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Forsaken by the man I lov'd,

The man I foolishly believ'd,
I wail my fate, while he, unmov'd,

Forgets the wretch whom he deceiv'd.

Discarded by parental scorn,

Betray'd by him whom I adore, A pilgrim, weary and forlorn,

Relief from strangers I implore.

If you, to whom I lowly kneel,

Can pity to the frail extend ;
If you, for those who e'er can feel,

When spurn’d by ev'ry former friend;

Assist a pilgrim on her way,

Whose stock of bread is stale and low : Cold blows the wind-no cheering ray

Warms my faint heart, or melts the snow.

Nor long will this unhappy form,

Nor long this breaking heart, offend : I sink beneath affliction's storm,

And soon my shame and grief shall end.

For sharper than the northern blast,

Are the repentant pangs I prove : Hard is

my fate to mourn and fast; But harder still- to die of love.

Addison's Anecdotes.


Well hast thou earn'd this little space,

Which barely marks the turf is heav'd, For, truest of a faithful race,

Thy voice its master ne'er deceiv’d.

Whilst busy ranging hill and dale,

The pheasant crouch'd from danger nigh, 'Till warmer felt the scented gale,

Thou forc'd the brilliant prey to fly.

Alike the woodcock's dreary haunt

Thou knew to find amidst the shade; Ne’er did thy tongue redoubled chaunt,

But, mark! quick echo'd through the glade.

Rest then assur'd, that mortals can

Draw moral from thy story here: Happy, if so employ'd the span

Of active life, within their sphere.

For, search the meddling world around,

Few do their proper parts sustain ;
How rare the instance to be found
Of truth amongst the motley train !


The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye;
My noon-day walks He shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountains pant;
To fertile vales, and dewy meads,
My weary wand'ring steps He leads;
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.

Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My stedfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord! art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.

Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my pains beguile;
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.



Farewell, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles;
Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles; ;
Fame's but a hollow echo, gold pure clay ;
Honour the darling but of one short day ;
Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damask skin;
State but a golden prison to live in,
And torture free-born minds: embroider'd trains
Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins !
And blood ally'd to greatness, is alone
Inherited, not purchas'd, nor our own.

Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood and birth,
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.

I would be great, but that the sun doth still
Level his rays against the rising hill:
I would be high, but see the proudest oak
Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke:
I would be rich, but see men too unkind,
Dig in the bowels of the richest mind :
I would be wise, but that I often see
The fox suspected, whilst the ass goes free:
I would be fair, but see the fair and proud,
Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud :
I would be poor, but know the humble grass
Still trampled on by each unworthy ass:

Rich hated : wise suspected : scorn'd if poor:
Great fear'd : fair tempted: high still envy'd more:

I have wish'd all; but now I wish for neither;
Great, high, rich, wise nor fair; poor I'll be rather.

Would the world now adopt me for her heir,
Would beauty's queen entitle me “The Fair,”
Fame speak me Fortune's minion, could I vie
Angels with India ; with a speaking eye
Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strikeJustice dumb,
As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue
To stones by epitaphs: be callid Great Master
In the loose rhymes of ev'ry poetaster :
Could I be more than any man that lives,
Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives :
Yet I more freely would those gifts resign,
Than ever fortune would have made them mine,

And hold one minute of this holy leisure
Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.

Welcome, pure thoughts, welcome, ye silent groves,
These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves:
Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring:
A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass,
In which I will adore sweet virtue's face:
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-fac'd fears:

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