XXVII.

From Poverty spring half our being's joys!
From her, the luxuries of life arise;

"Tis indigence,-necessity,-employs

The hands that charm our tastes, our ears, our eyes; The impulse that no love of ease destroys,

The power whose inspiration never dies!

She makes the painter toil,-the soldier fight,-
The cook endure the fire,-the author write.

XXVIII.

No footpad takes the pains to dog my path;
No highwayman upon the lonely heath
Thinks me an object worthy of his wrath,-

Who, bad I gold, in change would give me death!
While he the world calls blest, because he hath

What I have not, too soon resigns his breath; When I walk, rest, or sleep, without alarm,My coat a passport and defence from harm.

XXIX.

I need no locks, nor bars, nor bolts at home;
I always find my chattels as I left them;
Fearing no unasked visitors, I roam-

Such as when rich men go abroad have reft them Of worldly goods, whose loss has made them foam; Secured by doors and chains,-till the rogues cleft them:

I have so little moveables in store,

"Twere nothing if I never found them more.

XXX.

There's something charming in variety;

'Tis said so, and I try to find it true:

To gaze on one scene breeds satiety,

And therefore do I often change the view;
I'm seldom long in one society-

Friends, prospects, resting-places ever new;
I'm here to-day,-I'm somewhere else to-morrow;
And manage every-where some charms to borrow.

XXXI.

How many thousands are undone by wealth!
While poorer men are safe, nor scarce can fall;
Gold undermines the morals and the health;
The frantic gamester risks and loses all:
His fortune sinks at once-and not by stealth,
And then he flies to death without his call;
While none to play a game with me would chuse,
Fearful alike if they should win or lose.

XXXII.

And gold not only ruins men, but nations;
The richest states are mostly the least free:
To warlike tribes they hold out such temptations,
That, countless as the sands that skirt the sea,
They march against them, seeking wealth and rations,
Like hungry wolves, where herds and flocks may be :
Your famish'd armies ever are victorious,-

Thus even destitution makes men glorious.

XXXIII.

Ah, Rome! hadst thou been filled with ragged gentry,
And hovels made of mud,-to pomp unknown;
And had thy citizens, instead of plenty,

Not all possess'd one talent of their own,-
The Goths from thy high seat had never rent thee,
Nor come in search of plunder and a throne:
But, being wealthy, thou wast sought and plunder'd ;
Thy people pillaged, and thy empire sunder'd.

XXXIV.

Nature herself has set her curse on gold,
And sterile is the soil where it is found-
Blank, desolate, and barren, though not cold;
Scarce does an eatable adorn the ground*,
Whose depths the precious-evil ore enfold;

While poorer lands see harvests smile around;
So that it scarcely yields the man a supper,
Who acts the part of terra-firma cupper.

XXXV.

Who'd wish to live, when others wish him dead?
The rich are often in this hopeful case;
When nephews-cousins, in expectance bred,
Long for the happy hour to fill his place:
They mark his malady, but not with dread;

And deem that he must soon have run his race:
While he, with nothing to bequeath, may die
Or live, just as he can; none joy, nor cry.

When some rich grey-beard dies, are set by th' ears; Sister hates sister,-brother laws with brother,

And strife bursts forth coeval with their tears:

Th' unequal legacies all fondness sinother,

And heart-congealing gold affection sears; While he who dies and leaves his kindred nought, Is mourn'd, and they in love are closer brought.

* As a fact, true enough-at Icast for poetry.

XXXVII.

Some labour half their pilgrimage below,
As if life were but given to heap up gold;
And scratch, and scrape, and shuffle as they go;
And want and toil endure, and heat and cold,—
Moving the veriest spectacles of woe;

But, growing somewhat wiser when they're old, They turn to spendthrifts when their hairs are grey, And haply live to waste the whole away.

XXXVIII.

Some count the greatest grief of life, taxation;
Paying for horses, dogs, and mules, like asses;
And servants,-threefold objects of vexation;
Their drinks are tax'd, even to their very glasses;
And carriages, that only breed laxation;

And thus their money like a vapour passes! · Why let them wince-my "withers are unwrung!" I move, untax'd, a taxed host among.

XXXIX.

