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It's no in titles or in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
It's no in makin' muckle mair;
It's no in books; it's no in lear

To make us truly blest:

If happiness hae not her seat

And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang;
The heart ay's the part ay,
That makes us right or
wrang.

FAITH.

BURNS.

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Strive not with pain to scale the height

Of some fair garden's petty wall, But climb the open mountain side, Whose summit rises over all.

E. S. H.

ULYSSES AND ACHILLES.

Ulysses. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,

Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes:

Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devoured

As fast as they are made, forgot as

soon

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Are melted into air, into thin air; And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherits, shall dis

solve,

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind: we are such stuff

As dreams are made of, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.

Tempest, act. iv. sc. 4.

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