To raise the workman from an earthly clod,
To learn true wisdom and to worship God;
And lift the mind up to its native sphere,
And cut the trammels that would chain it here;
To feel the dearest pleasures of mankind,-
Come nearest God which issues from the mind!
And raises Man above the cast of Fate,

To feel a King without the pomp of state!—
What is a world of wealth? or fawning train?
To loss of peace and never-ending pain?—
What though no beauty in these lines you see?
They have been pleasure and a mine to me;
The very writing kept my mind engaged,
When fellow-tradesmen were by drink enraged,
Or scheming, miser-like, to hoard up gold,
Till brain was frozen as their hearts grew cold,—
How poor that tradesman to his trade a slave,
A beggar lives, to fill a miser's grave.
Oh! for strength to persevere and to support
My mind through good report and ill report,-
For energy to conquer !-and repel !—
Twin elements of virtue, and which tell—
The Almighty's spirit guides the whole,
And proves the grandeur of the human soul!

VIII.

Good Reading1 is a mine of endless gain,
Where silent friends can mitigate our pain,-
Friends we can trust,-friends that are always true,--
Friends of our youth that age can never rue;
But like the rain upon the thirsty soil,

Will raise the Mind above the world's turmoil,
And leave its brain drops, like refreshing rain,
To ripen Worth, as Sun the yellow grain ;

And more than all, he independent is,

Who reads for knowledge, comes the nearest bliss,

1 The scholar only knows how dear these silent yet eloquent companions of pure thoughts and innocent hours become in seasons of adversity. When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain their value. When friends grow cold and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these only continue the unaltered counterparts of happier days, and cheer us with that true friendship which never deceived hope nor deserted sorrow."-Irving.

Upon his shelves those silent friends recline,
To teach him sense, and never to repine-

To teach that heart as well as head should reign,
If we would follow in Contentment's train,
Cold Calculation thinks,-while suppliants die,
Did not Benevolence to their rescue fly.
Too much of brain, is to our peace as bad
As too much heart would keep us always sad;
But, let our hours float past on pain or sport,
Our Thoughts so build as be our mental fort!

IX.

The gaudy insect hath a fragile wing,

The painted wasp she hath her secret sting;
The sweetest rose that scents the youthful morn,
Hath still its pointed and its native thorn.
The purest stream that ever seaward flowed,
Might harbour still its ugly, loathsome toad;
The speckled adder 'neath her spangled skin,
Just hides the venom that distils within.
Yon brilliant diamonds which fair ladies prize,
Were often taken from an idol's eyes-
The fairest cheek that ever bloomed to-day
Might prove ere evening but consumptive clay;
The richest Nabob that e'er worshipped gold,
Might die a Madman-to his idol sold ;—
Not so the wealth and treasures of the mind,
The more 'tis tried, the greater 'tis behind,
As furnaced gold is but the more refined.
With this I'll finish these true, rambling lines,
And leave to Wealth its carriages and wines;
And also beg the critics,-to be kind,-
Will pen an equal sample of their Mind,
Before condemning what they cannot mend,—
And hope that Charity will patch, not rend;
But, let them write in Ignorance or sport,
My unseen thoughts will be their own support!

THE SUMMER WOOD. (A Song.)

I

LOVE the bonnie summer wood,

Where birds sing ever true,
I love the shady calm old wood,
To hear the Owl's "to-whoo."

On ilka tree kind Nature sits,
On ilka leaf, a flee—
Away you selfish, worldly cits.,

You have nae charms for me!

Loud, whistle on my bonnie thrush,

Sing sweeter yet my wren;
You seem to people ilka bush,
To wile's away frae men.

Wi' chirps-an' sangs-an' mellow notes,
And busy hum of bees,

It seems as if the leaves had throats,
And fir-taps sang on trees.

These are the cities I love best,

Where ilk voice sings with glee,-
Nae drunken, swearing, human pest
Rings o'er the greenwood tree.

Nae selfish, cheating, cunning knaves,
Among the woods sae green-
Nae petty lords, nor cringing slaves
To mar the cheerful scene.

'Tis true, a hawk while skims the air,
And strikes the lint-white doun,
But still that never breaks the chain

Of harmony aroun'.

The hawk lives on the weaker bird,
The bird lives on the flee,

The flee lives on the whey and curd,
The grass lives on the lea.

But, man lives on them all alike,
And still he hoards up store,
Nae daily wants will please the pike,
He bursts!-yet cries for more.