From each she nicely culls with curious toil,
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil.
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks,
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.
The tortoise here and elephant unite,
Transformed to combs, the speckled and the white.
Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
Pulls, powders, patches, bibles, billets-doux.
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms;
The fair each moment rises in her charms,
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace,
And calls forth all the wonders of her face ;
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.
The busy sylphs surround their darling care,
These set the head, and those divide the hair,
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown;
And Betty's praised for labors not her own.

ALEXANDER POPE.

A RECEIPT FOR SALAD.

To make this condiment your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs;
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve,
Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, half suspected, animate the whole ;
Of mordent mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault
To add a double quantity of salt;
Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown,
And twice with vinegar, procured from town;
And lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss
A magic soupçon of anchovy sauce.
O green and glorious ! O herbaceous treat!
’T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat;
Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,
And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl ;

THE NOBLE NATURE.
It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make man better be ; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and scar :

A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and dic that night, -

It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just beauties see ;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

BEN JONSON.

They are but poore, though much they havc,

And I am rich with little store.
They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give;
They lacke, I lend; they pine, I live.
I laugh not at another's losse,

I grudge not at another's gaine ;
No worldly wave my mind can tosse;

I brooke that is another's bane.
I feare no foe, nor fawne on friend ;
I lothe not life, nor dread mine end.

I joy not in no carthly blisse ;

I weigh not Cresus' wealth a straw; For care, I care not what it is ;

I feare not fortune's fatal law; My mind is such as may not move For beautie bright, or force of love.

MY MINDE TO ME A KINGDOM IS.

I wish but what I have at will ;

I wander not to seeke for more ; I like the plaine, I clime no hill ;

In greatest stormes I sitte on shore, And laugh at them that toile in vaine To get what must be lost againe.

My minde to me a kingdom is ;

Such perfect joy therein I finde As farre exceeds all earthly blisse

That God or nature hath assignde ;
Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my minde forbids to crave.
Content I live; this is my stay,

I seek no more than may suffice.
I presse to beare no haughtie sway ;

Look, what 1 lack my mind supplies.
Loc, thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.
I see how plentie surfets oft,

And hastie clymbers soonest fall ; I see that such as sit aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all. These get with toile, anıl keepe with feare ; Such cares my mind could never beare. No princely pompe nor welthie store,

No force to win the victorie, No wylie wit to salve a sore,

No shape to winne a lover's eye, To none of these I yceld as thrall ; For why, my mind despiseth all. Some have too much, yet still they crave;

i little have, yet seek no more.

BEAUTY.

PRELUDE TO THE VOICES OF THE

NIGHT.

'T is much immortal beauty to admire,
But more immortal beauty to withstand ;
The perfect soul can overcome desire,
If beauty with divine delight be scanned.
For what is beauty but the blooming child
Of fair Olympus, that in night must end,
And be forever from that bliss exiled,
If admiration stand too much its friend ?
The wind may be enamored of a flower,
The ocean of the green and laughing shore,
The silver lightning of a lofty tower,
But must not with too near a love adore ;
Or flower and margin and cloud-capped tower
Love and delight shall with delight devour !

PLEASANT it was, when woods were green,

And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene,
Where, the long drooping boughs between,
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen

Alternate come and go ;
Or where the denser grove receives

No sunlight from above,
But the dark foliage interweaves
In one unbroken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose sloping eaves

The shadows hardly move.
Beneath some patriarchal tree

I lay upon the ground;
His hoary arms uplifted he,
And all the broad leaves over me
Clapped their little hands in glee,

With one continuous sound ;-
A slumberous sound, a sound that brings

The feelings of a dream,
As of innumerable wings,
As, when a bell no longer swings,
Faint the hollow murmur rings

O'er meadow, lake, and stream.

LORD THURLOW.

THOUGHT.

THOUGHT is deeper than all speech,

Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach

What unto themselves was taught. We are spirits clad in veils ;

Man by man was never seen ; All our deep communing fails

To remove the shadowy screen. Heart to heart was never known;

Mind with mind did never meet ; We are columns left alone

Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky,

Far apart though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie ;

All is thus but starlight here. What is social company

But a babbling summer stream ? What our wise philosophy

But the glancing of a dream ? Only when the sun of love

Melts the scattered stars of thought, Only when we live above

What the dim-eyed world hath taught.

And dreams of that which cannot die,

Bright visions, came to me,
As lapped in thought I used to lie,
And gaze into the summer sky,
Where the sailing clouds went by,

Like ships upon the sea ;
Dreams that the soul of youth engage

Ere Fancy has been quelled ;
Old legends of the monkish page,
Traditions of the saint and sage,
Tales that have the rime of age,

And chronicles of eld. And, loving still these quaint old themes,

Even in the city's throng I feel the freshness of the streams That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Water the green land of dreams, The holy land of song.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Only when our souls are fed

By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led

Which they never drew from earth, We, like parted drops of rain,

Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again,

Melting, flowing into one.

THE INNER VISION.

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path there be or none,
While a fair region round the Traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon ;

CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.