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THE STUDY OF NATURE.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth, that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles,-
Ay, look, and he'll smile all thy gloom away.

353

MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER.

THE STUDY OF NATURE.

THAT which may profit and amuse is gathered from the volume of creation,

For every chapter therein teemeth with the playfulness of wisdom.

The elements of all things are the same, though nature hath mixed them with a difference,

And learning delighteth to discover the affinity of seeming opposites:

So out of great things and small draweth he the secrets of the universe,

And argueth the cycles of the stars, from a pebble flung by a child.

It is pleasant to note all plants, from the rush to the spreading cedar,

From the giant king of palms, to the lichen that staineth its stem;

To watch the workings of instinct, that grosser reason of brutes,

The river horse browsing in the jungle, the plover screaming on the moor,

The cayman basking on a mud-bank, and the walrus anchored to an iceberg,

The dog at his master's feet, and the milch-kine lowing in the meadow:

To trace the consummate skill that hath modelled the anatomy of insects,

Small fowls that sun their wings on the petals of wild

flowers;

To learn a use in the beetle, and more than a beauty in the butterfly;

To recognise affections in a moth, and look with admiration on a spider.

It is glorious to gaze upon the firmament, and see from far the mansions of the blest,

Each distant shining world, a kingdom for one of the redeemed;

To read the antique history of earth, stamped upon those medals in the rocks

Which design hath rescued from decay, to tell of the green infancy of time;

To gather from the unconsidered shingle the mottled starlike agates,

Full of unstoried flowers in the budding bloom-chalcedony;

Or gay and curious shells, fretted with microscopic carving,

Corallines, and fresh sea weeds, spreading forth their delicate branches,

It is an admirable lore to learn the cause in the change, To study the chemistry of nature, her grand but simple

secrets,

To search out all her wonders, to track the resources of her skill,

To note her kind compensations, her unobtrusive excel

lence.

In all it is wise happiness to see the well-ordained laws. of Jehovah,

The harmony that filleth all his mind, the justice that tempereth his bounty,

The wonderful all-prevalent analogy that testifieth one

Creator,

The broad arrow of the Great King, carved on all the stores of his arsenal.

BEAUTIES AND ENJOYMENTS OF THE

COUNTRY.

ALEXANDER POPE.

BORN, 1688; DIED, 1744.

CONTENTMENT.

HAPPY the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night: study and case,
Together mix'd: sweet recreation,

And innocence, which most does please

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.*

• This ode was written when the author was only 12 years of age.

JAMES THOMSON."

BORN, 1700; DIED, 1748.

HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY LIFE.
On! knew he but his happiness, of men
The happiest he, who, far from public rage,
Deep in the vale, with a choice few retir'd
Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life!
What though the dome be wanting, whose proud gate,
Each morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd
Of flatt'rers false, and in their turn abus'd?
Vile intercourse! What though the glitt'ring robe,
Of ev'ry hue reflected light can give,

Or floating loose, or stiff with mazy gold,
The pride and gaze of fools! oppress him not?
What though, from utmost land and sea purvey'd.
For him each rarer tributary life

Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps

With luxury and death? What though his bowl
Flames not with costly juice; nor sunk in beds,
Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night,
Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state?
What though he knows not those fantastic joys
That still amuse the wanton, still deceive,
A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain;
Their hollow moments undelighted all?
Sure peace is his; a solid life, estrang'd
From disappointment and fallacious hope,
Rich in content, in Nature's bounty rich,

In herbs and fruits. Whatever greens the spring,
When heav'n descends in show'rs; or bends the bough,
When Summer reddens, and when Autumn beams;
Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies

Conceal'd, and fattens with the richest sap,
These are not wanting; nor the milky drove,
Luxuriant, spread o'er all the lowing vale;

Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams,
And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere

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PICTURE OF A VILLAGE LIFE.

Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade,
Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay ;
Nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song,
Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and fountains clear.
Here, too, dwell simple truth, plain innocence,
Unsullied beauty, sound unbroken youth,
Patient of labour, with a little pleas'd,
Health ever blooming, unambitious toil,
Calm contemplation, and poetic ease.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

BORN, 1728; DIED, 1774.

PICTURE OF A VILLAGE LIFE.

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357

SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please;
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!

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Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,

Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd,
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd,
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place;
The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door.

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