It should within no other things contain
But what are useful, necessary, plain ;
Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure,
The needless pomp of gaudy furniture;
A little garden grateful to the eye,
And a cool rivulet run murmuring by,
On whose delicious banks a stately row
Of shady limes or sycamores should grow,
At th' end of which a silent study placed
Should be with all the noblest authors graced―
Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines
Immortal wit and solid learning shines;
Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too,
Who all the turns of love's soft passion

knew:

He that with judgment reads his charming lines,

In which strong art with stronger nature joins,

Must grant his fancy does the best excel,
His thoughts so tender and expressed so
well;

With all those moderns, men of steady sense,
Esteemed for learning and for eloquence.
In some of these, as fancy should advise,
I'd always take my morning exercise;

For sure no minutes bring us more con

tent

Than those in pleasing useful studies spent.

I'd have a clear and competent estate,
That I might live genteelly, but not great;
As much as I could moderately spend-
A little more, sometimes t' oblige a friend.
Nor should the sons of poverty repine
Too much at fortune: they should taste of
mine;

And all that objects of true pity were
Should be relieved with what my wants could

spare;

For that our Maker has too largely given Should be returned in gratitude to Heaven.

my

A frugal plenty should table spread,
With healthy, not luxurious, dishes spread—
Enough to satisfy, and something more
To feed the stranger and the neighboring

The rolls of fame I will not now explore, Nor need I here describe in learned lay

less flake.

"Yet such the destiny of all on earthSo flourishes and fades majestic Man :

Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth,

And fostering gales a while the nursling fan.

Oh, smile, ye heavens serene! ye mildews

wan,

Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime,

Nor lessen of his life the little span !

Borne on the swift though silent wings of Time,

Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.

"And be it so. Let those deplore their

doom

Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn;

But lofty souls who look beyond the tomb

Can smile at fate and wonder how they

mourn.

Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?

Is yonder wave the Sun's eternal bed? Soon shall the Orient with new lustre burn,

And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,

Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead.

"Shall I be left forgotten in the dust

When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive?

No! Heaven's immortal springs shall yet arrive,

And man's majestic beauty bloom again, Bright through the eternal year of Love's triumphant reign."

This truth sublime his simple sire had taught:

In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew:

No subtle or superfluous lore he sought, Nor ever wished his Edwin to pursue. "Let man's own sphere," said he, "confine his view;

Be man's peculiar work his sole delight." And much and oft he warned him to eschew

Falsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right,

By pleasure unseduced, unawed by lawless might.

"And from the prayer of Want and plaint of Woe,

Oh, never, never turn away thine ear!
Forlorn in this bleak wilderness below,
Ah! what were man should Heaven refuse
to hear?

To others do-the law is not severe-
What to thyself thou wishest to be done;
Forgive thy foes and love thy parents
dear,

And friends and native land; nor those alone:

Bid him, though doomed to perish, hope to live?

Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive

With disappointment, penury and pain?

thine own.

"Nor be thy generous indignation checked, Nor checked the tender tear to Misery given;

From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect,

This soften and refine the soul for heaven, But dreadful is their doom whom doubt has driven

To censure Fate and pious Hope forego: Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning

riven,

Perfection, beauty, life, they never know, But frown on all that pass, a monument of

woe.

"Shall he whose birth, maturity and age Scarce fill the circle of one summer day, Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and

rage,

Exclaim that Nature hastens to decay
If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,
If but a momentary shower descend?

Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay

Which bade the series of events extend Wide through unnumbered worlds and ages without end?

"One part-one little part-we dimly scan Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream,

Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan If but that little part incongruous seem. Nor is that part perhaps what mortals. deem :

Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. Oh, then, renounce that impious self-esteem That aims to trace the secrets of the skies; For thou art but of dust be humble and be wise.

"Is there a heart that music cannot melt? Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn!

Is there who ne'er those mystic transports felt

Of solitude and melancholy born?
He needs not woo the Muse: he is her scorn.
The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine,
Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page, or

mourn

And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine, Sneak with the scoundrel fox or grunt with glutton swine.'

For Edwin, Fate a nobler doom had planned;

Song was his favorite and first pursuit; The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand,

And languished to his breath the plaintive flute.

His infant Muse, though artless, was not

mute;

Of elegance as yet he took no care,

For this of time and culture is the fruit;

And Edwin gained at last this fruit so rare, As in some future verse I purpose to declare.

Of chance or change oh let not man complain,

Else shall he never, never cease to wail, For, from the imperial dome to where the swain

Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale, All feel the assault of Fortune's fickle gale: Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doomed ;

Earthquakes have raised to heaven the humble vale,

And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entombed,

And where the Atlantic rolls wide continents have bloomed.

But sure to foreign climes we need not

range,

Nor search the ancient records of our race,
To learn the dire effects of time and change,
Which in ourselves, alas! we daily trace.
Yet at the darkened eye, the withered face
Or hoary hair, I never will repine;
But spare, O Time, whate'er of mental

grace,

Of candor, love or sympathy divine, Whate'er of fancy's ray or friendship's flame,

is mine.

"Perish the lore that deadens young desire!"

Is the soft tenor of my song no more. Edwin, though loved of Heaven, must not aspire

To bliss which mortals never knew before. On trembling wings let youthful fancy soar, Nor always haunt the sunny realms of joy, But now and then the shades of life explore, Though many a sound and sight of woe

annoy,

And many a qualm of care his rising hopes destroy.

Vigor from toil, from trouble patience, grows;

The weakly blossom, warm in summer bower,

Some tints of transient beauty may disclose,

But soon it withers in the chilling hour. Mark yonder oaks! Superior to the power Of all the warring winds of heaven they rise.

And from the stormy promontory tower And toss their giant arms amid the skies, While each assailing blast increase of strength supplies.