I see them walking in an air of glory,

Whose light doth trample on my days;

My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility!

High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have showed them me
To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous death; the jewel of the just,

Shining nowhere but in the dark;

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,

At first sight, if the bird be flown;

But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams

Call to the soul when man doth sleep,

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,

And into glory peep.

If a star were confined into a tomb,

Her captive flames must needs burn there;

But when the hand that locked her up gives room,

She'll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all

Created glories under Thee,

Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall

Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My pérspective still as they pass;

Or else remove me hence unto that hill,

Where I shall need no glass.

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Henry Vaughan.

PART THE THIRD.

CXXXV

ODE ON SOLITUDE.

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

CXXXVI

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Alexander Pope.

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY. 1720.

All travellers at first incline
Where'er they see the fairest sign;
And, if they find the chambers neat,
And like the liquor and the meat,

Will call again, and recommend

The Angel-inn to every friend.

What though the painting grows decayed,
The house will never lose its trade:

Nay, though the treacherous tapster Thomas
Hangs a new Angel two docrs from us,
As fine as daubers' hands can make it,
In hopes that strangers may mistake it,
We think it both a shame and sin
To quit the true old Angel-inn.

Now this is Stella's case in fact,
An angel's face a little cracked:
(Could poets or could painters fix
How angels look at thirty-six:)
This drew us in at first to find
In such a form an angel's mind;
And every virtue now supplies
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.
See at her levee crowding swains,
Whom Stella freely entertains

With breeding, humour, wit, and sense;

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And, had her stock been less, no doubt

She must have long ago run out.

Then who can think we'll quit the place,

When Doll hangs out a newer face?

Or stop and light at Chloe's head,

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With scraps and leavings to be fed?
Then, Chloe, still go on to prate
Of thirty-six and thirty-eight;
Pursue your trade of scandal-picking,
Your hints that Stella is no chicken;

M

40

Your inuendos, when you tell us

That Stella loves to talk with fellows;

And let me warn you to believe

A truth, for which your soul should grieve;

That, should you live to see the day

45

When Stella's locks must all be grey,

When age must print a furrowed trace

On every feature of her face;

Though you, and all your senseless tribe,
Could art, or time, or nature bribe,

50

To make you look like Beauty's Queen,
And hold for ever at fifteen;

No bloom of youth can ever blind
The cracks and wrinkles of your mind:
All men of sense will pass your door,
And crowd to Stella's at fourscore.

Jonathan Swift.

55

CXXXVII

ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA.

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime
Barren of every glorious theme,

In distant lands now waits a better time,
Producing subjects worthy fame.

In happy climes, where from the genial sun
And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true.

In happy climes, the seat of innocence,
Where nature guides, and virtue rules,

Where men shall not impose for truth and sense
The pedantry of courts and schools.

There shall be sung another Golden Age,
The rise of empire and of arts,

The good and great inspiring epic rage,
The wisest heads and noblest hearts:

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;
Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame did animate her clay,
By future poets shall be sung.

Westward the course of empire take its way;
The four first acts already past,

A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
Time's noblest offspring is the last.

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George Berkeley.

CXXXVIII

THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE.

As, by some tyrant's stern command,

A wretch forsakes his native land,
In foreign climes condemned to roam,
An endless exile from his home;
Pensive he treads the destined way;
And dreads to go; nor dares to stay;
Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow
He stops, and turns his eyes below;
There, melting at the well-known view,
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu:
So I, thus doomed from thee to part,
Gay Queen of fancy and of art,
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind,
Oft stop, and often look behind.

Companion of my tender age,
Serenely gay, and sweetly sage,
How blithsome were we wont to rove
By verdant hill, or shady grove,

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