Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content:
The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive

him

With coolest shades, till noon-tide rage is spent: His life is neither toss'd in boist'rous seas

Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease; Pleased, and full blest he lives, when he his God 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,
content him.

THE RICHEST JEWELL.

THERE is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy,
No chemic art can counterfeit ;

It makes men rich in greatest poverty,
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,
The homely whistle to sweet music's strain;
Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent,
That much in little-all in nought-Content.

ᎻᎪᏞᏴᎬᎡᎢ,

BY SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

SIR, 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.

Most miserable

Is the desire that's glorious: blessed be those, How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills,

Which seasons comfort.

Shakespear.

RURAL CONTENT.

BY THOMSON.

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,

Fach morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd
Of flatterers false, and in their turn abused?
File intercourse! What though the glittering robe,
Of every hue reflected light can give,

Or floating loose, or stiff with mazy gold,
T'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
That still amuse the wanton, still deceive-
A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain-
T'heir hallow moments undelighted all?
Sure peace is his; a solid life, estranged

To disappointment and fallacious hope:

Rich in content, in Nature's bounty rich,
In herbs and fruits; whatever greens the Spring
When heaven descends in showers, or bends the

bough

When summer reddens, and when Autumn beams,
Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies

Concealed, and fattens with the richest gap;
These are not wanting; nor the milky drove,
Luxuriant, spread o'er all the lowing vale ;
Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams,
And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere
Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade,
Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay;
Nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song,
Dim grottoes, gleaming lakes, and fountain clear.
Here too dwells simple Truth; plain Innocence;
Unsullied Beauty; sound unbroken Youth,
Patient of labour, with a little pleased;
Health ever blooming; unambitious Toil;
Calm contemplation, and poetic Ease.

He fairly looking into life's account;

Saw frowns and favours were of like amount;
And viewing all-his perils, prospects, purse,
He said, 66 content'tis well it is no worse.'

Crabbe.

"USES OF ADVERSITY."

BY SHAKESPEAR.

Now my co-mates, and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference; as, the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,-
This is no flattery; these are counsellors
'That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity,-
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

He that commends me to mine own content,
Commends me to the thing I cannot get.

Sheakespear.

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