My soul was sickened within me, so I sought the dwelling place of Joy. And I met it not in laughter; I found it not in wealth or power;
But I saw it in the pleasant home, where religion smiled upon content,
And the satisfied ambition of the heart rejoiced in the favour of its God.
Behold the happy man, his face is rayed with pleasure,
His thoughts are of calm delight, and none can know his blessedness:
I have watched him from his infancy, and seen him in the grasp of death,
Yet, never have I noted on his brow the cloud of desponding sorrow.
He hath knelt beside his cradle; his mother's hymn lulled him to sleep:
In childhood he hath loved holiness, and drank from that fountain-head
of peace.
Wisdom took him for her scholar, guiding his steps in purity:
He lived unpolluted by the world; and his young heart hated sin.
But he owned not the spurious religion engendered of faction and morose
Neither were the sproutings of his soul seared by the brand of superstition.
His love is pure and single, sincere, and knoweth not change;
For his manhood hath been blest with the pleasant choice of his youth: Behold his one beloved, she leaneth on his arm,
And he looketh on the years that are past, to review the dawn of her affection.
Memory is sweet unto him, as a perfect landscape to the sight;
Each object is lovely in itself, but the whole is the harmony of nature.
Behold his little ones around him, they bask in the warmth of his smile;
And infant innocence and joy lighten their happy faces;
He is holy, and they honour him: he is loving, and they love him:
He is consistent, and they esteem him; he is firm, and they fear him.
His friends are the excellent among men; and the bands of their friend-
His house is the palace of peace: for the Prince of Peace is there.
As the wearied man to his couch, as the thoughtful man to his musings,
Even so, from the bustle of life, he goeth to his well-ordered home.
And though he often sin, he returneth with weeping eyes:
For he feeleth the mercies of forgiveness, and gloweth with warmer gratitude.
Thus did he walk in happiness, and sorrow was a stranger to his soul; The light of affection sunned his heart, the tear of the grateful bedewed his feet,
He put his hand with constancy to good, and angels knew him as a brother,
And the busy satellites of evil trembled as at God's ally:
He used his wealth as a wise steward, making him friends for futurity:
He bent his learning to religion, and religion was with him at the last:
For I saw him after many days, when the time of his release was come,
And I longed for a congregated world, to behold that dying saint.
As the aloe is green and well-liking, till the last best summer of its age,
And then hangeth out its golden bells, to mingle glory with corruption;
As a meteor travelleth in splendour, but bursteth in dazzling light;
Such was the end of the righteous: his death was the sun at its setting.
Look on this picture of joy, and remember that portrait of sorrow:
Behold the beauty of holiness, behold the deformity of sin!
How long, ye sons of men, will ye scorn the words of wisdom?
How long will ye hunt for happiness in the caverns that breed despair?
Will ye comfort yourselves in misery, by denying the existence of delight,
And from experience in woe, will ye reason that none are happy?
Joy is not in your path, for it loveth not that bleak broad road,
But its flowers are hung upon the hedges that line a narrower way;
And there the faint travellers of earth may wander and gather for them-
To sooth their wounded hearts with balm from the amaranths of heaven.
Come again, and greet me as a friend, fellow pilgrim upon life's highway, Leave awhile the hot and dusty road, to loiter in the greenwood of Re
Come, unto my cool dim grotto, that is watered by the rivulet of truth,
And over whose time-stained rock climb the fairy flowers of content;
Here, upon this mossy bank of leisure fling thy load of cares,
Taste my simple store, and rest one soothing hour.
Behold, I would count thee for a brother, and commune with thy charitable soul;
Though wrapt within the mantle of a prophet, I stand mine own weak scholar.
Heed no disciple for a teacher, if knowledge be not found upon his
For vanity and folly were the lessons these lips untaught could give: The precious staple of my merchandise cometh from a better country, The harvest of my reaping sprang of foreign seed:
And this poor pensioner of mercy-should he boast of merit?
