Trust no lovely forms of passion : Simple rule and safest guiding, Inward peace and inward might, Star upon our path abiding— “Trust in God, and do the right!" Some will hate thee, some will love thee; Cleon, true, possesseth acres, But the landscape I; Half the charms to me it yieldeth Money cannot buy ; Cleon harbours sloth and dulness, He in velvet, I in fustian Richer man am I. Cleon is a slave to grandeur, Death may come, he'll find me ready— Happier man am I. Cleon sees no charm in nature, In a daisy I; Cleon hears no anthems singing Nature sings to me for ever, Earnest listener I; State for state, with all attendants, Who would change? Not I. MACKAY. CALIFORNIA A PORTION OF GRAY'S BARD. "RUIN seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait; Though fanned by conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant! shall avail On a rock, whose haughty brow Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood; Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air,) Hark how each giant oak and desert cave To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. Cold is Cadwollo's tongue, That hushed the stormy main, Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed, Mountains! ye mourn in vain. Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head. Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail, I see them sit; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land; With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. Weave the warp and weave the woof, When Severn shall re-echo with affright, The shrieks of death through Berkley's roofs that ring Shrieks of an agonizing king! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him wait! GRAY. LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. LADY Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown; Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break, for your sweet sake, A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, |