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Dame Nature doubtless has designed
A man the monarch of his mind.

Now taste and try this temper, sirs,

Mood it and brood it in your breast; Or, if ye ween for worldly stirs

That man does right to mar his rest, *Let me be deft and debonair, I am content, I do not care!

John Byrom (1692–1763]

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RECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach

Of adverse Fortune's power;
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep

Along the treacherous shore.

He that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,

Imbittering all his state.

The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower

Comes heaviest to the ground;
The bolts, that spare the mountain's side,
His cloud-capped eminence divide,

And spread the ruin round.

The well-informed philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,

* For the original of this poem see page 3579.

And hopes, in spite of pain;
If Winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth,

And Nature laughs again.

What if thine heaven be overcast?
The dark appearance will not last;

Expect a brighter sky.
The God, that strings the silver bow,
Awakes sometimes the Muses too,

And lays his arrows by.

If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy strength be seen;
But O! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvas in.

After Horace, by William Cowper (1731–1800]


CONFIDE ye aye in Providence,

For Providence is kind:
An' bear ye a' life's changes

Wi' a calm an' tranquil mind.
Though pressed and hemmed on every side,
Ha'e faith, an' ye'll win through;
For ilka blade o' grass

Keeps its ain drap o' dew.

Gin reft frae friends, or crossed in love,

As whiles nae doubt ye've been, Grief lies deep-hidden in your heart,

Or tears flow frae your e'en, Believe it for the best, and trow There's good in store for you; For ilka blade o' grass

Keeps its ain drap o' dew.

In lang, lang days o'simmer,

When the clear and cloudless sky
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain

To nature, parched and dry,
The genial night, with balmy breath,
Gars verdure spring anew,
An' ilka blade o' grass

Keeps its ain drap o' dew.
Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine

We should feel owre proud an' hie,
An' in our pride forget to wipe

The tear frae poortith's e'e,
Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come,
We ken na whence nor hoo;
But ilka blade o' grass
Keeps its ain drap o' dew.

James Ballantine (1808–1877)

Why, why repine, my pensive friend,

At pleasures slipped away?
Some the stern Fates will never lend,

And all refuse to stay.
I see the rainbow in the sky,

The dew upon the grass;
I see them, and I ask not why

They glimmer or they pass.
With folded arms I linger not

To call them back; 'twere vain:
In this, or in some other spot,
I know they'll shine again.

Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864)

WHICHEVER way the wind doth blow,
Some heart is glad to have it so;
Then blow it east or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.

My little craft sails not alone:
A thousand fleets from every zone
Are out upon a thousand seas;
And what for me were favoring breeze
Might dash another, with the shock
Of doom, upon some hidden rock.

And so I do not care to pray
For winds to waft me on my way,
But leave it to a Higher Will
To stay or speed me; trusting still
That all is well, and sure that He
Who launched my bark will sail with me
Through storm and calm, and will not fail,
Whatever breezes may prevail,
To land me, every peril past,
Within his sheltering haven at last.

Then, whatsoever wind doth blow,
My heart is glad to have it so;
And blow it east or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.

Caroline Atwater Mason (1853–


Who drives the horses of the sun
Shall lord it but a day;
Better the lowly deed were done,
And kept the humble way.

The rust will find the sword of fame,
The dust will hide the crown;
Ay, none shall nail so high his name
Time will not tear it down.

The happiest heart that ever beat
Was in some quiet breast
That found the common daylight sweet,
And left to Heaven the rest.

John Vance Cheney (1848–

GOOD-BYE, proud world! I'm going home:
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam;
But now, proud world! I'm going home.
Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face;
To Grandeur with his wise grimace;
To upstart Wealth's averted eye;
To supple Office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street;
To frozen hearts and hasting feet;
To those who go, and those who come;
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home.
I am going to my own hearth-stone,
Bosomed in yon green hills alone, -
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod-
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.
O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all, in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet?

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882)

THE wisdom of the world said unto me:

Go forth and run, the race is to the brave; Perchance some honor tarrieth for thee !"

“As tarrieth," I said, "for sure, the grave."

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