But what is truth? "Twas Pilate's question put
To truth itself, that deigned him no reply.
And wherefore? will not God impart His light
To them that ask it? - Freely: 't is his joy,
His glory, and his nature, to impart.
But to the proud, uncandid, insincere,
Or negligent inquirer, not a spark.
What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy,
That learning is too proud to gather up;
But which the poor and the despised of all
Seek and obtain, and often find unsought?
Tell me, and I will tell thee what is truth.

4. HARMONY OF EXPRESSION. - Pope.

But most by numbers judge a poet's song;

And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong:
In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire,
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;

Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
These equal syllables alone require,
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line;
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
With sure returns of still expected rhymes;
Where'er you find " the cooling western breeze,"
In the next line it "whispers through the trees;
If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep,"
The reader's threatened (not in vain) with "sleep;
Then, at the last and only couplet, fraught
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,

That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
And praise the easy vigor of a line,

Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join.
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance;

As those move easiest who have learned to dance.

'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seems an echo to the sense : Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows,

And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;

But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labors, and the words move slow
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main

;

5. THE HOPE OF AN HEREAFTER. - Campbell.
What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain?
I smile on death, if heavenward Hope remain!
But, if the warring winds of nature's strife
Be all the faithless charter of my life,
If Chance awaked (inexorable power!)
This frail and feverish being of an hour;
Doomed o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep,
Swift as the tempest travels on the deep,
To know Delight but by her parting smile,
And toil, and wish, and weep, a little while;-
Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vain
This troubled pulse, and visionary brain!

Fade, ye

wild flowers, memorials of my doom!
And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb!
Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime
Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time,
Thy joyous youth began - but not to fade.-
When all the sister planets have decayed,
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow,
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below,
Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile,
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile!

CXCI.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;*
O, the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart!

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
"T was not her soft magic of streamlet or hill;
O, no! it was something more exquisite still.

"T was that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best!
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

THOMAS MOORE.

• The rivers Avon and Avoca, in the county of Wicklow, Ireland.

1. OFT has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post;
Yet round the world the blade has been
To see whatever could be seen,
Returning from his finished tour,
Grown ten times perter than before.
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travelled fool your mouth will stop,
"Sir, if my judgment you 'll allow,
I've seen, and sure I ought to know,"
So begs you'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.

2. Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed,
And on their way, in friendly chat,
Now talked of this, and then of that,
Discoursed a while, 'mongst other matter,
Of the Chameleon's form and nature.
"A stranger animal," cries one,
"Sure never lived beneath the sun:
A lizard's body lean and long,
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue;
Its foot with triple claw disjoined;
And what a length of tail behind!
How slow its pace! and then its hue,-
Who ever saw so fine a blue ! "

3. "Hold there!" the other quick replies,
""T is green; I saw it with these eyes,
As late with open mouth it lay,
And warmed it in the sunny ray;
Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed,
And saw it eat the air for food."

4. "I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue
At leisure I the beast surveyed,
Extended in the cooling shade."

5. "'Tis green, 't is green, sir, I assure ye!"
"Green! cries the other, in a fury;
“Why, sir, d' ye think I 've lost my eyes?".
""T were no great loss," the friend replies;
"For, if they always serve you thus,
You 'll find them of but little use.

6. So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows;
When luckily came by a third;
To him the question they referred,
And begged he 'd tell them, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.

7. "Sirs," cries the umpire," cease your pother
The creature's neither one nor t' other;
I caught the animal last night,
And viewed it o'er by candle-light:
I marked it well, 't was black as jet,
You stare; but, sirs, I've got it yet,
And can produce it." "Pray, sir, do;
I'll lay my life the thing is blue.".
"And I'll be bound, that when you 've seen
The reptile, you '11
pronounce him green.
"Well, then, at once to end the doubt,"
Replies the man, "I'll turn him out:
And when before your eyes I've set him,
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.”
He said; then full before their sight
Produced the beast, and, lo!—'t was white.

MERRICK.

CXCIII.

AFFECTATION IN THE PULPIT.

In man or woman, but far most in man,
And most of all in man that ministers
And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe
All affectation; 't is my perfect scorn,
Object of my implacable disgust.

What! will a man play tricks, will he indulge
A silly fond conceit of his fair form
And just proportion, fashionable mien
And pretty face, in presence of his God?
Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes,
As with the diamond on his lily hand,
And play his brilliant parts before my eyes,
When I am hungry for the bread of life?
He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames
His noble office, and, instead of truth,
Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock.
Therefore, avaunt! all attitude and stare,
And start theatric, practised at the glass.
I seek divine simplicity in him

Who handles things divine; and all beside,

Though learned with labor, and though much admired By curious eyes and judgments ill-informed,

To me is odious.

COWPER.

CXCIV. - TO THE SKYLARK.

1. HAIL to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart,

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

2. Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest;

Like a cloud of fire,

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest

3 All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud;

As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

4. Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine;

I have never heard

Praise of love or wine

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

5. Chorus hymene'al,

Or triumphal chant,

Matched with thine would be all

But an empty vaunt,

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

6. With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be;

Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee.

Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

7. Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,

Better than all treasures

That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

8. Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow,

The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

SHELLEY (ABRIDGED).