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Though pleasure call, ambition fire,

Fortune and glory hail,
It never breathed the high desire

That turns earth's glories pale.
That tells of nobler, purer joys,

Thy service and thy praise ;
And bids th' aspiring Spirit rise

Beyond life's shadowy days.
That speaks of virtue, trust, and peace;

A clime more fair than this,
Where trials and temptations cease,

In sainted happiness. The heart where heavenly hopes and aims

Have never shed their bloom,
Its noblest liberty disclaims,

Is fettered to the tomb.
It feeds on ashes, vanities,

Which soon, oh! soon must feet;
How shall that dust-bound spirit rise,

The joys of heaven to meet? How shall an angel's feelings warm

The heart that never knew Devotion's glow, that holiest charm

Which can the soul renew?
O can benevolence and love

Become the blest employ
Of one, who ne'er on earth would move

To share another's joy?
Who never dropt one healing tear,

To soothe another's pain ?
Ah no! the spirit fettered here

Will hardly break its chain.

Then pause in time--a moment pause,

And ask if on thy soul
Is graven deep God's boly laws,

Is felt his blest control ?
Pray, in thy helplessness and trust;

A Father's love may hear,
And raise thy perished heart from dust,

To worship in his fear.

THE QUIET MIND.

[JOHN CLARE.]
Though low my lot, my wish is won,

My hopes are few and staid ;
All I thought life would do, is done,

The last request is made :
If I have foes, no foes I fear;

To fate I liv'd resign'd:
I have a friend I value here-

And that's a quiet mind.
I wish not it was mine to wear

Flushed honour's sunny crown:
I wish not I was fortune's heir;

She frowns, and let her frown:
I have no taste for pomp and strife,

Which others love to find.
I only wish the bliss of life-

A poor and quiet mind.
The trumpet's taunt in battle field,

The great man's pedigree
What peace can all their honours yield,

And what are they to me?

Tho' praise and pomp, to me the strife,

Rave like a mighty wind, What are they to the calm of life

A still and quiet mind ?

I mourn not that my lot is low,

I wish no higher state;
I sigh not that fate made me so,

Nor tease her to be great:
I am content, for well I see.

What all at least shall find,
That life's worst lot the best shall be

And that's a quiet mind.

I see the great pass heedless by,

And pride above me tower; It costs me not a single sigh

For either wealth or power:
They are but men, and I'm a man

Of quite as great a kind,
Proud too, that life gives all she can-

A calm and quiet mind.

I never mock'd at beauty's shrine,

To stain her lips with lies; No knighthood's fame, or luck was mine,

To win love's richest prize : And yet I found in russet weed,

What all will wish to find, True love, and comfort's prize indeed

A glad and quiet mind.

And come what will of care or woe,

As some must come to all,
I'll wish not that they were not so,

Nor mourn that they befall:

If tears for sorrows start at will,

They're comforts in their kind,
And I am blest, if with me still-

Remains a quiet mind.
When friends depart, as part they must,

And love's true joys decay,
That leave us like the summer's dust

The whirlwind puffs away;
While life's allotted time I brave,

Though left the last behind,
A prop and friend I still shall have,

If I've a quiet mind.

TO DEATH.

[HAGThorpe]. Then, Death, why shouldst thou dreaded be And shunn'd as some great misery?

That cur'st our woes and strife;
Only because we're ill resolv'd,
And in dark error's clouds involvid,
Think death the end of life;
Which most untrue,

Each place we view,
Gives testimonies rife.
The flowers that we behold each year,
In checquer'd meads their heads to rear,

New rising from the tomb;
The eglantines and honey-daisies,
And all those pretty smiling faces,
That still in age grow young;
Even these do cry,

That though men die,
Yet life from death may come.

The towering cedars tall and strong,
On Taurus, and mount Lebanon,

In time they all decay ;
Yet from their old and wasted roots,
At length again grow up young shoots,
That are as fresh and gay;

Then why should we

Thus fear to die,
Whose death brings life for aye ?
The seed that in the earth we throw
Doth putrefy before it grow,

Corrupting in its urn;
But at the spring it flourisheth,
When Phæbus only cherisheth
With life at his return.

Doth Time's Sun this?

Then sure it is
Time's Lord can more perform.

TO A DYING INFANT.

(ANONYMOUS.]
SLEEP, little baby! sleep!

Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast,
Henceforth shall be thy rest,

But quiet with the dead.
Yes! with the quiet dead,

Baby, thy rest shall be ;
Oh! many a weary wight,
Weary of life and light,

Would fain lie down with thee.

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