Though pleasure call, ambition fire, It never breathed the high desire That tells of nobler, purer joys, That speaks of virtue, trust, and peace; The heart where heavenly hopes and aims Its noblest liberty disclaims, Is fettered to the tomb. It feeds on ashes, vanities, Which soon, oh! soon must fleet; How shall an angel's feelings warm O can benevolence and love Of one, who ne'er on earth would move Who never dropt one healing tear, Ah no! the spirit fettered here Then pause in time-a moment pause, Is graven deep God's holy laws, Is felt his blest control? Pray, in thy helplessness and trust; THE QUIET MIND. [JOHN CLARE.] THOUGH low my lot, my wish is won, If I have foes, no foes I fear; I have a friend I value here- I wish not it was mine to wear Flushed honour's sunny crown: She frowns, and let her frown: I only wish the bliss of life- 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, What are they to the calm of life- I mourn not that my lot is low, That life's worst lot the best shall be- I see the great pass heedless by, It costs me not a single sigh For either wealth or power: I never mock'd at beauty's shrine, To win love's richest prize: True love, and comfort's prize indeed A glad and quiet mind. And come what will of care or woe, If tears for sorrows start at will, When friends depart, as part they must, That leave us like the summer's dust TO DEATH. [HAGTHORPE]. THEN, Death, why shouldst thou dreaded be That cur'st our woes and strife; Each place we view, Gives testimonies rife. The flowers that we behold each year, The eglantines and honey-daisies, 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, Yet from their old and wasted roots, Then why should we Thus fear to die, Whose death brings life for aye? The seed that in the earth we throw But at the spring it flourisheth, Doth Time's Sun this? Then sure it is Time's Lord can more perform. TO A DYING INFANT. [ANONYMOUS.] SLEEP, little baby! sleep! Yes! with the quiet dead, Would fain lie down with thee. |