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been; but I don't give way to them here. Dearest mother, I sometimes hope it will all end well ; but shall not think any more of it till I hear from England.

EDWARD FITZGERALD, 1763-1793.

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SONG.
See, O see!
How every tree,
Every bower,

Every flower,
A new life gives to others' joys,

While that I
Grief-stricken lie,
Nor can meet

With any sweet
But what faster mine destroys.
What are all the senses' pleasures,
When the mind has lost all measures?

Hear, O hear!
How sweet and clear
The nightingale

And water's fall
In concert join for others' ear,

While to me,
For harmony,
Every air

Echoes despair,
And every drop provokes a tear.
What are all the senses' pleasures,
When the soul has lost all measures ?

GEORGE DIGBY, Earl of Bristol, 1612–1676.

SONG.

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of content;

The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;

The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frowns;
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.

homely house that harburs quiet rest,
The cottage that affords no pride or care,

The mean that 'grees with country music best,

The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare,
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss ;
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.

ROBERT GREEN, 1550-1592.

BLESSINGS OF A COUNTRY LIFE.

1725.

Far from our debtors; no Dublin letters;
Not seen by our betters.

PLAGUES OF A COUNTRY LIFE.

A companion with news; a great want of shoes ;
Eat lean meat or choose ; a church without pews;
Our horses away; no straw, oats, or hay;
December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play!

JONATHAN SWIFT, 1667-1728.

XXIV.

Wind and Cloud

A STORM IN AUTUMN.

FROM THE LATIN OF VIRGIL.

W

HY should I mark each storm and starry sign,

When milder suns in autumn swift decline ?
Or what new cares await the vernal hour,
When spring descends in many a driving shower,
While bristle into ear the bearded plains,
And the green stalk distends its milky grains ?

E'en in mid autumn, while the jocund hind
Bade the gay field the gather'd harvest bind,
Oft have I seen the war of winds contend,
And prone on earth th’infuriate storm descend-
Waste, far and wide, and by the roots uptorn,
The heavy harvest sweep through ether borne!
While in dark eddies, as the whirlwind past,
The straw and stubble flew before the blast.

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