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THE QUIET MIND.
BY JOHN CLARE.
Though low my lot, my wish is won,
My hopes are few and staid;
The last request is made:
To fate I live resign'd:
And that's a quiet mind.
I wish not it was mine to wear
Flushed honour's sunny crown:
She frowns, and let her frown:
Which others love to find :
A pure and quiet mind.
The trumpet's taunt in battle field,
The great man's pedigreeWhat peace can all their honours yield,
And what are they to me? Though praise and pomp, to me the strife Rave like a mighty wind
What are they to the calın of life
A still and quiet mind ?
1 mourn not that my lot is low,
I wish no higher state;
Nor tease her to be great :
What all at least shall find,
I see the great pass heedless by,
And pride above me tower; It costs me not a single sigh
For either wealth or power :
Of quite as great a kind,
A calm and quiet mind.
I never mock'd at beauty's shrine,
To stain her lips with lies; No knighthood's fame, or luck was mine,
To win love's richest prize :
What all wili wish to find.
A glad and quiet mind.
And come what will of care or wo,
As some must come to all,
Nor mourn that they befall :
They're comforts in their kind,
Remains a quiet mind.
And love's true joys decay,
The whirlwind puffs away ;
Though left the last behind,
If I've a quiet mind.
O may I with myself agree,
SUMMER IN THE HEART.
BY EPES SARGENT.
The cold blast at the casement beats,
The window-panes are white, The snow whirls through the empty streets
It is a dreary night! Sit down, old friend! the wine-cups wait;
Fill to o'erflowing! fill! Though winter howleth at the gate,
In our hearts 'tis summer still !
For we full many summer joys
And greenwood sports have shared, When, free and ever-roving boys,
The rocks, the streams we dared! And, as I look upon thy face
Back, back o'er years of ill, My heart flies to that happy place,
Where it is summer still!
Yes, though, like sere leaves on the ground,
Our early hopes are strown,
And singing birds are flown,-
Not mute all tones that thrill For, seeing, hearing thee to-night,
In my heart 'tis summer still!
Fill up! the olden times come back!
With light and life once more
From youth's enchanted shore !
We wander at our will;
In our heart 'lis summer still!
BY RICHARD LOVELACE.
How uncertain is the state
Of that greatness we adore ;
When ambitiously we soar,
'Tis but ruin gilded o'er,
With such superstitious care,
To build fabrics in the air;
Where no stars but meteors are