To whom can riches give repute, or trust, Oh fool! to think God hates the worthy mind, Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear, Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honour lies. Fortune in men has some small difference made, One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade; The cobler aproned, and the parson gowned, The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned. "What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl!" I'll tell you, friend! a wise man and a fool. You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobler-like, the parson will be drunk, Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow : The rest is all but leather or prunella. * Go! if your ancient, but ignoble blood Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood, POPE.-[From the "Essay on Man."] Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel. ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase) "What writest thou?"-The vision raised its head, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, LEIGH HUNT. The Exile of Cloudland. I. When I was a dweller in Cloudland, I was king of the time; And the sun and the shower, All came to my bidding in Cloudland. II. I was monarch supreme in my Cloudland, That a grief without cure, A love that could end, Or a false-hearted friend, Should dwell for an instant in Cloudland. III. My Cloudland, my beautiful Cloudland, I made thee a great and a proud land; With skies ever bright, And with hearts ever light; Neither sorrow nor sin Found a harbour within, And Love was the law of my Cloudland. IV. But, alas for myself and my proud land! Broke my sceptre in two, Took the crown from my brow, And banished me far from my V. Cloudland. My Cloudland, my beautiful Cloudland, Since my realm was undone, What I lost in the day When I turned my last looks upon Cloudland. VI. Oh, ye thoughts and ye feelings of Cloudland ! I wander discrowned, On a bare chilly ground; An exile forlorn, Weary, weary, and worn, Never more to revisit my Cloudland. MACKAY, GATHER Gather ye Rose-buds. ye Rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day, The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun, The sooner will his race be run, That age is best, which is the first, Then be not coy, but use your time; HERRICK. |