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They who their thoughtless hours in giddy misth,
And wanton, often cruel riot, waste;

Ah little think they while they dance along,
How many feel this very moment death,
And all the sad variety of pain.

How many sink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flames. How many bleed,
By shameful variance betwixt man and man!
How many pine in want and dungeon glooms,
Shut from the common air and common use
Of their own limbs! How many
drink the eup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery! Sore pierc'd by wintry winds
How many shrink into the sordid hut

Of cheerless poverty! How many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse!
How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop:
In deep retir'd distress! How many stand
Around the death bed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguish! Think foad man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills
That one incessant struggle render life,
One scene of toil, of suffering and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd
And heedless rambling impulse learn to think;
The conscious heart of charity would warm,
And her wide wish benevolence dilate;
The social tear would rise, the social sigh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining still, the social passions work.

SECTION VIII.

A MORNING HYMN.

THESE are thy glorious works, parent of good,
Almighty, thine this universal frame,.

THOMSON.

Thus wond'rous fair: thyself how wond'rous 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 pow'r divine.

Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels, for ye behold him, and with songs
Aud choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven,
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol
Him first, dim 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 mora
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime,
Thou son, of this great world, both eye and sou,
Acknowledge him thy greater, sound his praise
Io thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou falls.
Moor, that now meet'st the orient sud, now fly'st,
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wandering fires that move
In-mistic dance, not without songs resound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.
Air, and ye element, the eldest birth

sky

Of natures womb, that in a quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform; and mix.
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to your great MAKER still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations that now rise
From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honor to the world's great AUTHOR Tise
Whither to deck with clouds th'ancolor'd's
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show's,
Raising or falling, still advance his praise.
His praise, ye winds that from four quarters blow,
Breath soft or loud and wave your tops ye pines,
With every plant in sign of worship wave.
Fountains and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices all ye living souls; ye birds
That singing up to heaven's gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
"The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep
Witness if I be silent morn or even,

To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocat by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail UNIVERSAL LORD! be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night,
Has gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

MILTON

CHAPTER VI.

PROMISCUOUS PIECES.

SECTION L

ODE TO CONTENT.

O THOU the nymph with placid eye
So seldom found yet ever nigh!
Receive my temp rate vow:

Not all the storms that shake the pole...
Can e'er disturb thy halcy on soul,
And smooth th'unalter'd brow

O come in simplest vest array,
With all thy sober cheer display
To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdu'd delight.

No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell;

Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,
The modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity in attic vest,

And innocence with candid breast..
And clear undaunted eye;

And hope, who points to distant years,
Fair op'ning through this wale of teats
A vista to the sky

There health, thro' whose calm bosom glide?
The temperate joys in even tide,
That rarely, ebb or flow;
And patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild uovarying cheek,
To meet the offer'd blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage,

With settled smiles to meet;
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek submitted head
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.

But thou O nymph retir'd and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale;

The lowliest children of the ground,
Mess, rose, and violet, blossom round
And lilly of, the vale.

O say what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy pow'r
And court thy gentle sway!
When autumn, friendly to the muse,
Shall thy own modest tipts diffuse,
And shed thy milder day!

When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe
And ev'ry storm is laid?

If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Qft let me hear thy soothing voice,
Low whisp'ring through the shade..

SECTION II

BARBAULD

THE SHEPHERD AND THE PHILOSOPHER.

REMOTE from cities liv'd a swain,
Unvex'd with all the cares of gain;
His head was silver'd o'er with age,
And long experience made him sage;
In summer's heat and winter's cold,
He fed his flock and pern' the fold,

His hours in cheerful labor flew,
Nor envy nor ambition knew:
His wisdom and his honest fame
Through all the country rais'd his name,
A deep philosopher (whose rules
Of moral life were drawn from schools)
The shepherd's homely cottage sought,
And thus explor'd his reach of thought.
"Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil
O'er books consum'd the midnight oil?
Hast thou old 'Greece and Rome survey'd
And the vast sense of Plato weigh?
Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd,
And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind?
Or like the wise Ulysses, thrown,
By various fates, on realms unknown,
Hast thou through many cities stray'd,
Their customs, laws, and manners weigh'd?
The shepherd modestly reply'd,
"I ne'er the paths of learning try'd;
Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts,
To read mankind, their laws and arts,
For man is practis'd in disguise,
He cheats the most discerning eyes.
Who by that search shall wiser grow 2
By that ourselves we never know.
The little knowledge I have gain'd,
Was all from simple nature drain'd;
Hence my life's maxims took their rise,
Hence grew my settled hate to vice.
The daily labors of the bee
Awake my soul to industry.
Who can observe the careful ant,
And not provide for future want?
aly dog (the trustiest of his kind)
With gratitude inflames my mind:
I mark his true and faithful way,
And in my service copy Tray.
In constancy and nuptial love,
1 learn my duty from the dove.
The hen, who from the chilly air,
With pious wing protects her care

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