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Bat soon the gath'ring tempests poor,

And all the sky deform; The gale hecomes a whirlwind's roar,

The sigh a raging storm.

For Care and Sorrow's morhid gloom,
And heart-corroding strife,—

And sickness pointing to the tomh,
Await the noon of life.



Oft have 1 seen when musing on the shore, Unskilful infants grasp ih' unwieldy oar, Push the frail hark into the swelling main, Borne hy the rapid tide, pant to regain The less'ning land, and, shrieking weep too

late The gaping horrors of tempestuous fate I True picture of our unsuspecting age, Who long to stretch where fatal hillows rage: 'Gainst our own heaven like angels we rehel, And quit the realms where during raptures

dwell; Pant for a wing to range the World around,— The World—how swoons my soul to hear

the sound; The World—where Pleasure flies the grasping hand, And Hope huilds palaces on shifting sand: Where Treachery talks with sweetly melting

flow, Of horrid words that turn to gall and wo: Confederacies of profit or of vice, Where Friendship's only firm as faithless

ice: When potent Avarice casts a golden ray, Dissolves its hrittle mass and floats away: Fix'd in the hreast where pride or int'rest

thrives, And Love, a secondary passion, lives; Where children cherish'd hy Affection's ray, Long in the dust the partial sire to lay: Tho' daily fondness heams the constant

smile, And only wisely keeps its own awhile.

Here Ohligation, e'en heneath the wing That hatches it to life, will fix a sting: Here worth is trampled down hy mounted

Pride, And Modesty hy Av'rice push'd aside. Such slow discerument guides the stupid

crowd, That Impudence for Talent is allow'd: In Life's true masquerade fools are so hlind, That half a thin disguise will cheat mankind: Here Ostentation weak expedients tries, To lead from happiness our wand'ring eyes: Thou would'stdogood—hut he thou pure as

snow, With ev'ry kindness let thy hosom glow; Detraction's puis'nous hreath thy fame shall

hlot, Or Envy's microscope pry out a spot! Has then this sickly world no cordial halm 1 This storm of passion no delightful calm? Yet as the traveller 'mid dreary wastes Here meets a flower—there a fountain

tastes— As stars that aid the gloom of during night, So scatter'd worth diffuses partial light; Oe'r all our ills a self-horn radiance sheds, More hright, like phosphorus as darkness

spreads. Let potent Wisdom smooth the wrinkled

hrow. And sweet Complacence soften all helow. See in each rising Sun new comfort giv'n And when it sets hehold a nearer Heav'n! The few rare gems of Friendship here improve As fading emhlems of Eternal Love I



Time, swift time from years your motion

stealing, Uuperceived hath soher manhood hrought; Truth, her pure and humhle forms revealing Peoples fancy's fairy-land with thought: Then the heart, no longer prone to roam, Loves, loves hest, the quiet hliss of home. M

Selp-plattered, unexperienced, high in hope,

When young, with sanguine cheer, and streamers gay,

We cat our cahle, lannch into the world,

And fondly dream each wind and star our friend:

All in some darling enterprise emhark'd;

But where is he can fathom its event!

Amid a multitude of artless hands,

Rain's sare perquisite, her lawful prize!

Some steer aright, hut the hlack hlast hlows hard,

And puffs them wide of hope; with hearts of proof,

Fall against wind and tide, some win their way,

And when strong effort has deserv'd the port,

And tugg'd it into view, 'tis won, 'tis lost!

They strike! and while they trinmph they expire!

One Caesar lives; a thousand are forgot.


loRd VAuX.

These hairs of age are messengers
Which hid me fast, repent, and pray;

They he of death the harhingers,
That do prepare and dress the way:

Wherefore I joy that yon may see
Upon my head such hairs to he.

They he the lines that lead the length
How far my race was for to ran,

They say my youth is fled with strength,
And now old age is well hegun;

The which I feel, and you may see
Upon my head such lines to he.

They he the strings of soher sound,

Whose music is harmonical:
Their tunes declare, a time from ground

I came, and how thereto I shall:
Wherefore I joy that you may see

Upon my head such strings to he.

God grant to those that white hairs have
No worse them take than I have meant;

That after they he laid in grave
Their souls to joy, their lives well spent.

