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CONTENT IS HAPPINESS.

BY HAVARD.

What art thou, Happiness, so sought by all,
So greatly envied, yet so seldom found ?
Of what strange nature is thy composition,
When gold and grandeur sue to thee in vain ?
The prince who leads embattled thousands forth,
And with a nod commands the universe,
Knows not the language to make thee obey;
Though he with armies strews the hostile plain,
And hews out avenues of death, he still
Loses his way to thee, because content
Appears not on the road, to light them to thee.-
Content and happiness are then the same;
And they are seldom found, but in the bed
Where unmolested innocence resides.

Cellars and granaries in vain we fill
With all the bounteous summer's store,
If the mind thirst and hunger still:
The poor rich man's emphatically poor.
Slaves to the things we too much prize,
We masters grow of all that we despise.

Coroley.

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RETIREMENT.

BY BEATTIE.

When in the crimson cloud of even

The lingering light decays,
And Hesper on the front of heaven

His glittering gem displays;
Deep in the silent vale, unseen,

Beside a lulling stream,
A pensive youth, of placid mien,

Indulged this tender theme :
“ Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled

High o'er the glimmering dale;
Ye woods, along, whose windings wild

Murmurs the solemn gale:
Where Melancholy strays forlorn,

And Wo retires to weep,
What time the wan Moon's yellow horn

Gleams on the western deep:
To you, ye waste, whose artless charms

Ne'er drew ambition's eye,
'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms,

To your retreats I fly.
Deep in your most sequestered bower

Let me at last recline,
Where Solitude, mild, modest power,

Leans on her ivied shrine.

How shall I woo thee, matchless fair!

Thy heavenly smile how win!
Thy smile, that smooths the brow of Care

And stills the storm within.
O wilt thou to thy favourite grove

Thine ardent votary bring,
And bless his hours, and bid them move

Serene, on silent wing ?

66 Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind

With dreams of former days,
When in the lap of Peace reclined,

He framed his infant lay;
When Fancy roved at large, nor Care

Nor cold Distrust alarmed,
Nor envy with malignant glare

His simple youth hath harmed.

• 'Twas then, O Solitude! to thee

His early vows were paid,
From heart sincere, and warm and free,

Devoted to the shade.
Ah, why did Fate his steps decoy

In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy !-

O take the wanderer home,

Thy shades, thy silence now be mine, Thy charms my only theme;

Couro

My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine

Waves o'er the gloomy stream ; Whence the scared owl on pinions gray

Breaks from the rustling boughs, And down the lone vale sails away

To more profound repose.

“0, while to thee the woodland pours

Its wildly warbling song,
And balmy from the bank of flowers

The zephyr breathes along;
Let no rude sound invade from far,

No vagrant foot be nigh,
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car

Flash on the startled eye.

“But if some pilgrim through the glade

Thy hallowed bowers explore,
O guard from harm his hoary head,

And listen to his lore;
For he of joys divine shall tell,

That wean from earthly wo,
And triumph o'er the mighty spell

That chains his heart below.

“For me no more the path invites

Ambition loves to tread : No more I climb those toilsome heights,

By guileful Hope misled;

Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more

To Mirth's enlivening strain ;
For present pleasure soon is o'er,

And all the past is vain."

RURAL CONTENT.

BY HAMMOND.

Let others boast their heaps of shining gold,
And view their fields, with waving plenty

crowned,
Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold,

And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound.

While calmly poor I trifle life away,

Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire,
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,

But cheaply blest, I'll scorn each vain desire.

With timely care I'll sow my little field,

And plant my orchard with its master's hand, Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield,

Or range my sheaves along the sunny land.

If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,

I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,
Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home,

And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.

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