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He who, secure within, can say,

To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have lived to-day:

Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine,

The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate are mine; Not heaven itself upon the past has power,

But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

Fortune, that with malicious joy

Does man, her slave, oppress,

Proud of her office to destroy,

Is seldom pleased to bless :

Still various, and inconstant still,
But with an inclination to be ill,

Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
And makes a lottery of life.

I can enjoy her while she's kind;

But when she dances in the wind,

And shakes the wings, and will not stay,

I puff the prostitute away:

The little or the much she gave, is quietly resigned;

Content with poverty, my soul I

arm,

And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

What is't to me,

Who never sail in her unfaithful sea,'
If storms arise, and clouds grow black,
If the mast split, and threaten wreck?

Then let the greedy merchant fear
For his ill-gotten gain;

And

pray

to gods that will not hear,

While the debating winds and billows bear

His wealth into the main.

For me, secure from fortune's blows,

Secure of what I cannot lose,

In

my small pinnace I can sail,
Contemning all the blustering roar;

And, running with a merry gale,
With friendly stars my safety seek
Within some little winding creek,

And see the storm ashore.

XVII.

HYMN TO CONTENTMENT.

PARNELL.

LOVELY, lasting peace of mind!
Sweet delight of human kind!
Heavenly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky,
With more of happiness below,
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek contented head?
What happy region dost thou please
To make the seat of calms and ease?

Of

Ambition searches all its sphere

pomp and state, to meet thee there.

Increasing avarice would find
Thy presence in its gold inshrined.
The bold adventurer ploughs his way,
Through rocks amidst the foaming sea,
To gain thy love; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.
The silent heart, which grief assails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales,
Sees daisies open, rivers run,

And seeks, (as I have vainly done,)

Amusing thought; but learns to know,

That solitude's the nurse of woe.

No real happiness is found

In trailing purple o'er the ground;

Or in a soul exalted high,

To range the circuit of the sky,

Converse with stars above, and know'.

All nature in its forms below;

The rest it seeks, in seeking dies,

And doubts, at last, for knowledge rise

Lovely, lasting peace, appear!

This world itself, if thou art here,

Is once again with Eden blest,

And man contains it in his breast.

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, I sung my wishes to the wood,

And, lost in thought, no more perceived
The branches whisper as they waved:
It seemed as all the quiet place

Confess'd the presence of his grace.
When thus she spoke-Go rule thy will,
Bid thy wild passions all be still;

Know God-and bring thy heart to know

The joys which from religion flow:

Then every grace shall prove its guest,

And I'll be there to crown the rest.

Might I thus my soul employ,

With sense of gratitude and joy: