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TRUE RICHES.

169

As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild numbers,

To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er,
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers ; –

Farewell then, enchantress! I meet thee no more!

TRUE RICHES. - Watts.

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I am not concerned to know
What, to-morrow, fate will do ;
'T is enough that I can say,
I've possessed myself to-day;
Then, if haply midnight death
Seize my flesh and stop my breath,
Yet to-morrow I shall be
Heir to the best part of me.

Glittering stones, and golden things,
Wealth and honors that have wings,
Ever fluttering to be gone,
I could never call my own;
Riches that the world bestows
She can take, and I can lose;
But the treasures that are mine
Lie afar beyond her line.
When I view my spacious soul,
And survey myself a whole,
And enjoy myself alone,
I'm a kingdom of my own.

I've a mighty part within,
That the world hath never seen;
Rich as Eden's happy ground,
And with choicer plenty crowned.
Here, on all the shining boughs,
Knowledge fair and useful grows;

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On the same young, flowery tree
All the seasons you may see;
Notions in the bloom of light,
Just disclosing to the sight;
Here are thoughts of larger growth,
Ripening into solid truth;
Fruits refined, of noble taste;
Seraphs feed on such repast.
Here, in a green and shady grove,
Streams of pleasure mix with love;
There, beneath the smiling skies,
Hills of contemplation rise;
Now upon some shining top
Angels light, and call me up;
I rejoice to raise my feet,
Both rejoice when there we meet.

There are endless beauties more
Earth hath no resemblance for ;
Nothing like them round the pole,
Nothing can describe the soul;
'T is a region half unknown,
That'has treasures of its own,
More remote from public view
Than the bowels of Peru;
Broader 't is, and brighter far,
Than the golden Indies are;
Ships that trace the watery stage
Cannot coast it in an age!
Harts, or horses, strong and fleet,
Had they wings to help their feet,
Could not run it half way o'er
In ten thousand days or more.
Yet the silly, wandering mind,
Loth to be too much confined,
Roves and takes her daily tours,
Coasting round the narrow shores,

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Narrow shores of flesh and sense,
Picking shells and pebbles thence ;
Or she sits at fancy's door,
Calling shapes and shadows to her,
Foreign visits still receiving,
And to herself a stranger living.
Never, never would she buy
Indian dust, or Tyrian dye,
Never trade abroad for more,
If she saw her native store ;
If her inward worth were known,
She might ever live alone.

THE MOSS ROSE.

The Angel of the flowers one day,
Beneath a rose-tree, sleeping lay, —
That spirit to whose charge is given
To bathe young buds in dew from heaven.
Awakening from his slight repose,
The Angel whispered to the Rose, -
“O fondest object of my care,
Still fairest found where all is fair,
For the sweet shade thou hast given me,
Ask what thou wilt, 't is granted thee."
Then said the Rose, with deepened glow, -
“On me another grace bestow”;-
The Angel paused in silent thought, -
What grace was there the flower had not?

T was but a moment, — o'er the Rose
A veil of moss the Angel throws,
And, robed in Nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that Rose exceed ?

A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED. — Mrs. Hemans.
A MONARCH * on his death-bed lay,

Did censers waft perfume,
And soft lamps, from their silvery ray,

Through his proud chambers gloom ?
He lay upon a greensward bed,

Beneath a darkening sky, -
A lone tree waving o'er his head,

A swift stream rolling by.
Had he then fallen as warriors fall,

Where spear strikes fire from spear?
Was there a banner for his pall,

A buckler for his bier?
Not so, - nor cloven shields nor helms

Had strewn the bloody sod,
Where he, the helpless lord of realms,

Yielded his soul to God.
Were there not friends, with words of cheer,

And friendly vassals nigh?
And priests, the crucifix to rear

Before the fading eye?
A peasant-girl that royal head

Upon her bosom laid ;
And, shrinking not for woman's dread,

The face of death surveyed.

Alone she sat, — from hill and wood

Red sank the mournful sun;
Fast gushed the fount of noble blood,

Treason its worst had done!

* Albert of Hapsburg, emperor of Germany, who was assassinated by his nephew, was left to die by the way-side, and was supported in his last moments by a peasant-girl, who happened to be passing.

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With her long hair she vainly pressed

The wounds, to stanch their tide, Unknown, on that meek, humble breast,

Imperial Albert died.

ON TIME.

Say, is there aught that can convey An image of its transient stay; 'T is an hand's-breath ; 't is a tale ; 'Tis a vessel under sail; 'T is a conqueror's straining steed; 'T is a shuttle in its speed; "T is an eagle in its way, Darting down upon its prey ; 'T is an arrow in its flight, Mocking the pursuing sight; 'T is a vapor in the air ; 'T is a whirlwind rushing there ; 'T is a short-lived, fading flower ; "T is a rainbow on a shower; 'T is a momentary ray, Smiling in a winter's day ; 'T is a torrent's troubled stream; 'T is a shadow ; 't is a dream ; 'T is the closing watch of night, Dying at approaching light; 'T is a landscape vainly gay, Painted upon crumbling clay ; ’T is a lamp that wastes its fires ; 'T is a smoke that quick expires ; 'T is a bubble ; 't is a sigh ; Be prepared, O man, to die!

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