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Let a broad stream with golden sands
Through all his meadow's roll,
That wears a narrow soul,
And proudly poising what he weighs,
Huge heaps of shining ore.
His manors and his farms,
He hugs between his arms.
When Creesus mounts his throne,
How long their shadows grown.
To think that shade their own!
Crosus himself can never know;
Are far inferior to their show.
Or grasp the ocean with my spán,
The mind's the standard of the man.
PLEASURES OF MEMORY.
Sweet MEMORY! wafted by thy gentle gale,
the stream of Time I turn my sail, To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours, Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers. When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray, And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play; When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close, Still through the gloom thy star serenely glows : Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night With the mild magic of reflected light.
And who can tell the triumphs of the mind
Hail, Memory, hail ! in thy exhaustless mine
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;
And busy fancy fondly lends her aid.
Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,
Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime, Charms with the magic of a moonlight view;
Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by time. True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
Through all the horrors of the stormy main; This, the last wish that would with life depart,
To see the smile of her he loves again. When Morn first faintly draws her silver line,
Or Eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave; When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,
Still, still he views the parting look she gave. Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,
Attends his little bark from pole to pole; And, when the beating billows round him roar,
Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul. Carved is her name in many a spicy grove,
In many a plantain-forest, waving wide; Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,
And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tide.
Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend !
In each he hears the welconie of a friend,
Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furled ;, Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land,
And clasps the maid he singled from the world!
And, for all uses to be had from glass, His were allowed, by readers, to surpass. There came a man into his shop one day" Are you the spectacle-contriver, pray?". “ Yes, sir," said he, “ I can, in that affair, “ Contrive to please you, if you want a pair." “Can you ?--pray do then.”—So, at first, he chose To place a youngish pair upon his nose; And book produced, to see how they would fit; Asked how he liked them." Like them? not a bit.” “ Then, sir, I fancy, if you please to try,
These, in my hand, will better suit your eye.” “ No, but they don't.”_"Well, come, sir, if you please, “ Here is another sort, we'll even try these ; “ Still somewhat more they magnify the letter : “ Now, sir?”“Why now—I'm not a bit the better." “No! here, take these, which magnify still more ; “How do they fit ?”" Like all the rest before.”
In short, they tried a whole assortment through,
Why, very good ones, friend, as you may see.”
No, you great blockhead! if I could, what need
THE LAST MAN.
The Sun himself must die,
I saw a vision in my sleep,
Adown the gulf of Time !
As Adam saw her prime !
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
Around that lonely man!
In plague and famine some !
To shores were all was dumb!
With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by,
Tis Mercy bids thee go.
That shall no longer flow.
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
The vassals of his will ;
For all those trophied arts
Entailed on human hearts.