To thine own woes be not thy thoughts confin'd; But go abroad and think of all mankind.
Firm in resolve, by sterling worth to gain
Love and respect, thou shalt not strive in vain.
The skies, the air, the morning breeze's call,
Alike are free, and full of health, to all.
He fails, who pleasure makes his prime pursuit;
For pleasure is, of duty done, the fruit.
It is a virtue to improve the mind;
And if for truth we labour, we shall find.
By exercise our skill and courage grows,
And that, which once was scanty, overflows.
Sir Egerton Brydges.
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS.
Absence of occupation is not rest,
A mind quite vacant is a mind distrest.
No wealth into this world we brought,
And none can take away;
The blind in mind, the poor in thought,
How blind! how poor are they!
C. D. Sillery.
An honest and a grateful heart;
And who would [1] more than will suffice,
Does covet more than is his part.
If happiness has not her seat
And centre in the breast,
e may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest.
Trust not to each accusing tongue,
As most weak persons do;
But still believe that story wrong,
Which ought not to be true.
106. THE PLANE TREE AND THE VINE.
See yonder blushing vine-tree grow,
And clasp a dry and withered plane ;
And round its youthful tendrils throw
A shelter from the storm and rain.
That hapless trunk, in former time,
Gave covert from the noon-tide blaze,
And taught the infant shoot to climb,
Which now the pious debt repays.
Thus for a mother's fostering care,
May'st thou a tender love return;
Shield her when life's rude tempests lour,
And wreath with flowers her sacred urn.
107.—BRUCE AND THE SPIDER.
For Scotland's and for freedom's right,
The Bruce his part had play'd,
In five successive fields of fight,
Been conquered and dismayed;
Once more against the English host,
His band he led, and once more lost
The meed for which he fought;
And now from battle, faint and worn,
The homeless fugitive forlorn
A hut's lone shelter sought.
And cheerless was that resting-place For him who claimed a throne; devoid of grace,
The rude rough beams alone;
The heather couch his only bed—
Yet well I ween [1] had slumber fled
From couch of eider down!
Through darksome night to dawn of day
Immersed in wakeful thought he lay
Of Scotland and her crown.
The sun rose brightly, and its gleam
Fell on that hapless bed,
And tinged with light each shapeless beam
Which roofed the lowly shed;
When looking up with wistful [2] eye,
The Bruce beheld a spider try
[1] Ween-think or imagine.
[2] Wistful-attentive, full of thought.
His filmy thread to fling
From beam to beam of that rude cot;
And well the insect's toilsome lot
Taught Scotland's future king.
Six times his gossamery [1] thread
The wary spider threw ;
In vain the filmy line was sped,
For powerless or untrue
Each aim appeared, and back recoil'd
The patient insect, six times foiled,
And yet unconquered still;
And soon the Bruce, with eager eye,
Saw him prepare once more to try
His courage, strength, and skill.
One effort more, its seventh and last!
The hero hailed the sign!
And on the wished-for beam hung fast
That slender, silken line;
Slight as it was, his spirit caught
The more than omen, for his thought
The lesson well could trace,
Which even "he who runs may read,"
That Perseverance gains its meed,
And Patience wins the race.
'Tis June—the merry smiling June
'Tis blushing summer now,
[1] Gossamery light, flimsy.
The rose is red, the bloom is dead,
The fruit is on the bough.
The bird-cage hangs upon the wall,
Amid the clustering vine:
The rustic seat is in the porch,
Where honeysuckles twine.
The rosy, ragged urchins play
Beneath the glowing sky;
They scoop the sand, or gaily chase
The bee that buzzes by.
The household spaniel flings his length
Beneath the sheltering wall;
The panting sheep-dog seeks the spot,
Where leafy shadows fall.
The petted kitten frisks among
The bean flowers' fragrant maze;
Or basking, throws her dappled form
To catch the warmest rays.
The open'd casements flinging wide,
Geraniums give to view;
With choicest posies ranged between,
Still wet with morning dew.
The mower whistles o'er his toil,
The em'rald grass must yield;
The scythe is out, the swath is down,
There's incense in the field.
Oh! how I love to calmly muse,
In such an hour as this!
To nurse the joy creation gives,
In purity and bliss.
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