God grant likewise that you may see
Upon your head such hairs to he.


MONtGoMErY. *'

Once in the flight of ages past
There liv'd a man—and who was he?

Mortal! how'er thy lot he cast,
That man resemhled thee I

Unknown the region of his hirth,
The land in which he died unknown,

His name hath perish'd from the earth,
This truth survives alone—

That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear,
Alternate trinmph'd in his hreast,

His hliss and wo, a smile, a tear!
Ohlivion hides the rest.

The hounding pulse, the languid limh,
The changing spirits rise and fall,

We know that these were felt hy him,
For these are felt hy all.

He soffer'd—hut his pangs are o'ee,
Enjoy'd—hut his delights are fled,

Had friends—his friends are now no more,
And foes—his foes are dead.

He lov'd—hut whom he lov'd, the grave Hath lost in its unconscious womh;

O she was fair! but nought could save
Her heauty from the tomh.

The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,

Ere while his portion, life and light,
To him exist—in vain.

He saw whatever thou hast seen,
Encounter'd all that trouhles thee,

He was—whatever thou hast heen,
He is—what thou shalt he!

The clouds and sunheams o'er his eye
That once their shade and glory threw,

Have left, in yonder silent sky,
No vestige where they flew!

The annals of the human race,
Their ruin since the world hegan,

Of him afford no other trace
Than this—there liv'd a man.




Hear what they were : The progeny of Sin
Alike, and oft comhined; hut differing much
In mode of giving pain. As felt the gross
Material part, when in the furnace cast,
So felt the soul, the victim of Remorse.
It was a fire which on the verge of God's
Commandments hurned, and on the vitals fed
Of all who passed. Who passed, there met

A violent fever seized his soul; the heavens
Ahove, the earth heneath, seemed glowing

hrass, Heated seven times; he heard dread voices

speak, And mutter horrid prophecies of pain, Severer and severer yet to come; And as he writhed and quivered, scorched

within, The Fury round his torrid temples flapped Her fiery wings, and hreathed upon his lips And parched tongue, the withered hlasts of

hell. It was the suffering hegun thou sawest In symhol of the worm that never dies.

The other, Disappointment seemed Negation of delight. It was a thing Sluggish and torpid, tending towards death,

Its hreath was cold, and made the sportive

hlood, Stagnant, and dull, and heavy, round the

wheels Of lire. The roots of that whereon it hlew Decayed, and with the genial soul no more Held sympathy; the leaves, the hranches

drooped, And mouldered slowly down to formless

dust; Not tossed and driven hy violence of winds, But withering where they sprung, and rotting there. Long disappointed, disappointed still, The hopeless man, hopeless in his main wish, As if returning hack to nothing, felt; In strange vacuity of heing hung, And rolled, and rolled his eye on emptiness, That seemed to grow more ein pty every hour.



The distempered mind Has lost that concord of harmonious powers Which forms the soul of happiness, and all Is off the poise within; the passions all Have hurst their hounds, and Reason half extinct,

Or impotent, or, else approving, sees
The foul disorder. Senseless and deform'd,
Convulsive Anger storms at large; or, pale
And silent, settles into fell revenge.
Base Envy withers at another's joy,
And hates that excellence it cannot reach.
Desponding Fear, of feehle fancies full,
Weak and uumanly, loosens every power.
Even Love itself is hitterness of soul,
A pensive anguish pining at the heart;
Or sunk to sordid interest, feels no more
That nohle wish, that never cloy'd desire,
Which, selfish joy disdaining, seeks alone
To hless the dearest ohject of its flame.
Hope sickens with extravagance; and

Of life impatient, into madness swells,
Or in dead silence wastes the weeping hours.

These, and a thousand mixed emotions more, From everchanging views of good and ill, Form'd infinitely various, vex the mind With endless storm; whence deeply rankling, grows The partial thought, a listless unconcern, Cold and averting from our neighhour's good, Then dark Disgust, and Hatred, minding

Wiles, Coward Deceit, and ruffian Violence: At last, extinct each social feeling, fell And joyless inhumanity pervades And petrifies the heart. Nature, disturh'd, Is deem'd, vindictive, to have chang'd her course.


