And while remarking upon the poet, we may notice that many of his pieces reflect that quiet scholarly spirit of the age, in which not only Watts, but so many other writers delighted to indulge; that Seneca-like musing and moralizing, that contented dreaming beneath umbrageous woods and by the side of purling streams. It has been said that Samuel Rogers, in his “Human Life,” portrays the Twickenham side of existence. The Stoke Newington side was very much like it, certainly wholly unlike the stir and heat of the vivid passions, the painful introspections, and diseased musings, which have forced their way into modern poetry. If Watts described or dealt with these it was not in his verse, although many of his prose writings seem to reveal that he was not ignorant of them; such is his often quoted piece: TRUE RICHES. I am not concerned to know What, to-morrow, fate will do: ’Tis enough that I can say, I’ve possessed myself to-day: Then, if haply midnight death Seize my flesh, and stop my breath, Yet to-morrow I shall be Heir to the best part of me. Glittering stones, and golden things, Wealth and honours that have wings, Ever fluttering to be gone, I could never call my own: Riches that the world bestows, She can take, and I can lose; But the treasures that are mine Lie afar beyond her line. When I view my spacious soul, And survey myself a whole, And enjoy myself alone, I’m a kingdom of my own. I’ve a mighty part within That the world hath never seen, Rich as Eden’s happy ground, And with choicer plenty crowned. Here on all the shining boughs Knowledge fair and useful grows; On the same young flow’ry tree All the seasons you may see; Notions in the bloom of light, Just disclosing to the sight; Here are thoughts of larger growth, Rip’ning into solid truth; Fruits refined, of noble taste; Seraphs feed on such repast. Here, in a green and shady grove, Streams of pleasure mix with love: There, beneath the smiling skies, Hills of contemplation rise; Now, upon some shining top, Angels light, and call me up; I rejoice to raise my feet, Both rejoice when there we meet. There are endless beauties more Earth hath no resemblance for; Nothing like them round the pole, Nothing can describe the soul. ’Tis a region half unknown, That has treasures of its own, More remote from public view Than the bowels of Peru; Broader ’tis, and brighter far, Than the golden Indies are; Ships that trace the watery stage Cannot coast it in an age; Harts, or horses, strong and fleet, Had they wings to help their feet, Could not run it half-way o’er In ten thousand days or more.