Of pictures, I should like to own
Titians and Raphaels three or four -
I love so much their style and tone
One Turner, and no more,

(A landscape-foreground golden dirt-
The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few, some fifty score
For daily use, and bound for wear;

The rest upon an upper floor ;

Some little luxury there
Of red morocco's gilded gleam,
And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems, - such things as these,
Which others often show for pride,

I value for their power to please,

And selfish churls deride;

One Stradivarius, I confess,
Two meerschaums, I would fain possess.

I can go nowhere but I meet
With malcontents and mutineers,
As if in life was nothing sweet,

And we must blessings reap in tears.

O senseless man! that murmurs still For happiness, and does not know, Even though he might enjoy his will, What he would have to make him so.

Is it true happiness to be

By undiscerning Fortune placed In the most eminent degree,

Where few arrive, and none stand fast?

Titles and wealth are Fortune's toils, Wherewith the vain themselves insnare: The great are proud of borrowed spoils, The miser's plenty breeds his care.

The one supinely yawns at rest,
The other eternally doth toil;
Each of them equally a beast,

A pampered horse, or laboring moil :

The titulado's oft disgraced

By public hate or private frown, And he whose hand the creature raised Has yet a foot to kick him down.

The drudge who would all get, all save,
Like a brute beast, both feeds and lies;
Prone to the earth, he digs his grave,
And in the very labor dies.

Excess of ill-got, ill-kept pelf

Does only death and danger breed; Whilst one rich worldling starves himself With what would thousand others feed.

By which we see that wealth and power, Although they make men rich and great, The sweets of life do often sour,

And gull ambition with a cheat.

Nor is he happier than these,
Who, in a moderate estate,
Where he might safely live at ease,
Has lusts that are immoderate.

For he, by those desires misled,
Quits his own vine's securing shade,
To expose his naked, empty head
To all the storms man's peace invade.
Nor is he happy who is trim,

Tricked up in favors of the fair, Mirrors, with every breath made dim,

Birds, caught in every wanton snare.

To miss one favor which their neighbors find ;)
Yet far was he from Stoic pride removed;
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved.
I marked his action, when his infant died,
And his old neighbor for offense was tried ;
The still tears, stealing down that furrowed
cheek,

Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar pride
Who in their base contempt the great deride;
Ner pride in learning, though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;
Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few ;-
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;

though clear,

To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot : Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man or woman, yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?

The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied

In Liberty's defense, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask,

Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

THE PEASANT.

FROM "THE PARISH REGISTER."

MILTON.

A NOBLE peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestioned and his soul serene.
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid;
At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed;
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved;
To bliss domestic he his heart resigned,
And with the firmest had the fondest mind;
Were others joyful, he looked smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distressed;
(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind

In sturdy boys to virtuous labors trained;
Pride in the power that guards his country's
coast,

And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied,
In fact, a noble passion misnamed pride.

GEORGE CRABBE.

THE HAPPY MAN.

FROM "THE WINTER WALK AT NOON."

He is the happy man whose life even now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; 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 fruit

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 honors, 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.
Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed,
And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams
Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird
That flutters least is longest on the wing.

WILLIAM COWPER.