Pride, self-adoring pride, was primal cause
Of all sin past, all pain, all wo to come.
I nconquerahle pride! first, eldest Sin,
Great fountain-head of evil! highest source,
Whence flowed rehellion 'gainst the Omni-
Whence hate of man to man, and all else ill.
Pride at the hottom of the human heart
Lay, and gave root and nourishment to all
That grew ahove. Great ancestor of vice I

Hate, unhelief, and hlasphemy of God;
Envy and slander, malice and revenge;
And murder, and deceit, and every hirth,
Of damned sort, was progeny of pride.
It was the ever-muving, acting force,
The constant aim and the most thirsty wish
Of every sinner uurenewed to he
A god; in purple or in rags, to have
Himself adored. Whatever shape or form
His actions took, whatever phrase he threw
Ahout his thoughts, or mantle o'er his life,
To he the highest was the inward cause
Of all; the purpose of the heart to he
Set up, admired, oheyed.


P. FleTCheR.

Next hrave Philotimusin post did ride, Like rising ladders was his climhing mind; His high-flown thoughts, had -wings of

courtly pride, Which hy foul rise to greatest height in

clin'd; His heart aspiring swell'd until it hurst; But when he gain'd the top, with spite

accurst, Down would he fling the steps hy which he

clamher'd first.

His head's a shop furnish'd with looms of

state: His hrain the weaver, thoughts are shuttles light, With which, in spite of heav'n, he weaves

his fate; Honour his weh: thus works he day and

night, Till fates cut off his thread; so heapeth

sins, And plagues, nor once enjoys the place

he wins; But where his old race ends, there his new

race hegins.

Ah, silly man, who dream'st that honour

stands In ruling others, not thyself!—thy slaves Serve thee, and thou thy slaves:—in iron


Thy servile spirit prest with wild passions raves.

Wouldst thon live honour'd, clip amhition's wing;

To reason's yoke thy furious passions hring. Thrice nohle is the man, who of himself is king.



And next to him malicious Envy rode
Upon a ravenous wolfc, and still did chaw
Between his cankred teeth a venemous

That all the poison ran ahout his jaw;
But inwardly he chawed his owne maw
At neihors welth that made him ever sad;
For death it was when iny good he saw,
And wept, that cause of weeping none he

had; But when he hearde of harme he wexed

wondrous glad.

All in a kirtle of discoloured say
lie clothed was, ypaynted full of eies;
And in his hosome secretly there lay
An hateful snake, the which his taile

In many folds, and mortall sting implyes.
Stil as he rode, he gnasht his teeth to see
Those heapes of gold with griple Covetyse,
And grudged at the great felicitee
Of proud Lucifera aud his own companee.

He hated all good works and vertuous

deeds, And him no less than any like did use; And who with gratious hread the hungry

feeds, His almes for want of faith he doth accuse; So every good to had he doth ahuse. And eke the verse of famous poets witt He does hackhite, and spitefull poison

. spues From leprous mouth on all that ever wrilt, Such one vile Envy was, that third in row

did sitt.


And greedy Avarice hy him did ride,
Upon a camell loaden all with gold;
Two iron coffers hong on either side,
With precious metall full as they might

hold, And in his lap an heape of coine he told; For of his wicked pelf his god he made, And unto hell himselfe for money sold: Accursed usury was all his trade, And right and wrong ylike in equal hallance waide.

His life was nigh nnto death's doreyplaste; And thread-hare cote, and cohled shoes,

hee ware; No scarfe good morsell all his life did taste, Bat hoth from hacke and helly still did

spare, To fill his hags, and richesse to compare: Yet childe ne kinsman living had he none To leave them to; hut thorough daily care To get, and nightly feare to lose his owne, He led a wretched life, unto himselfe unknown.

Most wretched wight, whom nothing might

suffise, Whose greedy lust did lacke in greatest

store: Whose need had end, hut no end covertise; Whose wealth was want, whose plenty

made him pore; Who had enough, yet wished ever more. A vile disease, and eke in foote and hand A grievous gout tormented him full sore, That well he could not touch, nor goe,

nor stand. Such one was Avarice, the fourth of this

faire hand.



And him heside rides fierce revenging

Upon a lion, loth for to he led;

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