And there are Who


that this is well! as God has made All things for man's good pleasure, so of men The many

for the few ! court-moralists,
Reverend lip-comforters that once a week
Proclaim how blessed are the poor, for they
Shall have their wealth hereafter, and tho' now
Toiling and troubled, tho they pick the crumbs
That from the rich man's table fall, at length
In Abraham's bosom rest with Lazarus.
Themselves meantime secure their good things here
And dine with Dives. These are they O Lord !
Who in thy plain and simple gospel see
All mysteries, but who find no peace enjoined,
No brotherhood, no wrath denounced on them
Who shed their brethren’s blood-blind at noon day
As owls, lynx-eyed in darkness !

O my God!
I thank thee that I am not such as these,
I thank thee for the eye that sees, the heart
That feels, the voice that in these evil days
That amid evil tongues, exalts itself
And cries aloud against the iniquity.




Talk not thus, unthinking youth,

Darting the enthusiast eyes, Of your justice and your truth,

And the liberty you prize; You are now to manhood risen,

Cast your cloister'd dreams away! You must burst your mental prison,

And endure the light of day.


Must I ever bid adieu

To the hopes I long have known,
And in sorrow find like you

That the dreams of youth are flown ?.
Must I check the glow of anguish

For a world so lost and blind ?
And, beholding Virtue languish,

Heap my praises on mankind ?


What is Virtue but a name?

Phantom of the Hermit's cell !
Those who covet wealth and fame,

Must with other Beings dwell ;
For the God whom men adore,

And whose laws alone can chain;
INTEREST is, as was before,

And forever will remain.

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I will never meanly swerve
From tbe deed


heart allaw'd, I will never Interest serve,

God of the ambitious crowd ! Wealth and fame, if these forsake me

For the loves my heart beguile; Tho' at eve the storm o'ertake me,

In the morning I shall smile.


Can you

Are you

fix'd to this decision ?
Think how all men will despise ;

bear the world's derision ?
meet their scornful

eyes You may talk and you may blame,

Till with talking you are old ; In a world so dead to shame,

Virtue must be bought and sold,


Never, never, ancient Father!

Virtue must not stoop so low; Truth and freedom I would rather

Honor, than all forms below; These the spring of life shall nourish

When the wintry tempests sound, Like the bay-tree, these shall flourish

Greener for the waste around.


Thoughtless Youth! you little know

What delusions round you throng; You may feel your bosom glow

At the sound of freedom's song ; You the rain-bow tints may cast.

O'er the forms that please your eye; But, experience will at last

Show that all was vanity.

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