That law's a torment is by all confest ;
A fever and an àgue mix'd in one:
The man, who wealth or credit once possest,
It follows up, till he must hide or run ;
It gives its victim neither peace nor rest,
Till he is what the world calls fairly done;
When lost within its everlasting mazes,
The most deplorable on earth his case is.

XL.

Where there is little wealth, the suit soon ends;
But writs, demurrers, pleadings, declarations,
Lengthen when lawyers have substantial friends,
Who pay for the aforesaid cogitations-
Which he's a cunning man who comprehends,
With all their technical reiterations ;
Until at last the equal chance is, whether
Life, suit, and fortune, may not end together.

XLI.

The know nothing of this paper woepoor

For, in the first place, none will give them credit; And, in the second, if they should, they know

That, as for suing, they have cause to dread it ; For then their money would not come-but goAnd few, in losing law-suits, care to spread it: Thus debtors, without cash, or house, or land, May safe 'midst lawyers, bailiffs, jailors stand.

XLII.

A writer says, when he beholds a table

Cover'd with many and luxurious dishes,

To which the guests do honour while they're able;
He sees there lurk, 'midst pies, meats, soups, and fishes,
All sorts of maladies, (and 'tis no fable—)

For, while they charm their epicurean wishes,
They quickly bring themselves to that condition,
That makes a good long bill to their physician.
XLIII.

Then, by the way of change, as I suppose,
Or, that the next feast may not want a zest ;
They breakfast, dine, and sup too, upon those
Unpalatable things by doctors prest

Upon unwilling patients-mortal foes

To stomachs that still doat upon the best;
For pills, draughts, powders, make but sorry fare
For those who turtle,-venison,-love to share.

XLIV.

And that's the reason why their customers
Are term'd so aptly patients,-they endure
The nauseous stuff so long, that it infers
A stock of patience, never ending, pure;
Not that I mean the doctor e'er defers
Beyond a reasonable time the cure,

Which would be libelling a whole profession,-
That's left to individual confession!

XLV.

Where there is money, doctors will send physic,
And rich folk, being nervous, take it too;
Until at last the patient really is sick,

And then the case goes regularly through:
I want none,-know not colic, gout, nor phthisic;
Nature is my physician, safe and true;

And each prescription that she sends me nice is,
And always bears me safely through the crisis.

XLVI.

It often strikes me that the Chinese way
Of paying a physician is the best;
'Tis a good plan to say-no cure, no pay;

Their's is still better, as must be confest;
They only pay them when they're well,-the day
That they fall sick, their pension is suppress'd;
Hence they make quick despatch with each disorder,
And sooner put their patients in good order.

XLVII.

Short meals, the doctors tell us, sharpen wit;
And hence the poor have always their's at hand,
And mostly in perfection, as is fit,-

Seeing it serves in place of house or land:

The rich, when they have dined, will sometimes sit
As lifeless as a fish upon the strand !;

While I, by chance it happens, miss a dinner,

Yet feel not much the worse, nor much the thinner.

XLVIII.

If every station has its share of bliss,

Then what is pleasure, differs but in name;
There's joy for all in such a world as this-
In luxury or temperance, 'tis the same-
Enjoyment is but what we think it is;

And I have mine, though some may deem it lame :
The high, the low, have each their separate joys;
Those of the poor, no poverty destroys.

XLIX.

But here we close the theme-perchance too long;
It will not tempt the rich to cast away
The treasures that they hold with grasp so strong;
But it may show, in fancy's idle play,
That there are joys the poorest ranks among,
That poverty may have it's summer day;

If nothing wont content us, yet a little

May make us blest-with raiment, home, and victual.

J. B.

DISCUSSION ON THE USURY LAWS.

THIS subject was several years ago powerfully investigated by Mr. Bentham, in a treatise, entitled "the Defence of Usury." An able and elaborate article has also been written upon it in the Supplement to the Encyclopædia Britannica:" and it has peculiarly engaged the public attention by the annual introduction into parliament of a bill to repeal the whole of the laws which limit the rate of interest.

Although the question may not be very interesting in a literary aspect, it is obviously of the first importance to the public interest; and, more or less, to every individual in the country.