Do not the mason's toil and care
Protect him from th' inclement air?
Does not the cutler's art supply
The ornament that guards his thigh?
All these, in duty to the throne,
Their common obligations own :
'Tis he (his own and people's cause)
Protects their properties and laws.
Thus they their honest toil employ,
And with content the fruits enjoy.
In every rank, or great or small,
'Tis industry supports us all.

THOMAS GAY, 1688-1732.

WHERE IS HE?

“MAN GIVETH UP THE GHOST, AND WHERE IS HE?"

WHERE is he? Hark! his lonely home

Is answering to the mournful call!

The setting sun with dazzling blaze
May fire the windows of his hall:
But evening shadows quench the light,
And all is cheerless, cold, and dim,
Save where one taper wakes at night,
Like weeping love remembering him.

E

Where is he? Hark! the friend replies:
"I watch'd beside his dying bed,
And heard the low and struggling sighs
That gave the living to the dead;
I saw his weary eyelids close,

And then the ruin coldly cast,
Where all the loving and beloved,
Though sadly parted, meet at last."

Where is he? Hark! the marble says,
That "here the mourners laid his head;
And here sometimes, in after-days,

They came, and sorrow'd for the dead;
But one by one they pass'd away,
And soon they left me here alone,

To sink in unobserved decay

A nameless and neglected stone."

Where is he? Hark! 'tis Heaven replies:
"The star-beam of the purple sky,
That looks beneath the evening's brow,
Mild as some beaming angel's eye,
As calm and clear it gazes down,
Is shining from the place of rest,
The pearl of his immortal crown,
The heavenly radiance of the blest!"

-American.

WILLIAM O. PEABODY, 1799-1847.