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“ Far from the city I reside,
“ But though from towns and crowds I Aly,
Author. “ If these the friendships you pursue,
Content. “I commune with myself at night, And ask my heart, if all be right. If right' replies my faithful breast, I smile, and close my eyes to rest.”
Author. “You seem regardless of the town: Pray, Sir, how stand you with the gown?”
Content. “The Clergy say they love me well,
“With those my friendship most obtain,
Observe the secrets of my art,
“ The Passions are a num'rous crowd, Imperious, positive and loud: Curb these licentious sons of strife; Hence chiefly rise the storms of life: If they grow mutinous, and rave, They are thy masters, thou their slave.
“Regard the world with cautious eye, Nor raise your expectation high. See that the balanc'd scales be such, You neither fear nor hope too much. For disappointment's not the thing, Tis pride and passion point the sting. Life is a sea, where storms must rise, 'Tis Folly talks of cloudless skies: He who contracts his swelling sail Eludes the fury of the gale.
“ Be still, nor anxious thoughts employ, Distrust embitters present joy: On God for all events depend; You cannot want when God's your friend. Weigh well your part, and do your best; Leave to your Maker all the rest. The hand which form'd thee in the womb, Guides from the cradle to the tomb.. Can the fond mother slight her boy? Can she forget her pratiling joy? Say then, sha:l sov’reign Love desest The humble and the honest heart?
Heaven may not grant thee all thy mind;
“ You say that troubles iutervene,
“ Of heaven ask virtue, wisdom, health,
He spake—The airy spectre flies, And straight the sweet illusion dies.
The vision at the early dawn,
FROM POPE'S ESSAY ON MAN. Ou Happiness! our being's end and aim! Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! whate'er thy name; That something still which prompts the eternal sigh, For which we bear to live, or dare to die; Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, O'erlook’d, seen double, by the fool and wise; Plant of celestial seed! if dropt below, Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow? Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shine, Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine? Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field? Where grows, where grows it not? If vain our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not the soil. Fix'd to no spot is Happiness sincere, 'Tis no where to be found, or ev'ry where; 'Tis never to be bought, but always free, And fled from monarchs, Sr. John, dwells with thee. Ask of the learn'd the way: the learn'd are blinds This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind.