"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 miser's gate. I scorn no poor, I fear no rich, I feel no want, nor have too much.
"The court nor camp I like, nor loathe, Extremes are counted worst of all, The golden mean between them both, Doth surest sit, and fears no fall. This is my choice; for why? I find, _No wealth is like a quiet mind_."
When every breeze is hush'd to rest, And the soft zephyr of the dappled west Its voice does lose; When Dian's silver light does sleep, O'er the smooth bosom of the deep, How sweet to muse!
When ocean's swelling bosom bright, Seems studded o'er with golden light, Of many a star; And the wild sea fowls' harsh shrill strain Echoing along th' unruffled main Is heard afar;
'Tis then each rising care does sleep With the soft stillness of the deep, In sympathetic power. 'Tis then each swelling pulse does thrill, And sweetest bliss the heart does fill, In such an hour.
The soul too fond is soothed to rest; By mild serenity possess'd, Nor thinks the storm is nigh; But soon the placid scene is o'er, And swelling ocean round does roar, Contesting with the sky.
'Tis thus on life's deceitful tide, With placid course we seem to glide, All free from care; But soon the too delusive charm, Flies fast away with every calm, And prospect fair!
Then happy they, who list'ning hear, The voice that speaks the tempest near. And arms for every ill; The whirlwind blast is then disarmed, Of many a shaft that would have harm'd And half the storm is still.
In imitation of Waller's "Go, lovely Rose!"
Go, idle lays! Tell her whose youthful heart beats high To future days That now so fair in prospect lie, How soon our dearest transports die. Tell her whose cheek The blush of conscious pleasure wears, That they who seek To find delights unmix'd with cares Shall own the fond deceit in tears. Say that while charms Which Hebe's transient presence lends The bosom warms, Time's envious breath the canker sends That youth's enchanting season ends. To her whom health With ruddy blushes high illumes, Say that by stealth Disease to pallid wrinkles dooms, The cheek that now so sweetly blooms. Tell her whose form The partial hand of Beauty gave, That from the worm Kind Pity's touch shall never save The charms that moulder in the grave! Go, idle lays! Tell her whose youthful heart beats high To future days That now so fair in prospect lie, How soon our dearest transports die! Then softly say That, when terrestrial joys and pains Shall melt away, The soul, absolv'd from sensual stains, Shall soar where bliss immortal re'gns! _Port Folio._
