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BY L. H. SIGOURNEY.
TAINK'st thou the steed that restless roves O'er rocks and mountains, fields and groves,
With wild, unbridled bound, Finds fresher pasture than the bee, On thymy bank or vernal tree, Intent to store her industry
Within her waxen round?
Think'st thou the fountain forced to turn
Affords a sweeter draught
And wake his grateful thought ? Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold The worldling's pomp and miser's gold,
Obtains a richer prize
Of treasure in the skies?
HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S
BY GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER.
Turice, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state!
Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content:
please. His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, While by his side his faithful spouse hath place ; His little son into his bosom creeps, The lively picture of his father's face: Never his humble house nor state torment him ; Less he could like, if less his God had sent him; And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb,
THE RICHEST JEWELL.
There is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy,
BY SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
Sır, you do me wrong; I boast no virtue when I claim content With that which you have left me ;-would not
change My naked turret, in its mountain hold, Reached by the path along whose rugged steeps Discord and envy climb not, for the fields Rich Inverary in its scornful groves Embosoms; and to me the mouldering walls Of its small chapel wear the glory yet Of consecration which they took from prayers Of the first teachers, through a thousand storms Have drenched and shaken them. Forgive me, sir :' I have a patrimony which disdains Envy of yours.
On knew he but his happiness, of men The happiest he who far from public rage, Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired, Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life! What though the dome be wanting, whose proud
gate, Rach morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd (of flatterers false, and in their turn abused ? Hile intercourse! What though the glittering robe, (if every hue reflected light can give, Or floating loose, or stiff with mazy gold, l'he pride and gaze of fools, oppress him not ? What though, from utmost land and sea purveyed For him each rarer tributary life Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps With luxury and death? What though his bowl Flames not with costly juice, nor sunk in beds, Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night, Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state? What though he knows not those fantastic joys T'hat still amuse the wanton, still deceiveA face of pleasure, but a heart of painT'heir hallow moments undelighted all ? Sure peace is his ; a solid life, estranged