Excess of ill-got, ill-kept pelf

Does only death and danger breed ; Whilst one rich worldling starves himself With what would thousand others feed. By which we see that wealth and power, Although they make men rich and great, The sweets of life do often sour,

And gull ambition with a cheat.

Nor is he happier than these,
Who, in a moderate estate,
Where he might safely live at ease,
Has lusts that are immoderate.
For he, by those desires misled,

Quits his own vine's securing shade,
To expose his naked, empty head
To all the storms man's peace invade.

Nor is he happy who is trim,

Tricked up in favors of the fair, Mirrors, with every breath made dim,

Birds, caught in every wanton snare.

Woman, man's greatest woe or bliss,

Does oftener far than serve, enslave And with the magic of a kiss

Destroys whom she was made to save. O fruitful grief, the world's disease! And vainer man, to make it so, Who gives his miseries increase By cultivating his own woe.

There are no ills but what we make

By giving shapes and names to things, Which is the dangerous mistake

That causes all our sufferings.

We call that sickness which is health, That persecution which is grace, That poverty which is true wealth, And that dishonor which is praise.

Alas! our time is here so short

That in what state soe'er 't is spent, Of joy or woe, does not import, Provided it be innocent.

But we may make it pleasant too,

If we will take our measures right,

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listened till I had my fill;
And as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

A NOBLE peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestioned and his soul serene.
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid;
At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed;
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved;
To bliss domestic he his heart resigned,
And with the firmest had the fondest mind;
Were others joyful, he looked smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distressed;
(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind
To miss one favor which their neighbors find ;)
Yet far was he from Stoic pride removed;
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved.
I marked his action, when his infant died,
And his old neighbor for offence was tried;
The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek,
Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar pride
Who in their base contempt the great deride;
Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;
Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few ;
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained
In sturdy boys to virtuous labors trained;
Pride in the power that guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied, -
In fact, a noble passion misnamed pride.

GEORGE CRABBE.

THE HAPPY MAN.

"
FROM THE WINTER walk at NOON."

HE is the happy man whose life even now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit

Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith,
Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one
Content indeed to sojourn while he must
Below the skies, but having there his home.

The world o'erlooks him in her busy search
Of objects, more illustrious in her view;
And, occupied as earnestly as she,

Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world.
She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not;
He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain.
He cannot skim the ground like summer birds
Pursuing gilded flies; and such he deems
Her honors, her emoluments, her joys.
Therefore in contemplation is his bliss,

Whose power is such that whom she lifts from earth
She makes familiar with a heaven unseen,
And shows him glories yet to be revealed.
Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed,
And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams
Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird
That flutters least is longest on the wing.

HAPPINESS.

WILLIAM COWPER.

"
FROM THE ESSAY ON MAN."

O HAPPINESS! our being's end and aim!
Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate'er thy name:
That something still which prompts the eternal
sigh

For which we bear to live or dare to die,
Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
O'erlooked, seen double, by the fool, and wise.
Plant of celestial seed! if dropped below,
Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow?
Fair opening to some court's propitious shrine,
Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine?
Twined with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield,
Or reaped in iron harvests of the field?
Where grows where grows it not? If vain
our toil,

We ought to blame the culture, not the soil:
Fixed to no spot is happiness sincere,
"T is nowhere to be found, or everywhere:
'Tis never to be bought, but always free,
And fled from monarchs, St. John! dwells with

thee.

Ask of the learned the way? The learned are blind;

This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind;
Some place the bliss in action, some in ease,
Those call it pleasure, and contentment these;
Some, sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain;
Some, swelled to gods, confess even virtue vain!
Or, indolent, to each extreme they fall,
To trust in everything, or doubt of all.

Who thus define it, say they more or less
Than this, that happiness is happiness?

Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell; There needs but thinking right and meaning well; And mourn our various portions as we please, Equal is common sense and common ease.

ALEXANDER POPE

A HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he born and taught

That serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill! Whose passions not his masters are,

Whose soul is still prepared for death, Not tied unto the world with care

Of public fame or private breath; Who envies none that chance doth raise, Or vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise; Nor rules of state, but rules of good; Who hath his life from rumors freed,

Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great;
Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend ;
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend, -
This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And, having nothing, yet hath all.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

THE HERMIT.

AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove,
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began;
'T was thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,

No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man:
"Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe,
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall.
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to
mourn !

"Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, he moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays;

But lately I marked when majestic on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendor again!
But man's faded glory what change shall renew?
Ah, fool to exult in a glory so vain!

“'T is night, and the landscape is lovely no more.
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering

with dew.

Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn,
Kind nature the embryo blossom will save;
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?
O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave?

""T was thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,
That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind,
My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to
shade,

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

'O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried,

Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee!

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride; From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.'

"And darkness and doubt are now flying away;
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See truth, love, and mercy in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are
blending,

And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb."
JAMES BEATTIE.

THE CROWDED STREET.

LET me move slowly through the street,
Filled with an ever-shifting train,
Amid the sound of steps that beat
The murmuring walks like autumn rain.

How fast the flitting figures come!

The mild, the fierce, the stony face, Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have left their trace.

They pass to toil, to strife, to rest;

To halls in which the feast is spread ; To chambers where the funeral guest In silence sits beside the dead.

And some to happy homes repair,
Where children, pressing cheek to cheek,
With mute caresses shall declare
The tenderness they cannot speak.

And some, who walk in calinness here,
Shall shudder as they reach the door
Where one who made their dwelling dear,
Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame,
And dreams of greatness in thine eye!
Go'st thou to build an early name,

Or early in the task to die?

Keen son of trade, with eager brow!
Who is now fluttering in thy snare?
Thy golden fortunes, tower they now,
Or melt the glittering spires in air?
Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
The dance till daylight gleam again?
Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead?

Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?

Some, famine-struck, shall think how long The cold, dark hours, how slow the light; And some, who flaunt amid the throng,

Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.

O, how happy here's our leisure!
O, how innocent our pleasure!
O ye valleys! O ye mountains!

O ye groves and crystal fountains!

How I love, at liberty,

By turns to come and visit ye!

Dear solitude, the soul's best friend,

That man acquainted with himself dost make, And all his Maker's wonders to intend,

With thee I here converse at will,

And would be glad to do so still,

For is it thou alone that keep'st the soul awake.

How calm and quiet a delight

Is it, alone

To read and meditate and write,

By none offended, and offending none! To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease; And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease.

O my beloved nymph, fair Dove,
Princess of rivers, how I love

Upon thy flowery banks to lie,
And view thy silver stream,
When gilded by a summer's beam!
And in it all thy wanton fry
Playing at liberty,

And with my angle upon them
The all of treachery

I ever learned industriously to try!

Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show,
The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po;
The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine,

Are puddle-water, all, compared with thine;
And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are
With thine, much purer, to compare ;
The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine
Are both too mean,

Beloved Dove, with thee

To vie priority;

Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, submit, And lay their trophies at thy silver feet.

O my beloved rocks, that rise

To awe the earth and brave the skies!
From some aspiring mountain's crown

How dearly do I love,

Giddy with pleasure, to look down,

And from the vales to view the noble heights

above!

O my beloved caves! from dog-star's heat,
And all anxieties, my safe retreat;
What safety, privacy, what true delight,
In the artificial night

Your gloomy entrails make,
Have I taken, do I take !

How oft, when grief has made me fly,
To hide me from society