PEACE OF MIND.

Flowery hills, and mountains high,
Cedars, neighbors to the sky,
Trees, that fruit in season yield,
All the cattle of the field,
Savage beasts, all creeping things,
All that cut the air with wings;
You who awful sceptres sway,
You, inured to obey,
Princes, judges of the earth,
All, of high and humble birth;
Youth, and virgins, flourishing
In the beauty of your spring;
You who bow with age's weight,
You who were but born of late ;
Praise his name with one consent!
O, how great! how excellent!

123

PEACE OF MIND. - From Old English Poetry.

My mind to me a kingdom is;
Such perfect joy therein I find
As far exceeds all earthly bliss

That God or nature hath assigned;

Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

Content I live, this is my stay;

I seek no more than may suffice;
I press to bear no haughty sway;
Look what I lack my mind supplies.
Lo! thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.

I see how plenty surfeits oft,
And hasty climbers soonest fall;
I see that such as sit aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all;
These get with toil, and keep with fear;
Such cares my mind could never bear.

No princely pomp, nor wealthy store,
No force to win a victory,

No wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to win a lover's eye; To none of these I yield as thrall, For why? my mind despiseth all.

Some have too much, yet still they crave;
I little have, yet seek no more;
They are but poor, though much they have;
And I am rich with little store;
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I lend; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's loss,

I grudge not at another's gain;
No worldly wave my mind can toss ;
I brook that is another's bane.
I fear no foe, nor fawn no friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

My wealth is health and perfect ease; My conscience clear my chief defence; I never seek by bribes to please,

Nor by desert to give offence; Thus do I live, thus will I die ; Would all did so as well as I!

I take no joy in earthly bliss;

I weigh not Croesus' wealth a straw;

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 125

For

care, I care not what it is;
I fear not Fortune's fatal law.
My mind is such as may not move
For beauty bright, or force of love.

I wish but what I have at will;

I wander not to seek for more;
I like the plain, I climb no hill;
In greatest storms I sit on shore,
And laugh at them that toil in vain
To get what must be lost again.

I kiss not where I wish to kill;

I feign not love where most I hate;
I break no sleep to win my will;
I wait not at the mighty's gate;
I scorn no poor, I fear no rich;
I feel no want, nor have too much.

The court, ne cart, I like ne loathe;

Extremes are counted worst of all;
The golden mean betwixt them both

Doth surest sit, and fears no fall;
This is my choice; for why? I find
No wealth is like a quiet mind.

AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD. Gray.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Nor busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their teams afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke !

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 127

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave,

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul,

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene,

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its fragrance on the desert air.

Some village Hampden,* that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; may rest;

Some mute, inglorious Milton here

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

*An English patriot, who resisted King Charles the First's usurpation of power.