And oft it falls (aye me, the more to rue !)
That goodly beauty, albeit heavenly born,
Is foul abused, and that celestial hue,
Which doth the world with her delight adorn,
Made but the bait of sin, and sinners' scorn,
Whilst every one doth seek and sue to have it,
But every one doth seek but to deprave it.

Yet nathèmore is that faire beauty's blame,
But theirs that do abuse it unto ill :

Nothing so good, but that through guilty shame
May be corrupt, and wrested unto will :
Natheless the soule is fair and beauteous still,
However fleshe's fault it filthy make;
For things immortal no corruption take.

THOUGHT.

EDWARD SPENSER.

THOUGHT is deeper than all speech, Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach

What unto themselves was taught.

We are spirits clad in veils ;

Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails

To remove the shadowy screen.

Heart to heart was never known; Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns left alone

Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart, though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie;

All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company

But a babbling summer stream? What our wise philosophy

But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the sun of love

Melts the scattered stars of thought, Only when we live above

What the dim-eyed world hath taught,

Only when our souls are fed

By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led

Which they never drew from earth,

We, like parted drops of rain,

Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one.

CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.

Who ne'er to flatter will descend,

Nor bend the knee to power,

A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, My inmost soul to see;

And that my friendship prove as strong For him as his for me.

I want the seals of power and place,
The ensigns of command;

Charged by the People's unbought grace
To rule my native land.
Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask

But from my country's will,
By day, by night, to ply the task
Her cup of bliss to fill.

I want the voice of honest praise
To follow me behind,

And to be thought in future days
The friend of human kind,
That after ages, as they rise,
Exulting may proclaim
In choral union to the skies

Their blessings on my name.

These are the Wants of mortal Man,
I cannot want them long,
For life itself is but a span,

And earthly bliss - a song.
My last great Want-absorbing all –
Is, when beneath the sod,
And summoned to my final call,
The Mercy of my God.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

CONTENTMENT.

"Man wants but little here below."

LITTLE I ask; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone,
(A very plain brown stone will do,)
That I may call my own;
And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me;
Three courses are as good as ten;
If nature can subsist on three,

Thank Heaven for three. Amen!
I always thought cold victual nice;
My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;

Give me a mortgage here and there,

Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,

Or trifling railroad share,

I only ask that Fortune send

A little more than I shall spend.