Teach me to feel another's wo,

To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show,

That mercy show to me.

This day be bread, and peace, my lot;

All else beneath the sun

Thou know'st if best bestow'd or not,
And let thy will be done.

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As, to be hated, needs but to be seen;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

If nothing more than purpose in thy power,
Thy purpose firm, is equal to the deed:
Who does the best his circumstance allows,
Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.

In faith and hope the world will disagree
But all mankind's concern is charity.

To be resign'd when ills betide,
Patient when favours are denied,

And pleased with favours giv'n:
Most surely this is Wisdom's part,
This is that incense of the heart,

Whose fragrance smells to Heav'n.

All fame is foreign, but of true desert;
Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart.
One self-approving hour whole years outweighs
Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas;

And more true joy Marcellus exiled feels,

Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life.

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy,
The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy,
Is virtue's prize.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to thy door
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;
Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will bless thy store.

Who lives to nature, rarely can be poor;
Who lives to fancy, never can be rich.

When young, life's journey I began,

The glitt'ring prospect charm'd my eyes;

I saw, along th' extended plain,

Joy after joy successive rise.

But soon I found 't was all a dream

And learn'd the fond pursuit to shun, Where few can reach their purposed aim, And thousands daily are undone.

'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours; And ask them what report they bore to Heav'n.

All nature is but art, unknown to thee;
All chance, direction which thou canst not see;
All discord, harmony not understood;

All partial evil, universal good.

Heav'n's choice is safer than our own;

Of ages past inquire:

What the most formidable fate?

"To have our own desire."

If ceaseless, thus, the fowls of heav'n he feeds,
If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads;
Will he not care for you, ye faithless, say?
Is he unwise? or, are ye less than they?

The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue etherial sky,
And spangl'd heav'ns, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim:
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's pow'r display,
And publishes to ev'ry land,
The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And, nightly, to the list'ning earth,
Repeats the story of her birth.

PART VI.

EXERCISES IN PROSODY.

1. Or how many parts does Prosody consist? 2. What is Accent?

3. What is Quantity? 4. What is Emphasis? 5. What are Pauses?

6. In what do Tones consist?

7. What is the difference between Prose and Poetry?

8. How many Verses form a Couplet?

9. What is a Stanza?

10. What is the difference between Iambic, Trochaic, Anapæstic, and Dactylic verse?

11. Name the metre which is used in the following verses, and divide them into their proper feet.

Daughter of Jove, relentless pow'r,
Thou tamer of the human breast,

Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour
The bad affright, afflict the best!

Bound in thy adamantine chain,

The proud are taught to taste of pain;
And purple tyrants vainly groan

With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

By the streams that ever flow,

By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er th' Elysian flow'rs;

By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of Asphodel,
Or Amaranthine bow'rs:
By the heroes' armed shades,
Glitt'ring through the gloomy glades;
By the youths that dy'd for love,
Wandering in the myrtle grove,

Restore, restore Eurydice to life;

O take the husband, or return the wife!

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen :
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever grew still.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf,

T