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And what of life remains for me
I'll pass in sober ease,

Half pleas'd, contented will I be,
Content but half to please.

Mrs. Greville.

THE SIGH.

GENTLE air, thou breath of lovers,
Vapour from a secret fire,
Which by thee itself discovers,
Ere yet daring to aspire.

Softest note of whisper'd anguish,
Harmony's refined part;

Striking, while thou seem'st to languish,
Full upon the list'ner's heart.

Softest messenger of passion,
Stealing thro' a cloud of spies,
Which constrain the outward fashion,
Close the lips, and guard the eyes.

Shapeless sigh, we ne'er can show thee,
Form'd but to assault the ear;

Yet, ere to their cost they know thee,
Ev'ry nymph may read thee here.

Vocal Magazine.

I

CARELESS CONTENT.

AM content, I do not care,

Wag as it will the world for me;
When fuss, and fret was all my fare,
It got no ground as I could see:
So when away my caring went,
I counted cost, and was content.

With more of thanks, and less of thought,
I strive to make my matters meet;
To seek what ancient sages sought,
Physic and food, in sour and sweet;
To take what passes in good part,
And keep the hiccups from my heart.

With good and gentle-humour'd hearts,
I choose to chat where'er I come;
Whate'er the subject be that starts;
But if I get among the glum,
I hold my tongue, to tell the troth,
And keep my breath to cool my broth.

For chance or change, of peace or pain;
For fortune's favour, or her frown;
For lack or glut, for loss or gain,
I never dodge, nor up nor down:
But swing what way the ship shall swim,
Or tack about, with equal trim.

I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the turn of ev'ry tide;
If simple sense will not succeed,

:

I make no bustling, but abide. For shining wealth, or scaring woe, I force no friend, I fear no foe.

Of ups and downs, of ins and outs,

Of they're i'th' wrong, and we're i'th' right, I shun the rancours, and the routs ; And wishing well to ev'ry wight, Whatever turn the matter takes, I deem it all but ducks and drakes.

With whom I feast I do not fawn,

Nor if the folks should flout me, faint;

If wonted welcome be withdrawn,

I cook no kind of a complaint:
With none dispos'd to disagree,
But like them best who best like me.

Not that I rate myself the rule

How all my betters should behave;
But fame shall find me no man's fool,
Nor to a set of men a slave:

I love a friendship free and frank,
And hate to hang upon a hank.

Fond of a true and trusty tie,

I never loose where'er I link;
Tho' if a business budges by,

I talk thereon just as I think:
My word my work, my heart, my hand,
Still, on a side, together stand.

If names or notions make a noise,
Whatever hap the question hath,
The point impartially I poise,

And read and write, but without wrath; For should I burn, and break my brains, Pray, who will pay me for my pains?

I love my neighbour as myself,
Myself like him too, by his leave;
Nor to his pleasure, pow'r, or pelf,
Came I to crouch, as I conceive:
Dame Nature, doubtless, has design'd
A man the monarch of his mind.

Now taste and try this temper, sirs,
Mood it, and brood it in your breast;

Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs,
That man does right to mar his rest,
Let me be deft, and debonair,
I am content, I do not care.

Dr. Byrom.

THE BLIND MAN'S CONSOLATION.

THO' darkness still attends me,

It aids internal sight,

And from such scenes defends me
As blush to see the light.

No weeping objects grieve me,
No glitt'ring fop offends,
No fawning smiles deceive me,
Kind darkness me befriends.

Then cease your useless wailings-
I know no reason why-
Mankind to their own failings

Are all as blind as I.

The Bouquet.

EPIGRAM.

A VICAR, long ill, who had treasur'd up wealth, Told his Curate each sunday to pray for his health; Which oft having done, a parishioner said,

That the Curate ought rather to wish he were dead; "For my truth," says the Curate, "let credit be given, I ne'er pray'd for his death-but I have for his living."

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