And still they rack their sapient brains,
And get but labour for their pains.
Alas! they all agree at length
To make it out is past their strength;
And so conclude, with reason sound,
This stone is no where to be found:
But yet they talk and write about it,
And wonder how they live without it.
Some place the precious stone in gold,
Beyond what Croesus ever told ;
Some give it to corporeal health,
And some will have it mental wealth:
Others determine it to mix
In fashion, and a coach and six ;
And some have labour'd hard to prove
It is a cottage, blest by love:
This thinks it shade, that says 't is sun,
Yet all conclude where they begun.
The grand discovery, then, is mine,
Since I can prove, sweet girl! 'tis thine: If in true cheerfulness it lies,
It revels in Eliza's eyes;
And if it blooms in health's fair rose,
In dear Eliza's face it glows;
Like morning beams we see it break,
And sport upon Eliza's cheek;
And when she takes her playful round,
In every step it seems to bound.
Or if, as sages oft have told,
The charm consists in making gold,
Pure, as if stampt in mint divine,
Eliza, still that mint is thine;
And your sweet alchemy shall claim,
Beyond the sage, superior fame.
From that rich mine-a merry heart
You draw, with more than chemic art,
Of happy thoughts a copious store,
And radiant gold, without the ore;
And the gay vein of sportive sense,
Enrich'd by sterling innocence,
The purest treasures of the mind,
Good humour'd, graceful, and refined;
And rivalling the seers of old,
Whate'er you touch transmutes to gold.
The brass of life, and even the lead,
Turn to this envied stone instead,
And by the power of transmutation
Grow richer by their alteration.
And hence 'tis plain this envied stone
Belongs to Innocence alone;
And those who are as good as you,
May, if they please, possess it too;
For to be good, and gay, and free,
Is still the best philosophy.
THOU shalt be mine, thou simplest flower,
Tenting thyself beneath the bower
Thy little leaves have made;
So meekly shrinking from the eye,
Yet mark'd by every passer by-
Of thine own sweets betray'd.
The rose may boast a brighter hue,
May breathe as rich a fragrance too,
Yet let her yield to thee;
Not her's thy modesty of dress,
Not her's thy witching artlessness,
And these are more to me.
Dear emblem of the meek-eyed maid,
Whom, nurtured 'mid retirement's shade,
The world hath never known-
Who loves to glide unseen along,
Unnoticed by the idle throng
Whom Fashion calls her own;
Who shines, nor her own shining sees,
Who pleases without toil to please,—
Unstain'd, untouch'd by art;-
Distinguish'd by that choicest gem
That lights up virtue's diadem,-
A meek and quiet heart.'
THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Almighty! thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works: yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak ye, who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels! for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne, rejoicing. Ye in heaven,
On earth, join all ye creatures, to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of stars! last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet; praise him in the sphere
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun! of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climbest,
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou
fallest.
Moon! that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest;
And ye five other wandering fires! that move
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.
Air! and ye elements! the eldest birth
Of nature-oh, let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations! that now rise
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