In all the parts of Earth, from farthest West,
And the Atlanticke Isles, unto the East
And famous Ganges; Few there be that know
What's truly good, and what is good in show
Without mistake: For what is't we desire,
Or feare discreetly? to what e're aspire,
So throughly blest; but ever as we speed,
Repentance seales the very Act, and deed.
The easie gods mov'd by no other Fate,
Then our owne pray'rs whole Kingdomes ruinate,
And undoe Families, thus strife, and warre
Are the swords prize, and a litigious barre

Two years had passed, when obscure soldier
Which was titrated from Marquis for his conquest,
Francisco Pizarro, dared to make the application
To arm a galleon to run across
Puerto Pinas. While Pedrarias Avila
Made him represent in this situation
It was not prudent to try their luck
And its dangers without number and without profit; anyway
It pleased him to see the point that the best
All the people of war in crazy business
Prodiguassent Spanish blood veins,
And that no lur before, so many Cavaliers,
Was unable to overcome the mangrove wood

Homeward , before the pinions of the Night
Swoop on my path. Behold! yon westering Sun
Flushes the heavens with many-coloured light,
A gorgeous signal that the day is done.
Piled in stupendous masses, many a change,
Wondrous and beautiful, the clouds assume, —
Titanic structures, ever new and strange,
With splendours streaming through their cloven gloom.
Now they are moulded into mountains, rent
And burning to their centres; now they break,
And float apart, like silent ships that seek
Blest isles amid the ethereal element;

SWEET Village, bosomed in " ancestral trees, "
Naked and silent now — I love to come
When, in the summer time, a dubious hum
Floats from the valley on the evening breeze
But thou art ever pleasant; — with what ease
The Parsonage seems to nestle in its nook,
Wearing a calm and comfortable look,
With its bay-windows and quaint cornices!
How well the venerable Church agrees
With all the ancient features of the scene; —
The low, square tower, and through its ivy screen,
The dial, preaching quiet homilies!

H ERE'S the old Mill, shaken, but not outworn,
Which sends its busy " click-clack " down the vale,
Bringing to Fancy fields of waving corn,
Telling of Plenty many a pleasant tale.
'Tis silent now, for, lo! the waters fail;
Yet the blithe Miller, neither hurt nor crossed
By the fantastic doings of John Frost,
Inhales his pipe, and quaffs his horn of ale
At home; or haply to " The Plough " he wends,
Famous for cosy nooks and pots of power —
Where, with a trio of his ancient friends,

B EHOLD our minstrel Robin! trustful, tame,
Bird with the stomacher of glowing hue!
How caught his little breast that badge of flame?
Thus, if old legends tell the story true: —
'Tis said — poetic faith believes the tale —
He drank some blood-drops of that precious Fount

AS farther, farther from the town I go,
And on the loneliest haunts my steps intrude,
The hills in new-donned surplices of snow —
Hills, the old Priesthood of the Solitude —
From their uplifted altars, rent and rude,
Seem preaching to this slumberous grove of pine
Some homily that's wordless, yet divine,
Whereby my listening spirit is subdued.
Whilst, 'mid the calm and congregated trees
(Hooded like friars in their cloisters chill),
Whispers with reverent " Hush! " the languid breeze, —

INFLUENCE OF Nature .

How beautiful is Nature! and how kind,
In every season, every mood and dress,
To him who woos her with an earnest mind, —
Quick to perceive and love her loveliness!
With what a delicate yet mighty stress.
She stills the stormy passions of the soul, —

Nay, if our sins are grown so high of late,
That Heav'n no longer can adjourn our fate;
May't please some milder vengeance to devise,
Plague, Fire, Sword, Dearth, or any thing but this.
Let it rain scalding showres of Brimstone down,
To burn us, as of old the lustful Town:
Let a new deluge overwhelm agen,
And drown at once our Land, and Lives, and Sin.
Thus gladly we'll compound, all this we'll pay,
To have these worst of Ills remov'd away.
Judgments of other kinds are often sent
In mercy onely, not for punishment:

But never more shall I behold those Eyes!
Cold as the Grave, alas, my Fav'rite lies:
No more will she amongst her Fellows play,
And with her mimick Sports, chace my dull Thoughts away.
No more must she — —
But hold fond Maid! left Passion still deceive,
For when her Actions I review,