Can pampered passion e'er allay desire?
Or heaped on fuel ever quench the fire ?-
No! 'tis his Reason man should still obey,
It guides the schoolboy and the sceptre's sway.
And Woman's Virtue is her chiefest care,
For maids, like glass, are formed of brittle ware,-
Both prone to fall for all their gaudy dyes,
To shatter easy, but, ah! ill to rise!
"Those Rules of old discovered, not devised,
Are Nature's still, but nature methodised--
Nature, like liberty, is but restrained
By the same laws which first herself ordained."
Pope's "Essay on Criticism."
"But alas! how can you, in the state of natural freedom in which you have been bred, know or even dream of the various restraints which this gilded or golden chain of rank and nobility hangs upon those whom it fetters, and encumbers, I fear, as much as it decorates."-In Sir W. Scott's "Anne of Geierstein.'
"To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her,
And gather gear by ev'ry wile
That's justified by honour.
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Not for a train-attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent."-Burns.
"Prosperity and success are the industrious man's attendants, the slothful man is a burden to himself."
And "Industry is in itself a treasure."-Dodsley.
While "Improvidence is the parent of poverty and dependence."—Thomson. For "All is the gift of Industry, whate'er exalts, embellishes, and renders life delightful."-Thomson.
Yea, "He that agreeth well with poverty is rich."
LL hail, brave Industry! thou flower of mind,
By God designed to bloom in every sỗil,
Around thy stem dear Virtue is entwined
To cheer and aid the sweating sons of toil.
Good health and plenty follow in thy train,
And cheerfulness-thy Muse, looks smiling on,
While sweet Contentment crowns the humblest swain,
But with a frown makes idle Vice begone!
Thou priceless gem! thou source of endless gain,
Which springs within the reach of each and all-
Ah! drink it ere Sloth's heavy, poisoned rain
Hath turned its sweetness into bitter gall.
By thee, enriched with health, and God your guide,
You can the frowns of petty wealth defy-
Yea!-had you nothing in the world beside,
You can with kings and queens successful vie.
The whistling ploughboy with his team a-field,
The pent-up artisan, upheld by thee,
Can proudly feel that they possess a shield
Which guards 'gainst vice and freezing poverty.
Just see yon lounging, spendthrift, lordly fool,
Who squanders time in listless lethargy!-
No living stream, he's but a stagnant pool,-
A noxious vapour,-void of Industry.
More precious than his gold, is priceless Time,
And Satan knows with it he can decoy ;
For, idle fools, he gives his bells to chime,
Then makes them goaded slaves in his employ.
There's no such virtue as a stagnant good
The purest streams when once they cease to flow,
Are turned too soon to rank corruption's food,-
A green and bubbling scum which stinks below!
No empty sound nor voice of causeless dread
Which great Jehovah's wisdom gave frail man,—
"By sweat of brow," or brain, you eat His bread,
Or, slothful live, and eat the Devil's bran!
"Thou oughtst to eat that thou mayest live; not to live that thou mayest
I have penned these lines in praise of Industry, as I have always thought that careful, prudent, and sensible industry was a lever in any man's hands to raise him up to Independence.
"Uphold the dignity of man
With soul erect,
And trust the universal plan
Will all protect."-Burns.
For "He that stands upon a slippery place,
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up."
Shakespeare's "King John."
OWN, down with the tyrant, up with the slave!
Condemn the ignoble-honour the brave.
Let this be your motto, wherever you be,
And still give your mite to keep freedom free.
Wherever you find a brother distressed
By pride and ambition,-or power-oppressed,
Give him your hand, and give him your aid-
Though you never on earth think that you're paid,
It swells out the heart, ennobles the soul,
And gives to your life a compass and pole;
And oh my dear friends, if you'd ever be good,
Be sure that yourself is right understood,—
What matters to you what other men are,
Although they should shine as bright as a star.
'Tis only yourself must carve out your fame,
'Tis only yourself shall suffer for blame.
And, when at the close of your life,-when spent,
And your spirit must flit in fear or content-
To its future stage of eternal sway,
Where all must be night, or glorious day.
'Tis the life that you've led on earth when there,
The motives of actions, and heartfelt prayer :—
And neither the riches, nor pride of clay,
Nor chances of birth, nor tyrannical sway,
Will clothe it for ever in that white robe
The reward of worth to the whole of the globe!
ANOTHER FRAGMENT.
"Nay, it was not utterly of family that I spoke," said the Count, "but of rank, fortune, high station, and so forth, which place a distance between various degrees and classes of persons. As for birth, all men are descended from Adam and Eve."-Sir W. Scott, in "Quentin Durward."
"The rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that."-Burns.
EUPHEME, come unto my Muse
And aid her right a theme to choose,
Nor let your cares be thrown away
On what were else but mindless clay,
And gently lead to Helicon-
Where clear and deep thy waters run
Down oft-invoked Parnassus hill
Where kindly flows the poet's rill,-
And e'en upon its lowest peak,
The kindred Muses then shall speak,
And help mine when she's like to fall,—
Or awed by man's envenomed gall;-
Whose greatest pleasure is to point
A seam into the armoured joint-
Yea! e'en will condescend so far
As meanly hack and secret mar
Whatever is above their kind,
To undermine a nobler mind.
But, thanks to Him who made the whole,
Such gnats hath but a pigmy soul—
As fit to injure, or to mar,
As burn the globe with falling star ;—
These, left unto their own conceit,
With Sense, nor Wisdom, could compete,
But, glad to find a spot to stain-
And common sense's ghost to feign,-
Such mites are seen but with the sun
And vanish when his beams are done;
Then let them smile and sneer away,
Enjoy their short-lived sunny day,
While you go on improving time-
In reading prose and writing rhyme,
For, graver natures read and think
That dirt, at best, was made to stink!
Let the slandered take comfort; it is only at fruit-trees that thieves throw
H! calmly sleep, my little child,
And close thy' death-lite eyes,
Nor mother fright by looks so wild—
For pined and pale wee Aleck lies.
Thy father rocks thee while he writes,
Thy mother worn out lies,-
Worn out by anxious, sleepless nights,
When drowsy midnight slowly flies.
None but a mother e'er knows the pain
Of tending a pining babe-
Who fears to look, yet gazes again,
Where the flickering spark is laid.
See her next night as the bell tolls one
How she weeps by the cradle side,
Each breath he draws, she thinks him gone,
So nearly run 's his ebbing tide.
But, thanks to God, the child survives,
And his mother is cheerful again,
But ah! too oft, when manhood arrives,
The trouble's forgot, she reaps but pain!
I penned the above, one night when rocking the cradle of one of my little boys when very ill; he got partially better, but ultimately died of the disease.
A PAINFUL REMINISCENCE.
HOW sickly thou art, my poor little child,
Like a snowdrop whose stem has been broken,
The fibres of health are withered and spoiled,
And thy sweet little head hangs drooping.
The lily's now seen where roses were spread,
And hushed is the sound of thy dear little tongue,
Thy prattling "ta-tign" no longer is heard,
And silent 's thy smark when tea was begun.
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