6 Not minds of melancholy strain, Still silent, or that still complain, Can the dear bondage bless: As well may heavenly concerts spring From two old lutes with ne'er a string, Or none besides the bass. 7 Nor can the soft enchantments hold Two jarring souls of angry mould, The rugged and the keen: Samson's young foxes might as well In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, With firebrands tied between. 8 Nor let the cruel fetters bind A gentle to a savage mind, For love abhors the sight: Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, For native rage and native fear Rise and forbid delight. 9 Two kindest souls alone must meet; 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, And feeds their mutual loves: Bright Venus on her rolling throne Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, And Cupids yoke the doves. THE SLUGGARD. 1 'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, 'You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.' As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head. 2 'A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;' Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands, Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands. 3 I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier, The thorn and thistle grew broader and higher; The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags, And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs. 4 I made him a visit, still hoping to find He had took better care for improving his mind; He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking, But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking. 5 Said I then to my heart, 'Here's a lesson for me: That man's but a picture of what I might be; But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.' THE ROSE. 1 How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower! The glory of April and May! But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day. 2 Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, Above all the flowers of the field: When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield! 3 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, Though they bloom and look gay like the rose: But all our fond care to preserve them is vain; Time kills them as fast as he goes. 4 Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty, Since both of them wither and fade: But gain a good name by well doing my duty; This will scent, like a rose, when I'm dead. A CRADLE HYMN. 1 Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.