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From Lydia's monarch should the search | Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,

descend,

By Solon caution'd to regard his end,
In life's last scene what prodigies surprise,
Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise:
From Marlborough's eyes the streams of
dotage flow,

And Swift expires a driveller and a show!

The teeming mother, anxious for her

race,

Begs for each birth the fortune of a face; Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty spring;

And Sedley cursed the form that pleased a king.

Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes,
Whom Pleasure keeps too busy to be wise;
Whom joys with soft varieties invite,
By day the frolic, and the dance by night;
Who frown with vanity, who smile with
art,

And ask the latest fashion of the heart; What care, what rules, your heedless charms shall save,

Each nymph your rival, and each youth your slave?

Against your fame with fondness hate

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Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise,
No cries invoke the mercies of the skies?
Inquirer, cease; petitions yet remain
Which Heaven may hear, nor deem Re-
ligion vain.

Still raise for good the supplicating voice, But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice.

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Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant With heaven; fond earth, thou boast'st;

mind?

false world, thou ly'st.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales

Of endless treasure;

Thy bounty offers easy sales

Of lasting pleasure;

Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, And swear'st to ease her;

There's none can want where thou supply'st:

There's none can give where thou deny'st. Alas! fond world, thou boast'st; false world,

thou ly'st.

What well-advised ear regards

What earth can say?

Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay :

Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou canst not play :

Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;
If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st:

Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint

Of new-coin'd treasure:

A paradise, that has no stint,

No change, no measure;

A painted cask, but nothing in't,
Nor wealth, nor pleasure:

Vain earth that falsely thus comply'st
With man; vain man, that thou rely'st
On earth; vain man, thou doat'st; vain
carth, thou ly'st.

What mean dull souls, in this high meas

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Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Go, tell the court it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Go, tell the Church it shows
What's good, and doth no good.
If Church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.
Tell potentates they live
Acting by others' action,
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition

That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate.

And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,

They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell zeal it lacks devotion,
Tell love it is but lust,
Tell time it is but motion,
Tell flesh it is but dust;
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.
Tell age it daily wasteth,

Tell honor how it alters,
Tell beauty how she blasteth,
Tell favor how it falters.
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness.

And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie. Tell physic of her boldness,

Tell skill it is pretension, Tell charity of coldness,

Tell law it is contention.

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Then the few whose spirits float above the | I am going to my own hearthstone,

wreck of happiness

Bosom'd in yon green hills aloneAre driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean A secret nook in a pleasant land, of excess: Whose groves the frolic fairies plann'd, The magnet of their course is gone, or only Where arches green, the livelong day, points in vain Echo the blackbird's roundelay, The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall And vulgar feet have never trod,— A spot that is sacred to thought and God.

never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, death itself comes down; I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome,

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not And when I am stretch'd beneath the dream its own; pines,

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the foun- Where the evening star so holy shines, I laugh at the lore and pride of man,

tain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis At the sophist schools, and the learned

where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and

mirth distract the breast,

Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;

'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,

All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.

Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,

Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,

So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!

GOOD-BYE.

LORD BYRON.

GOOD-BYE, proud world! I'm going home;
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,

Long I've been toss'd like the driven foam,
But now, proud world, I'm going home.

Good-bye to flattery's fawning face,
To grandeur, with his wise grimace,
To upstart wealth's averted eye,
To supple office, low and high,

To crowded halls, to court and street,
To frozen hearts and hasting feet,
To those who go and those who come,-
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home.

clan;

For what are they all, in their high conceit. When man in the bush with God may meet?

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

NO AGE CONTENT WITH HIS OWN
ESTATE.

LAID in my quiet bed,
In study as I were,

I saw within my troubled head
A heap of thoughts appear.

And every thought did show

So lively in mine eyes,
That now I sigh'd, and then I smiled,
As cause of thought did rise.

I saw the little boy

In thought, how oft that he
Did wish of God to 'scape the rod,
A tall young man to be.

The young man eke that feels

His bones with pains oppress'd,
How he would be a rich old man,
To live and lie at rest.

The rich old man that sees

His end draw on so sore,
How he would be a boy again,
To live so much the more.

Whereat full oft I smiled,

To see how all these three,
From boy to man, from man to boy,
Would chop and change degree.

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