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I wish but what I have at will,
I wander not to seek for more ;
In greatest storms I sit on shore,
I feign not love where most I hate;
I wait not at the mighty's gate; I scorn no poor, I fear no richI feel no want, nor have too much. Some weigh their pleasures by their lust,
Their wisdom by their rage of will ;
A cloaked craft their store of skill;
THE SQUIRE'S PEW.
By JANE TAYLOR.
Shoots through the yellow frame,
And yields the fringe a gem. The window's gothic framework falls, In oblique shadow on the walls. And since those trappings first were new,
How many a cloudless day
Has come, and pass'd away;
That cunning hand must be
Acorn and fleur-de-lis;
In days of yore (as now we call),
When the first James was king,
Hither his train did bring,
With broider'd suit and buckled shoe. - On damask cushions, set in fringe,
All rev'rently they knelt,
In ancient English spelt,
The sunbeam long and lone
Of their inscription-stone;
He and his lady fair,
In attitude of prayer;
The numerous offspring bend,
As though they did intend
And generations new,
Have fill'd the stately pew,
With his gay train appear,
A season every year,
And fill the seat with belle and beau
Perchance all thoughtless as they tread
The hollow-sounding floor
Which shall, as heretofore,
The feather'd hearse and sable train
In all its wonted state,
And stand before the gate.
Stop, mortal! Here thy brother lies,
The poet of the poor,
The meadow, and the moor;
The tyrant, and the slave,
The palace--and the grave!
And is thy brother blamed ?
He no exemption claim'd.
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,
He fear'd to scorn or bate;
The equal of the great.
The poor man's little more ;
From plunder'd labour's store,
A heart to feel and dare-
Who drew them as they are.
TO A NEW VISITANT, ON A SEPTEMBER EVENING.
By J. H. WIFFEN.
“One that from some unknown sphere
Hints of home still left behind;
The Blank Leaf.
WELCOME, dear child, with all a father's blessing
To thy new sphere of motion, light, and life ! After the long suspense, the fear distressing
Love's strong subduing strife. Seal'd with the smile of Him who made the morning,
Though to the matron charge of Eve consign'd, Com'st thou, my radiant babe, the mystic dawning,
Of one more deathless mind.
'Tis a strange world, they say, and full of trouble,
Wherein thy destin'd course is to be run : Where joy is deem'd a shadow, peace a bubble,
And true bliss known to none.
Yet to high destinies it leads,--to natures
Glorious, and pure, and beautiful, and mild, Shapes all impassive to decay, with features
Lovelier than thine, fair child !
To wing'd Beatitudes, for ever tending,
Rank above rank, to the bright source of bliss, And, in ecstatic vision tranced, still blending,
Their grateful love with His.
Then, if thou'rt launch'd in this benign direction,
We will not sorrow that thy porch is past : Come, many a picture waits thy young inspection,
Each lovelier than the last.
What shall it be? on Earth, in Air, in Ocean,
A thousand things are sparkling to excite
Heiress of rich delight.
On thy fair brow, with Galileo soar ?
Be by more charmed lore?
Shall sky-taught Painting, with her ardent feeling,
Her rainbow pencil to thy hand commit? Or shall the quiver'd spells be thine, revealing
The polish'd shafts of Wit ?
Or to thy fascinated eye, her mirror
Shall the witch Poesy delight to turn,
Glanced from her magic urn ?
Heed her not, darling ! she will smile benignly,
So she may win thy inexperienced ear; But the fond tales she warbles so divinely
Will cost thee many a tear.
She has a castle, where in death-like slumbers,
Full of wild dreams, she casts ber slaves, some break After long hurt, their golden chains; but numbers
Never with sense awake.