Still

POETRY AND POVERTY.

"One cell there is concealed from mortal eye,

The cave of poverty and poetry."-Pope.

"Their works like Jacob's ladder rise,

Their feet in dirt, their head amid the skies."-Ibid.
"No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor,

Though many of the rich are damned."-Shakespeare.
"Where I am, all think me happy,

For so well I play my part;

None can guess who smile around me,
How far distant is my heart."

"Legends and Lyrics," Adelaide A. Proctor.

"In parts superior what advantage lies?

Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise?
"Tis but to know how little can be known,
To see all others' faults, and feel our own
Condemned in business, or in arts to drudge,
Without a second, or without a judge;

Truths would you teach to save a sinking land- --
All fear, none aid you, and few understand."
Pope's "Essay on Man."

A

H! why have I the wish to pen

My thoughts in words to other men, When Business with its freezing mien Comes ever in to mar the scene.

'Tis then I feel the lack of wealth,

When forced to woo my Muse by stealth,—
Or drive her out, when in the mood,
For fear that Bankruptcy intrude.

Oh! for such income by the year,
That I could wander there or here-
By stormy sea, or mossy dell,
To woo the Nymph I love so well!

I value riches not one jot,
Although with grief I feel my lot;
And wish that I could come and go
As freely as the drifting snow.

I fain would write to gain a name,
But want of money whispers shame!
Or croaks out, "Mind your children's food,
Else Bankruptcy will sure intrude."

Much as the Muse I court and love,
Yet love of Honour reigns above;
I'd rather see her, never more,
To let my Independence soar !

But ah! the two have often strife,

Like poor, ill-mated man and wife;
For Poetry and Business, rare

Can cheerful at one table fare.

Those who know the writer best,-his multifarious and harassing duties, public as well as private,-may well say: It is not so singular that he has written so badly, but that he has found the time and the vein to write at all.

THE TRUE USE OF BOOKS.

"What sculpture is to a block of marble, education is to the human soul.” -Addison.

"We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow :

Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so."-Pope.
WITH what an owl-like and pedantic look,
Yon book-worm opes his Latin book!—
To simple Ignorance, its musty page
Transforms the Greek-fed worm into a sage;
And yet, what is the use of books at all?

But Common Sense's servants-great and small;
And he who best can learn this Heavenly art,
Before his Maker, will con best his part,
When languages are gone-and only mind
Must meet the eternal Judge of all Mankind!

"Small have continual plodders ever won

Save base authority from other's books."-Shakespeare.

Yet "If all the year were playing holidays,

To sport would be as tedious as to work."-Ibid.

CURSED ACCOUNTS.

"Cursed be the gold and silver which persuade
Weak man to follow far fatiguing trade,
The lily, peace, outshines the silver store,
And life is dearer than the golden ore;
Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown,
To every distant mart, and wealthy town."

Hassan, or The Camel-Driver." And, "Every lane's end, every shop, church, session, hanging, Yields a careful man work."-Shakespeare.

But,

"Let me have no lying; it becomes none but tradesmen." Ibid.

NURSED accounts! you bogle to my pen,

CURS

But roosting-place of worldly men

I'd sooner dee, like Jenkin's hen,

Than write you out,

Or gather dog-haws down the glen,

And live on trout.

You rack wi' doubt my tortured brain,
For fear I gie my debtor pain,

Or hear him grudge my hard-won gain
Wi' weel feigned grace;

But, that I love my bairnies, fain
I'd slap his face!

I'd sooner write a volume through-
Wi' trash would make a critic spew-

And curse mysel' for writing't too,
Than seek my ain;

I'd scribble rhyme till black and blue,
Than write for gain.

I'd rather wander by the sea,

Or gather gowans on the lea,
Or live, like John, upon the bee,

Than thole their snags-

Until I neither fear to dee

Nor gang in rags.

Juist see yon birkie, spruce and clean,
Wi' visage like a razor keen,

He hasna sense to see he's mean,
The pawky loon-

Nae grass beneath his feet grows green,
He spares nae shoon.

As soon's his goods they are delivered,
Like vulture, when the dead's discovered,
He pounces down, and swears he's povered,
To clutch his cash;

Then, like the daw, he's hameward hovered,
To hide his trash.

O Thou! wha's stamped us, like a measure, You ken a rhymester's mind has pleasureFar, far aboon the hoarded treasure

Cursed on the Mount,

Let them count gold owre at their leisure,
His winna count!

It floats around his soul, like air,
And lifts him high aboon their care,—
He'll get a grave! he seeks nae mair,
This side o' Time,

He'd rather sweep his Maker's stair,
And praise in rhyme.

He seeks his treasure in the skies,
For where it is, the mind aye flies,-
Wae's me! he deems 't sma' sacrifice
To spurn their dirt!

Before he'd build up wealth on lies,
He'd sell his shirt!

Gold often clogs the immortal wings,

And sometimes proves but scorpion stings,
And aye, at last, mair care it brings,
The mair you get.
Contentment only, truly sings-
Her bounds are set.

Gie me a happy, cheerful mind,

Bad habits aye a day behind,

And health to sing about mankind,

Deil tak' the rest!

And play your cards until

They're sma' at best.

your

blind

Gold seems to be the devil's dart
To pierce and shrivel up the heart,
When sickness comes, no worth a f-t
To ease a pain—

What though the word may mak' you
The truth is plain.

Without a rig, the poet's rich,
He's happy walking by a ditch,
He enjoys't aboon the scurvy bitch
Wha's in possession;

All Nature's his! he needna filch,
Nor fear transgression!

"He looks abroad into the varied field

start?

Of Nature, and though poor, perhaps, compared
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scenery all his own.
His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And all the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel

But who, with filial confidence inspired,
Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye,

And smiling say, 'My Father made them all!'

Appropriates nature as his Father's work,
And has a richer use of yours than you,
He is indeed a freeman.'

From "The Freeman," by Cowper.

A RANDOM THOUGHT.

"The affairs of a good man are never neglected by God."

THOU

great,-inscrutable,-Omniscient God,
For Life alone, to Thee how blest am I !
And doubly blest, the right to walk abroad,
And view Thy shadow in each buzzing fly.

Let men within their tread-mill grub for gain,
Or, like the convict wear their iron chains,
And wear their fretted, gilded life of pain,
Then worry out the little that remains.

Give me the rocks, the heath, and shady wood!
Or wander, musing, down some wimpling burn,
Far from the selfish, cunning, worldly brood,
Who steal the mask of Janus, for their turn.