The grafted stock,—should that be proud of apples not its own?
Into the bubbling brook I dip my hermit shell;
Man receiveth as a cup, but wisdom is the river.
Moreover, for this filigree of fancy, this Oriental garnish of similitude, Alas, the world is old, and all things old within it:
I walk a trodden path, I love the good old ways;
Prophets, and priests, and kings have tuned the harp I faintly touch.
Truth, in a garment of the past, is my choice and simple theme;
No truth is new to-day: and the mantle was another's.
Still, there is an insect swarm, the buzzing cloud of imagery,
Mote-like steaming on my sight, and thronging my reluctant mind;
The memories of studious culling, and multiplied analogies of nature,
Fresh feelings unrepressed, welling from the heart spontaneous,
Facts, and comparisons, and meditative atoms, gathered on the heap of
Mingle in the fashion of my speech with gossamer dreams of Reverie.
I need not beat the underwood for game; my pheasants flock upon the lawn,
And gambolling hares disport fearless in my dewy field;
I roam no heath-empurpled hills, wearily watching for a covey,
But thoughts fly swift to my decoy, eager to be caught:
I sit no quiet angler, lingering patiently for sport,
But spread my nets for a draught, and take the glittering shoal;
I chase no solitary stag, tracking it with breathless toil,
But hunt with Aureng-zebe, and spear-surrounded thousands.1
What then,-count ye this a boast?-sweet charity, think it other,
For the dog-fish and poisonous ray are captured in the mullet-haul:
The crane and the kite are of my thoughts, alike with the partridge and
the quail,
And unclean meats as of the clean hang upon my Seric2 shambles.
-How saith he? shall a man deceive, dressing up his jackal as a lion?
Or colour in staid hues of fact the changing vest of falsehood? —
Brother, unwittingly he may; doubtless, unwillingly he doth:
For men are full of fault, and how should he be righteous?
Carefully my garden hath been weeded, yet shall it be foul with thistle;
My grapery is diligently thinned, and yet many berries will be sour:
From my nets have I flung the bad away, to my small skill and caution;
Yet may some slimy snake have counted for an eel.
The rudder of Man's best hope cannot always steer himself from error;
The arrow of Man's straightest aim flieth short of truth.
Thus, the confession of sincerity visit not as if it were presumption;
Nor own me for a leader, where thy reason is not guide.
Take courage, prisoner of time, for there be many comforts,
Cease thy labour in the pit, and bask awhile with truants in the sun;
Be cheerful, man of care, for great is the multitude of chances,
Burst thy fetters of anxiety, and walk among the citizens of ease:
Wherefore dost thou doubt? if present good is round thee,
It may be well to look for change, but to trust in a continuance is better;
Whilst, at the crisis of adversity, to hope for some amends were wisdom,
And cheerfully to bear thy cross in patient strength is duty.
I speak of common troubles, and the petty plagues of life,
The phantom-spies of Unbelief, that lurk about his outposts:
Sharp suspicion, dull distrust, and sullen stern moroseness
Are captains in that locust swarm to lead the cloudy host.
Thou hast need of fortitude and faith, for the adversaries come on thickly,
And he that fled hath added wings to his pursuing foes;
Fight them, and the cravens flee; thy boldness is their panic;
Fear them, and thy treacherous heart hath lent the ranks a legion :
Among their shouts of victory resoundeth the wail of Heraclitus,
While Democrite, confident and cheerful, hath plucked up the standard
of their camp.
Not few nor light are the burdens of life; then load it not with heaviness of spirit;
Sicknesses, and penury, and travail,—there be real ills enow:
We are wandering benighted, with a waning moon; plunge not rashly into jungles,
Where cold and poisonous damps will quench the torch of hope:
The tide is strong against us; good oarsmen, pull or perish,-
If your arms be slack for fear, ye shall not stem the torrent.
A wise traveller goeth on cheerily, through fair weather or foul;
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