Or 'midst the darksome wonders
Which earth's vast caves conceal,
Where subterraneous thunders
The miner's path reveal:
Where, bright in matchless lustre,
The lithal flowers unfold,
And 'midst the beauteous cluster,
Beams efflorescent gold:

In every varied station,
Whate'er my fate may be,
My hope, my exultation,

Is still to follow thee !-
When age with sickness blended,
Shall check the gay career,
And death, though long suspended,
Begins to hover near,

Then oft' in visions fleeting,
May thy fair form be nigh,
And still thy votary greeting,
Receive his parting sigh;

And tell a joyful story

Of some new world to come,
Where kindred souls, in glory,

May call the wanderer home.

DR. CLARKE.

No man despises honour, but he that despairs of it.

THE language of reason unaccompanied by kindness will often fail of making an impression; it has no effect on the understanding, because it touches not the heart. The language of kindness, unassociated with reason, will frequently be unable to persuade; because, though it may gain upon the affections, it wants that which is necessary to convince the judgment; but let reason and kindness be united in a discourse, and seldom will even pride or prejudice find it easy to resist.

GISBORNE.

WHEN from the heart where sorrow sits
Its dusky shadows mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye:
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink,
My thoughts their dungeon know too well :
Back to my breast, the wanderers shrink,

And droop within their silent cell.

BYRON.

THE dicta of a man of genius and sincerity are invaluable; the arguments of a wit only shine to lead astray: we may have been exhilarated for a moment, but we quit them abased and comfortless, as if nothing was fixed, and as if wisdom and truth were but empty names.

EGERTON BRYDGES.

As streams that run o'er golden mines,
With modest murmur glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!

So, veil'd beneath a simple guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,

And that which charm'd all other eyes,
Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!

MOORE.

WEALTH is a relative thing. The positively rich are not those who have the largest possessions, but those who have the fewest vain or selfish desires, whose resources are in their own minds, and require not the stimulus of spending money to rouse them to enjoy

ment.

I CARE not, Fortune, what you me deny,
You cannot rob me of free nature's grace ;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,

Through which Aurora shows her bright'ning face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace

The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve; Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,

And I their toys to the great children leave : Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.

THOMSON.

RIDICULE is the weapon of all others most feared by enthusiasts of every description, and which, from its predominance over such minds, often checks what is absurd, and often smothers that which is noble.

WALTER SCOTT.

NOTHING is a misery

Unless our weakness apprehend it so :
We cannot be more faithful to ourselves
In any thing that's manly, than to make
Ill fortune as contemptible to us

As it makes us to others.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

A MAN, of great talents, who is prevented from being useful to society by poverty or injustice, is like an eagle caught in a mole-trap. He expands his wings, and strains his neck only to injure himself by useless flutterings to escape from his trammels, and wastes his best energies in vainly struggling with misfortune.

HEADSTRONG, determined in his own career,
He thought reproof unjust, and truth severe.
The soul's disease was to its crisis come,
He first abused, and then abjured his home;
And when he chose a vagabond to be,
He made his shame his glory, "I'll be free."

DRYDEN.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day"!-what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears.
When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And as Youth counts the shining links
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last!
Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said "Were he ordain'd to run,
"His long career of life again,

"He would do all that he had done!"
Ah! 'tis not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birth-days speaks to me;
Far otherwise-of time it tells
Lavished unwisely, carelessly-
Of counsel mock'd, of talents made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines-
Of nursing many a wrong desire,
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire

That cross'd my path-way for his star!
All this it tells: and could I trace
'Th' imperfect picture o'er again,