I WILL TRUST IN GOD.

"Is fortune's fickle Luna waning?

E'en let her gang,

Beneath what light she has remaining,
Let's sing our sang."-Burns.

"Beware of desperate steps,-the darkest day,

Live till to-morrow, will have passed away."-Cowper. "Thou seest, we are not all alone, unhappy;

This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in."-Shakespeare.

"For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich;
And as the sun shines through the darkest cloud,
So honour peereth in the meanest habit.
What, is the jay more precious than the lark,
Because his feathers are more beautiful?
Or is the adder better than the eel,
Because his painted skin contents the eye?
O no, good Kate, neither art thou the worse
For this poor furniture and mean array."

66

Taming of the Shrew," Shakespeare.

"Were I as tall as reach the pole,

Or grasp the ocean at a span,

I'd still be measured by my soul

The mind's the standard of the man."-Pope.

"HY does my soul o'er fancied ills deplore,

And peace like Evil run when none pursues?

Why sinks my heart as if a demon bore

My reason captive, without power to choose?

Hence! idle phantasies, and phantom ills!

And let my reason to herself be true,—
Believing Fate o'erleaps men's dearest wills,
As gusty breezes dry the moistening dew.

What are the ills which darken all I view,
And tinge with melancholy's jaundiced eye?
As if a cancer did my health pursue,

Or wolfish Famine at my door did lie.

What though no gilded carriage decks my court,
Or stabled hunters neigh within my stall;
Nor banker's cheque-book lie to purchase sport,
Still, with my God, and health, I've more than all !

What 'vails the gewgaws of poor human pride,-
Though gold and silver shower like rain around?
If poverty of mind the motives guide,

They only fall upon a barren ground.
The richest jewel of mankind's the soul,

A gem unseen, which wealth can never buy;
No Koh-i-noor, at king's or queen's control,
Though dark on earth, it sparkles in the sky.
It cleaves yon starry firmament, and shines,
And gives its lustre to its Maker there,
And sparkles brightest when the body pines,
Upheld by Faith, Humility, and Prayer.
Why should I fret, although my lot is poor?
Or, senseless, envy the decrees of Fate?
The prince and peasant play their parts, I'm sure—
It is the mind that makes the actor great.

If God in poverty has set my part,

To play it well should be my constant care-
A peasant still can have a prince's heart
Although he homely in a cottage fare.

Then, let my station and position shine!

And cultivate the mind, man's noblest part;
What though I'm poor! the world itself is mine!
For man gives land, but God bequeaths the heart.
Though hodden gray, and elbow-worn my coat,
I still can view and love the ambient sky;
Even Egypt's Queen,1 although on gold afloat,
Could claim no more, perhaps far less, than I.
The golden sun,-the silver moon, and air,

Are mine by birth, and heired by all mankind;
But thankless wealth, or vice can never share
The settled calm of a contented mind.

Many a lord, to sin, still lives a slave,

And many a prince2 hath but a beggar's soul;
Full many a captain fills a coward's grave,

While many a peasant could a State control.

1 When Mark Antony visited Cleopatra, the voluptuous Queen of Egypt, the awning of her galley was covered with gold.

2 "I have seen servants upon horses, and princes walking as servants upon the earth."--Ecclesiastes x.

Why should I fret, and at my lot repine,

When slaves around,—and to themselves, I see?
Ah! many a wretch would prize a life like mine,
Whose soul is chained to Sin and Misery!

We need not cross the wide Atlantic's wave,
Where swarthy sons of Ethiopia pine,-
(From freedom torn to live the Christian's slave),
To tell of natures more debased than mine.

Yea! but for God, I too had borne the stripe,

The brand and curse, the blood-stained mark of slave ;
Nay, but for Him, I yet might feel the gripe
Of slavish passion ere I reach the grave.

Why should I fret!-when yon same cheerful sun
For me, is shining with his genial rays,

And prattling children, when my work is done.
Teach in simplicity their Maker's praise?

Why should I fret! when but a few brief years
Are 'lotted merely for probative life?

When only after death true life appears,

Then why, great God! should man waste time in strife?

But let the wealthy and the worldly great
Enjoy the riches that their Maker's given;

Yet, ah! too dearly bought,-if cruel fate

Make these the juggling bribe to lose a heaven.

Sweet is the crust from blest Contentment's hand,
And cool the drink from Virtue's sober bowl,
Sound is the sleep that rests on Faith's command,
And O! how mighty is the humble soul !
Then petty cares farewell, and farewell strife,
And welcome Hope until my latest breath;
I know that God can pilot me through life,
And bear my spirit through the vale of death.
In Him I'll trust, on Him I'll ever call,

If He's my friend, I can all foes defy;
Then let the phantoms from my eyelids fall,
By Him I live! in Him I hope to die!