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In lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry:

So Nature taught, and yet you know not whyYou wat’ry folk that know not your felicity!"

Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air,

Then to the colder bottom straight they dive,
Eftsoons to Neptune's glassy hall repair

To see what trade the great ones there do drive,
Who forage o'er the spacious sea-green field,

And take their trembling prey before it yield,
Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins their


While musing thus with contemplation fed,

And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain,
The sweet-tongued Philomel perched o'er my head,

And chanted forth a most melodious strain,
Which rapt me so with wonder and delight,

I judged my hearing better than my sight, And wished me wings with her a while to take my flight. “O merry bird,” said I,

o that fears no snares ; That neither toils nor hoards up in thy barn; Feels no sad thoughts, nor 'cruciating cares

To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm : Thy clothes ne'er wear, thy meat is everywhere,

Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water clear, Reminds not what is past, nor what's to come dost fear.

“The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent

Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew;
So each one tunes his pretty instrument,

And warbling out the old, begins anew,

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And thus they pass their youth in summer season,

Then follow thee into a better region,
Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion.”

Man's at the best a creature frail and vain,

In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak; Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain,

Each storm his state, his mind, his body break: From some of these he never finds cessation,

But day or night, within, without, vexation, Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near'st



yet this sinful creature, frail and vain, This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow, This weather-beaten vessel racked with pain,

Joys not in hope of an eternal morrow;
Nor all his losses, crosses, and vexation,

In weight, in frequency, and long duration,
Can make him deeply groan for that divine translation.

The mariner that on smooth waves doth glide,

Sings merrily, and steers his bark with ease, As if he had command of wind and tide,

And were become great master of the seas; But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport,

And makes him long for a more quiet port, Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort.

So he that saileth in this world of pleasure,

Feeding on sweets, that never bit of the sour, That's full of friends, of honour, and of treasure

Fond fool! he takes this earth e'en for heaven's bower. Bat sad affliction comes, and makes him see

Here's neither honour, wealth, nor safety: Only above is found all with security.

O Time, the fatal wrack of mortal things,
That draws Oblivion's curtains over kings-
Their sumptuous monuments men know them not,
Their names without a record are forgot,
Their their


all laid i' the dust-
Nor wit, nor gold, nor buildings, 'scape Time's rust;
But he whose name is graved in the white stone,
Shall last and shine when all of these are gone !


Benjamin Thomson.


of rent,

(1675.) THE "HE times wherein old Pompion was a saint,

When men fared hardly, yet without complaint,
On vilest cates: the dainty Indian-maize
Was eat with clamp-shells out of wooden trayes,
Under thatched huts, without the

And the best sawce to every dish, content.
When Aesh was food and hairy skins made coats,
And men as well as birds had chirping notes ;
When Cimnels were accounted noble blood,
Among the tribes of common herbage food,
Of Ceres' bounty formed was many a knack,
Enough to fill poor Robin's Almanack.

These golden times (too fortunate to hold) Were quickly sin'd away for love of gold. 'Twas then among the bushes, not the street, If one in place did an inferior meet, “Good-morrow, brother, is there aught you want? Take freely of me, what I have you

ha'nt.” Plain Tom and Dick would pass as current now, As ever since, “Your servant, Sir," and bow. Deep-skirted doublets, puritanick capes, Which now would render men like upright apes, Were comelier wear, our wiser fathers thought, Than the last fashions from all Europe brought. 'Twas in those dayes an honest grace would hold, Till an hot pudding grew at heart a cold, And men had better stomachs at religion, Than I to capon, turkey-cock, or pigeon ; When honest sisters met to pray, not prate, About their own and not their neighbour's state. During Plain Dealing's reign, that worthy stud Of the ancient planters' race before the flood, Then times were good, merchants cared not a rush For other fare than jonakin and mush. Although men fared and lodged very hard, Yet innocence was better than a guard. 'Twas long before spiders and worms had drawn Their dingy webs, or hid with cheating lawne New England's beautys, which still seemed to me Illustrious in their own simplicity. 'Twas ere the neighbouring Virgin-Land had broke The hogsheads of her worse than hellish smoak. 'Twas ere the Islands sent their presents in, Which but to use was counted next to sin.

'Twas ere a barge had made so rich a fraight
As chocolate, dust-gold, and bitts of eight;
Ere wines from France, and Muscovadoe too,
Without the which the drink will scarsely doe;
From western isles ere fruits and delicasies
Did rot maids' teeth and spoil their handsome faces.
Or ere these times did chance, the noise of war
Was from our towns and hearts removed far.
No bugbear comets in the chrystal air
Did drive our Christian planters to despair.
No sooner pagan malice peepèd forth
But valour snib'd it. Then were men of worth,
Who by their prayers slew thousands; angel-like,
Their weapons are unseen with which they strike.
Then had the churches rest; as yet the coales
Were covered up in most contentious souls :
Freeness in judgment, union in affection,
Dear love, sound truth, they were our grand protection.
Then were the times in which our councells sate,
These gave prognosticks of our future fate.
If these be longer lived our hopes increase,
These warrs will usher in a longer peace.-
But if New England's love die in its youth,


open next for blessed truth.
This theame is out of date, the peacefull hours
When castles needed not, but pleasant bowers.
Not ink, but bloud and tears now serve the turn
To draw the figure of New England's urne.
New England's hour of passion is at hand;

power except divine can it withstand.
Scarce hath her glass of fifty years run out,
But her old prosperous steeds turn heads about,

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