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From Thee departing, they are lost and rove
At random, without honour, hope, or peace.
From Thee is all that soothes the life of man-
His high endeavour, and his glad success,
His strength to suffer, and his will to serve.
But oh! thou bounteous Giver of all good,
Thou art of all Thy gifts, thyself the crown!
Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor,
And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.

PER.

KNOWLEDGE AND WISDOM.
BY COWPER.

MEDITATION
May think down hours to moments. Here the

heart May give a useful lesson to the head, And Learning wiser grow without his books. Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass, (The mere materials with which Wisdom builds) Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud, that he has learned so much; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. Books are not seldom talismans and spells, By which the magic art of shrewder wits Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled. Some to the fascination of a name Surrender judgment hoodwinked. Some the style Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds

Of error leads them, by a tune entranc'd.
While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear
The insupportable fatigue of thought,
And swallowing therefore without pause or choice
The total grist unsifted, husks and all.

CONVERSATION.
THE MISERIES OF BASHFULNESS.

BY COWPER.
I PITY bashful men who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn and undeserv'd disdain,
And bear the marks upon a blushing face
Of needless shame and self-imposed disgrace.
Our sensibilities are so acute,
The fear of being silent makes us mute.
We sometimes think we could a speech produce
Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose.
But being tied, it lies upon the lip,
Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip:
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,
Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.
The cause perhaps inquiry may descry,
Self-searching with an introverted eye,
Conceal'd within an unsuspected part,
The vainest corner of our own vain heart:
For ever aiming at the world's esteem,
Our self-importance ruins its own scheme;
In other eyes our talents rarely shown,
Become at length so splendid in our own
We dare not risk them into public view,
Lest they miscarry of what seems their due.
True modesty is a discerning grace,
And only blushes in the proper place;

But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear
Where 'tis a shame to be ashamed to appear;
Humility the parent of the first,
The last by vanity produced and nursed.

A COMPARISON.

BY COWPER. The lapse of time and rivers is the same, Both speed their journey with a restless stream; The silent pace with which they steal away No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay; Alike irrevocable both when past, And a wide ocean swallows both at last. Though each resemble each in ev'ry part, A diff'rence strikes at length the musing heart; Streams never flow in vain; where streams abound How laughs the land, with various plenty crowned; But time, that should enrich the nobler mind; Neglected, leaves a dreary waste behind.

THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

COWPER.
Toll for the brave !

The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave

Fast by their native shore !
Eight hundred of the brave,

Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,

And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,

With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave !

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea fight is fought;

His work of glory done. It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock!
She sprang no fatal leak;

She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath;

His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,

With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with the cup

The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;
And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

THE GLOWWORM.

By CowPER.
BENEATH the hedge, or near the stream

A worm is known to stray;
That shows by night a lurid beam,

Which disappears by day.
Disputes have been, and still prevail,

From whence his rays proceed,
Some give that honour to his tail,

And others to his head.
But this is sure, the hand of might

That kindles up the skies,
Gives him a modicum of light,

Proportioned to his size.
Perhaps indulgent nature meant,

By such a lamp bestowed,
To bid the traveller, as he went,

Be careful where he trod.

HUMAN FRAILTY.

BY COWPER.
WEAK and irresolute is man;

The purpose of to-day,
Woven with pains into his plan,

To-morrow rends away.
The bow well bent, and smart the spring,

Vice seems already slain;
But passion rudely snaps the string,

And it revives again.

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