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We'll form their minds with studious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,

And train them for the skies.

While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,

And crown our hoary hairs ;
They'll grow in virtue every day,
And thus our fondest loves repay,

And recompense our cares.

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No borrowed joys ! they're all our own,
While to the world we live unl wn,

Or by the world forgot :
Monarchs ! we envy not your state,
We look with pity on the great,

And bless our humble lot.

Our portion is not large indeed;
But then, how little do we need,

For Nature's calls are few !
In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than may suffice,

And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish with content
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,

Nor aim beyond our power; For, if our stock be very small, 'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,

Nor lose the present hour,

To be resigned when ills betide,
Patient when favours are denied,

And pleased with favours given;
Dear Cloe, this is wisdom's part,
This is that incense of the heart,

Whose fragrance smells to heaven. We'll ask no long-protracted treat, Since winter-life is seldom sweet;

But when our feast is o'er, Grateful from table we'll arise, Nor grudge our son, with envious eyes,

The relics of our store.

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go ; In the checkered paths of joy and wo

With cautious steps we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead.
While conscience, like a faithful friend
Shall through the gloomy vale attend

And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel whisper peace,

And smooth the bed of death.

L

A FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF

THE WORLD.

BY WOTTEN.

FAREWELL, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles ;-
Farewell, ye honoured rags, ye glorious bubbles ;
Fame's but a hollow echo; gold pure clay ;
Honour the darling but of one short day.
Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damasked skin;
State but a golden prison to live in,
And torture tree-born minds! Embroidered trains,
Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins ;
And blood allied to greatness, is alone
Inherited, not purchased nor our own,
Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and

birth,
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.
I would be great, but that the sun doth still
Level his rays against the rising hill:
I would be high, but see the proudest oak
Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke :
I would be rich, but see men, too unkind,
Dig in the bowels of the richest mine :
I would be wise, but that I often see
The fox suspected, while the ass goes free:
I would be fair, but see the fair and proud,
Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud:

I would be poor, but know the humble grass
Still trampled on by each unworthy ass :
Rich hated : wise suspected : scorned if poor :
Great feared: fair tempted: high still envied

more:

I have wished all; but now, I wish for neither Great, high, rich, wise nor fair; poor I'll be

rather. Welcome pure thoughts, welcome ye silent groves, These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly

loves :
Now the winged people of the sky shall sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring :
A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass,
In which I will adore sweet virtue's face.
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace-cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears :
Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly,
And learn t affect a holy melancholy;

And if Contentment be a stranger then,
I'll ne'er look for it but in Heaven again.

I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born,
And range with humble livers in content,
Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief,
And wear a golden sorrow,

Shakespear.

SONNET.

BY DRUMMOND.

THRICE happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own,
Though solitary, who is not alone,
But doth converse with that eternal love :
Oh, how more sweet is birds harmonious moane,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's

throne, Which good make doubtfull, dothe evill approve! Oh, how more sweet is zephyre's wholesome

breath, And sighs embalmed, which new-born flowers

unfold, Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath ! How sweet are streames to poyson drank in gold!

The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights; Woods' harmlesse shades have only true de

lights.

Much will always wanting be
To him who much desires. Thrice happy he
To whom the wise indulgency of heaven,
With sparing hand, but just enough has given

Cowley.

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