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Happy ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!

Even when the wished end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,

They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandoned wight,
Unfitted with an aim,
Meet every sad returning night,
And joyless morn the same.
You bustling, and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I listless, yet restless,

every prospect vain.

How blest the solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,
Within his humble cell,

The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gathered fruits,
Beside his crystal well!

Or, haply, to his evening thought,
By unfrequented stream,
The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint collected dream!

While praising, and raising
His thoughts to heaven on high,

As wandering, meandering,

He views the solemn sky.

Than I, no lonely hermit placed
Where never human footstep traced,
Less fit to play the part;
The lucky moment to improve,

And just to stop and just to move,
With self-respecting art:

But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,

The solitary can despise,

Can want, and yet be blest !
He needs not, he heeds not,

Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here, must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate !

Oh! enviable early days,
When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,
To care, to guilt unknown!

How ill exchanged for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,
Of others, or my own!

Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,

That active man engage!
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim-declining age!



Oh! child of grief, why weepest thou?
Why droops thy sad and mournful brow?
Why is thy look so like despair?

What deep sad sorrow lingers there?

Thou mournest perhaps for some one gone,

A friend, a wife, a little one;

Yet mourn not, for thou hast above

A friend in God, and God is love.'

Was it remorse that laid thee low?
Is it for sin thou mournest so?

Surely thou bearest a heavy grief,
Yet, mourner, there is still relief.

There's One on high can pardon give Who gave his life that thou may'st live; Seek, then, for comfort from above, Thy friend is God, and God is love.'

Has cold unkindness wounded thee?
Does thy loved friend now from thee flee ?
O turn thy thoughts from earth to heaven,
Where no such cruel wounds are given.

In all the varying scenes of woe,
The lot of fallen man below,

Still lift thy tearful eye above,
And hope in God, for God is love.'

Sweet is the thought-time flies apace,-
This earth is not our resting place:
And sweet the promise of the Lord,
To all who love his name and word.

Then, weeping pilgrim, dry thy tears;
Comfort on every side appears;

An eye


beholds thee from above,

eye of God, and God is love.'


Written by the sea shore.

How calm is the stillness of night,-
Are the zephyrs away to their caves?
For the moon-beams with silvery light,
Seem asleep in the whispering waves;
Lo! the moss-covered rocks all around,
In the beauties of even arrayed,
With their loftiest summits are crowned,
By a varied, though solemn shade;
Not a murmur is heard from the sea,
Have its billows been charmed to rest?

"Yes! the spirit of God to thee Now appears on its moveless breast.

Let me wander then on by the beach,
While my heart to emotion is given,


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