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From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs ;
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,
To spoil our heartfelt joys.

If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies,

And they are fools who roam;
The world hath nothing to bestow,
From our own selves our bliss must flow,
And that dear hut, our home.

Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wings she left

That safe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excursions o'er,
The disappointed bird once more
Explored the sacred bark.

Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, We, who improve his golden hours,

By sweet experience know

That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good
A paradise below.

Our babes shall richest comfort bring,
If tutored right, they'll prove a spring
Whence pleasures ever rise;

We'll form their minds with studious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,
And train them for the skies.

While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,
And crown our hoary hairs;
They'll grow in virtue every day,
And thus our fondest loves repay,
And recompense our cares,

No borrowed joys! they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot:
Monarchs! we envy not your state,
We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humble lot.

Our portion is not large indeed;
But then, how little do we need,
For Nature's calls are few!

In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than may suffice,
And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish with content
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,
Nor aim beyond our power;
For, if our stock be very small,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,
Nor lose the present hour.

To be resigned when ills betide,
Patient when favours are denied,

And pleased with favours given;
Dear Cloe, this is wisdom's part,
This is that incense of the heart,
Whose fragrance smells to heaven.
We'll ask no long-protracted treat,
Since winter-life is seldom sweet;
But when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arise,

Nor grudge our son, with envious eyes,
The relics of our store.

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go;
In the checkered paths of joy and wo
With cautious steps we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead.

While conscience, like a faithful friend
Shall through the gloomy vale attend
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.

L

A FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD.

BY WOTTEN.

FAREWELL, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles;-
Farewell, ye honoured rags, ye glorious bubbles;-
Fame's but a hollow echo; gold pure clay;
Honour the darling but of one short day.
Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damasked skin;
State but a golden prison to live in,

And torture free-born minds! Embroidered trains,
Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins;
And blood allied to greatness, is alone.

Inherited, not purchased nor our own,

Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth,

Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.
I would be great, but that the sun doth still
Level his rays against the rising hill:
I would be high, but see the proudest oak
Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke:
I would be rich, but see men, too unkind,
Dig in the bowels of the richest mine:
I would be wise, but that I often see
The fox suspected, while the ass goes free:
I would be fair, but see the fair and proud,
Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud:

I would be poor, but know the humble grass
Still trampled on by each unworthy ass:

Rich hated: wise suspected: scorned if poor: Great feared: fair tempted: high still envied

more:

I have wished all; but now, I wish for neither Great, high, rich, wise nor fair; poor I'll be rather.

Welcome pure thoughts, welcome ye silent groves, These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves:

Now the winged people of the sky shall sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring:
A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass,
In which I will adore sweet virtue's face.
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace-cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears:
Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly,
And learn t' affect a holy melancholy;

And if Contentment be a stranger then,
I'll ne'er look for it but in Heaven again.

I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born,
And range with humble livers in content,
Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.

Shakespear.

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