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I questioned Death;—the grisly shade
Relaxed his brow severe,
And, "I am Happiness," he said,
"If Virtue guides thee here!”
OE to the youth whom Fancy gains,
Winning from Reason's hand the reins !
Pity and woe! for such a mind
Is soft, contemplative, and kind;
And woe to those who train such youth,
And spare to press the rights of truth,
The mind to strengthen and anneal,
While on the stithy glows the steel !
Oh, teach him, while your lessons last,
To judge the present by the past;
Remind him of each wish pursued,
How rich it glowed with promised good;
Remind him of each wish enjoyed,
How soon his hopes possession cloyed!
Tell him, we play unequal game,
Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim;
And, ere he strip him for her race,
Show the conditions of the chase.
Two Sisters by the goal are set,—
Cold Disappointment and Regret ;
One disenchants the winner's eyes,
And strips of all its worth the prize ;
While one augments its gaudy show,
More to enhance the loser's woe:
The victor sees his fairy gold,
Transformed, when won, to drossy mold;
But still the vanquished mourns his loss,
And rues, as gold, that glittering dross.
TRUE HAPPINESS NOT LOCAL.
RUE Happiness had no localities,
No tones provincial, no peculiar garb. Where Duty went, she went, with Justice went,
And went with Meekness, Charity, and Love.
Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart
Bound up, a bruiséd spirit with the dew
Of sympathy anointed, or a pang
Of honest suffering soothed, or injury
Repeated oft, as oft by Love forgiven;
Where'er an evil passion was subdued,
Or virtue's feeble embers fanned; where'er
A sin was heartily abjured, and left;
Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed
A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish;—
There was a high and holy place, a spot
Of sacred light, a most religious fane,
Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled.
E is the happy man, whose life e'en now
Shows somewhat of that happier life to
Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state,
Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose,
Would make his fate his choice;-whom peace, the
Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith,
Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one
Content indeed to sojourn while he must
Below the skies, but having there his home.
The World o'erlooks him in her busy search
Of objects more illustrious in her view;
And, occupied as earnestly as she,
Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the World.
She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not;
He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain.
He cannot skim the ground like summer birds
Pursuing gilded flies; and such he deems
Her honours, her emoluments, her joys.
Therefore in Contemplation is his bliss ;
Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth 、
She makes familiar with a heaven unseen,
And shows him glories yet to be revealed.
When cheerful sounds, upon the fresh winds borne, Tell man resumes his work with blither zest, While the bright waters leap from rock to glen— Are we the happiest then?
Alas, those roses! they will fade away,
And thunder-tempests will deform the sky; And summer heats bid the spring buds decay, And the clear sparkling fountain may be dry; And nothing beauteous may adorn the scene,
To tell what it has been!
When are we happiest?—in the crowded hall,
When Fortune smiles, and flatterers bend the knee? How soon, how very soon, such pleasures pall! How fast must Falsehood's rainbow colouring flee!
Its poison flowerets leave the sting of care;—
We are not happy there!
Are we the happiest, when the evening hearth
Is circled with its crown of living flowers?
When goeth round the laugh of harmless mirth,
And when Affection from her bright urn showers
Her richest balm on the dilating heart?
Bliss! is it there thou art?
Oh, no! not there; it would be happiness
Almost like heaven's, if it might always be,
Those brows without one shading of distress,
And wanting nothing but eternity;
But they are things of earth, and pass away—
They must, they must decay!
Those voices must grow tremulous with years; Those smiling brows must wear a tinge of gloom; Those sparkling eyes be quenched in bitter tears, And, at the last, close darkly in the tomb.
If happiness depend on them alone,
When are we happiest, then?—Oh! when resigned
To whatsoe'er our cup of life may bring;
When we can know ourselves but weak and blind,
Creatures of earth! and trust alone in Him
Who giveth, in his mercy, joy or pain.
Oh! we are happiest then!
MARY A. BROWNE
H, many a shaft at random sent,
Finds mark the archer little meant!
And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe or wound a heart that's broken.
OME feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them than heaven;
And if there be a human tear
From passion's dross refined and clear,
A tear so limpid and so meek,
It would not stain an angel's cheek,
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head!
F all the knots which Nature ties,
The secret, sacred sympathies,
That, as with viewless chains of gold,
The heart a happy prisoner hold,—
None is more chaste, more bright, more pure,
Stronger stern trials to endure
None is more purged of earthly leaven,
More like the love of highest heaven
Than that which binds, in bonds how blest,
A daughter to a father's breast!
HE shepherd on Tornaro's misty brow,
And the swart seaman, sailing far below,
Not undelighted watch the morning ray
Purpling the orient-till it breaks away,
And burns and blazes into glorious day!
But happier still is he who bends to trace
That sun, the soul, just dawning in the face;
The burst, the glow, the animating strife,
The thoughts and passions stirring into life;