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ENJOY the present smiling hour,

And put it out of Fortune's pow'r:

The tide of business, like the running stream,

Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,

A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow,

And always in extreme.

Now with a noiseless gentle course
It keeps within the middle bed;
Anon it lifts aloft the head,

And bears down all before it with impetuous force;

And trunks of trees come rolling down; Sheep and their folds together drown: Both house and homestead into seas are

borne ;

And rocks are from their old foundations

torn;

And woods, made thin with winds, their scattered honours mourn.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He, who can call to-day his own:
He who, secure within, can say,

To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Be fair or foul, or rain or shine,

The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.

Not Heaven itself upon the past has power; But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

Fortune, that with malicious joy

Does man, her slave, oppress,

Proud of her office to destroy,

Is seldom pleased to bless;
Still various, and unconstant still,
But with an inclination to be ill,

Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
And makes a lottery of life.

I can enjoy her while she's kind;
But when she dances in the wind,

And shakes her wings, and will not stay,
I puff the prostitute away:

The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned:

Content with poverty, my soul I arm;
And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

What is't to me,

Who never sail in her unfaithful sea,

If storms arise, and clouds grow black;

If the mast split, and threaten wrack? Then let the greedy merchant fear

For his ill-gotten gain;

And pray to gods that will not hear, While the debating winds and billows bear His wealth into the main. For me, secure from Fortune's blows, Secure of what I cannot lose, In my small pinnace I can sail, Contemning all the blustering roar;

And running with a merry gale, With friendly stars my safety seek Within some little winding creek, And see the storm, ashore.

THE word of the Lord by night

To the watching Pilgrims came, As they sat by the seaside,

And filled their hearts with flame.

God said, I am tired of kings,

I suffer them no more;
Up to my ear the morning brings
The outrage of the poor.

Think ye I made this ball

A field of havoc and war,

Where tyrants great and tyrants small
Might harry the weak and poor?

My angel, his name is Freedom,—
Choose him to be your king;
He shall cut pathways east and west,
And fend you with his wing.

Lo! I uncover the land

Which I hid of old time in the West, As the sculptor uncovers the statue When he has wrought his best;

I show Columbia, of the rocks
Which dip their foot in the seas,
And soar to the air-borne flocks

Of clouds, and the boreal fleece.

I will divide my goods;

Call in the wretch and slave: None shall rule but the humble, And none but Toil shall have.

I will have never a noble,

No lineage counted great; Fishers and choppers and ploughmen Shall constitute a State.

Go! cut down trees in the forest, And trim the straightest boughs;

Cut down trees in the forest,

And build me a wooden house.

Call the people together,

The young men and the sires,
The digger in the harvest field,
Hireling, and him that hires;

And here in a pine state-house
They shall choose men to rule

In every needful faculty,

In church, and state, and school.

Lo, now! if these poor men

Can govern the land and sea, And make just laws below the sun As planets faithful be.

And ye shall succour men;

'Tis nobleness to serve; Help them who can not help again: Beware from right to swerve.

I break your bonds and masterships, And I unchain the slave.

Free be his heart and hand henceforth
As wind and wandering wave.

I cause from every creature
His proper good to flow:
As much as he is and doeth,

So much he shall bestow.

But, laying hands on another

To coin his labour and sweat, He goes in pawn to his victim

For eternal years in debt.

To-day unbind the captive,

So only are ye unbound;
Lift up a people from the dust,
Trump of their rescue, sound!
Pay ransom to the owner,

And fill the bag to the brim.
Who is the owner? The slave is owner,
And ever was. Pay him!

O North! give him beauty for rags.
And honour, O South! for his shame;
Nevada! coin thy golden crags
With Freedom's image and name.

Up! and the dusky race

That sat in darkness long,-
Be swift their feet as antelopes,
And as behemoth strong.

Come, East and West and North,
By races, as snow-flakes,
And carry my purpose forth,
Which neither halts nor shakes!

My will fulfilled shall be,
For, in daylight or in dark,
My thunderbolt has eyes to see
way

His

home to the mark.

See also ROBERT FERGUSON

HERE lies our good Edmund,* whose genius was such

We scarcely can praise it, or blame it, too much;

Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind:

Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat

To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;

Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,

And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;

Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.

In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed, or in place, sir,

To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Here lies David Garrick. Describe me who

can

An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, confessed without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line.
Yet with talents like these, and an excellent
heart,

The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplastered with rouge his own natural red;
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turned and he varied full ten times a day:

• Burke.

Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick,

If they were not his own by finessing and trick. He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what

came,

And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
'Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease,
Who peppered the highest, was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls, so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got
and you gave!

How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised,

While he was be-Rosciused, and you were bepraised!

But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel and mix with the skies:
Those poets who owe their best fame to his

skill,

Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will, Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above!

Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,

He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland.
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart.
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judged without skill, he was still
hard of hearing;

When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,

He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.

NEAR Yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden-flower grows wild;

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear
And passing rich with forty pounds a-year;
Remote from towns, he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change,
his place.

Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train; He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain:

The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields

were won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for
all;

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the
skies,

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed, where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,

The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to
raise,

And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double
sway;

And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown to share the good
man's smile;

His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were

There's my countryman Higgins-oh! let him alone,

For making a blunder, or picking a bone.
But hang it!-to poets who seldom can eat
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt,
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a
shirt.

While thus I debated, in reverie centred,
An acquaintance-a friend as he called himself

-entered;

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, And he smiled as he looked at the venison and

me.

'What have we got here?-Why this is good eating!

Your own I suppose-or is it in waiting?' 'Why, whose should it be?' cried I with a flounce;

'I get these things often'-but that was a bounce:

'Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,

Are pleased to be kind-but I hate ostentation.'

If that be the case then,' cried he, very gay, 'I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; No words-I insist on't-precisely at three; We'll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be there;

My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare.

And now that I think on't, as I am a sinner! We wanted this venison to make out the dinner. What say you-a pasty? It shall, and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter! this venison with me to Mile

end;

No stirring-I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!'

Thus, snatching his hat, he brushed off like the wind,

And the porter and eatables followed behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And nobody with me at sea but myself,-' Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,

Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,

Were things that I never disliked in my life, Though clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.

So next day, in due splendour to make my approach,

I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine

(A chair-lumbered closet just twelve feet by nine),

My friend made me welcome, but struck me quite dumb

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would

not come:

"For I knew it,' he cried: 'both eternally fail; The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale.

But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party

With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew; They're both of them merry, and authors like

you;

The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge;

Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge.'

While thus he described them by trade and by

name,

They entered, and dinner was served as they 80

came.

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen; At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen; At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot;

In the middle a place where the pasty-was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian; So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vexed me most was that dScottish rogue,

-d

With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue,

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