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This man is freed from servile hands,
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall :
And having nothing, yet hath all.
BY HILDEBRAND JACOB, ESQ.
I Envy not the mighty great,
Far happier the shepherd-swain,
No curs'd ambition breaks his rest,
BY THE REV. SANUEL WESLEY.
What man in his wits, had not rather be poor,
Than for lucre his freedom to give ? Ever busy the means of his life to secure,
And so ever neglecting to live?
Environ'd from morning to night in a crowd,
Not a moment unbent, or alone :
And at every one's call but his own :
Still repining and longing for quiet each hour,
Yet studiously flying it still ;
But accurst with his wanting the will.
For a year must be past, or a day must be come,
Before he has leisure to rest :
And then will have time to be blest.
But his gains, more bewitching the more they increase,
Only swell the desire of his eye :
Let not even mine enemy die.
BY THE REV. THOMAS FITZGERALD.
No glory I covet, no riches I want,
Ambition is nothing to me ;
Is a mind independent and free.
With passions unruffled, untainted with pride,
By reason my life let me square ;
And the rest are but folly and care.
The blessings which Providence freely has lent,
I'll justly and gratefully prize;
Shall make me both healthful and wise.
In the pleasures the great man's possessions display,
Unenvied I'll challenge my part;
Contributes to gladden my heart.
How vainly, through infinite trouble and strife,
The many their labours employ! Since all that is truly delightful in life,
Is what all, if they please, may enjoy.
Some hoist up Fortune to the skies,
Others debase her to a bubble :
Nor think the changeling worth my trouble.
If at my door she chance to light,
I civilly my guest receive :
Nor murmur when she takes her leave.
Though prosperous gales my canvas crowd,
Though smooth the waves, serene the sky, I trust not calms; they storms forebode,
And speak th' approaching tempest nigh.
Then, Virtue, to the helm repair,
Thou, Innocence, shalt guide the oar;
My bark, thus man'd, shall gain the shore.
BY JAMES SHIRLEY,*
The glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things ;
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ;
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
* These fine moral stanzas were originally intended for a solemn funeral song in - The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses. It is said to have been a favourite song with King Charles II. Percy, i. 270. The laurel withers on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds,
All heads must come
To the cold tomb :
BY DR. DALTONY
Nor on beds of fading flowers,
Shedding soon their gaudy pride ;
Will true pleasure long reside.
On awful Virtue's hill sublime,
Enthroned sits th' immortal fair ;
The steps are peril, toil, and care.
So from the first did Jove ordain,
[Coincident with a passage in Psalm cxii. See new version.
• The sweet remembrance of the jast
Shall flourish, when he sleeps in dust.')
+ In the Masque of “ Comus.'-It seems to be imitated from a passage in the 17th book of · Tasso's Jernsalem.'