My wealth is health and perfect ease;

My conscience clere my chiefe defence; I never seeke by bribes to please,

Nor by desert to give offence. Thus do I live, thus will I die; Would all did so as well as I!

THE HAPPY LIFE

SIR HENRY WOTTON

How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armor is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the worldly care

Of public fame, or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice who never understood

(How deepest wounds are given by praise!) Nor rules of State, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumors freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace, than gifts, to lend,

And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend!

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall!
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all!

3. Work

REALIZATION

SRI ANANDA ACHARYA

I will keep the fire of hope ever burning on the altar of my soul, I will feed it by day and by night with the fuel of industry and the oblation of thought,

Like a spring plant the great purpose is growing in the garden of my heart;

I will moisten its roots each morn with the water of new resolve, and with vows of renunciation will I hedge it round; I will forego all comforts, all pastures, till this plant of my purpose bear fruit,

And I will not lose patience if the fruit come not in season, The Future enters into the Present to weave life's texture after the heaven-willed pattern

And the Past is overshadowed and the face of the Present made pale.

The map of life is many-coloured, showing many kings' dominions, whose boundaries are the theatres of unremitting

wars;

I will make this map of one sole colour and Truth shall reign the one sole King for all eternity.

All will I sacrifice-Life, Time,-Happiness, nay, the whole universe of the gods-

To realize the purpose which Truth proclaims to be the allsupreme.

TO THE CHRISTIANS

WILLIAM BLAKE

I give you the end of a golden string;
Only wind it into a ball,-

It will lead you in at Heaven's gate
Built in Jerusalem's wall.

England! Awake! Awake! Awake!
Jerusalem thy sister calls!

Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death,
And close her from thy ancient walls?

Thy hills and valleys felt her feet
Gently upon their bosoms move:
Thy gates beheld sweet Zion's ways;
Then was a time of joy and love.

And now the time returns again:
Our souls exult, and London's towers
Receive the Lamb of God to dwell

In England's green and pleasant bowers.

From MILTON

WILLIAM BLAKE

And did those feet in ancient time

Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God

On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem

In England's green and pleasant land.

THE SONG OF THE UNSUCCESSFUL

RICHARD BURTON

We are the toilers whom God hath barred
The gifts that are good to hold,

We meant full well and we tried full hard,
And our failures were manifold.

And we are the clan of those whose kin Were a millstone dragging them down, Yea, we had to sweat for our brother's sin, And lose the victor's crown.

The seeming-able, who all but scored,
From their teeming tribe we come :
What was there wrong with us, O, Lord,
That our lives were dark and dumb?

The men, ten-talented, who still
Strangely, missed the goal,
Of them we are: it seems Thy will
To harrow some in soul.

We are the sinners, too, whose lust
Conquered the higher claims,
We sat us prone in the common dust,
And played at the devil's games.

We are the hard-luck folk, who strove
Zealously, but in vain;

We lost and lost, while our comrades throve,
And still we are lost again.

We are the doubles of those whose way
Was festal with fruits and flowers,
Body and brain we were sound as they,
But the prizes were not ours.

A mighty army our full ranks make,

We shake the graves as we go;

The sudden stroke and the slow heart-break,
They both have brought us low.

And while we are laying life's sword aside,
Spent and dishonored and sad,

Our Epitaph this, when once we have died:
"The weak lie here, and the bad.”

We wonder if this can be really the close,
Life's fever cooled by death's trance;

And we cry, though it seem to our dearest of foes,
"God, give us another chance!"

ABOU BEN ADHEM

LEIGH HUNT

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold;
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said

“What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
And with a look made all of sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and, said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow-men."
The angel wrote and vanished; the next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed their names whom love of God hath blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.