Literary Cadet, And Saturday Evening Bulletin

RICHES, PLEASURE AND GLORY.

O haste not to the gilded shrine,
Where Fortune throws her favours round!
Let nobler views thy soul incline
To turn where brighter honors shine,
And truer wealth is found.

O seek not for the rosy bower,
Where Pleasure fills the sparkling bowl:
O yield not to her witching power—
For when she gives her richest dower,
She claims the captive soul.

And think not yonder brilliant scene,
Illumed by Hope, all meant for thee:
The darkest clouds will intervene,
And grief appear where Joy has been.
And frowning Misery.

Tempt not the wild and steep ascent,
Where proud Ambition waves her plume;
There Guilt may scowl, or Care torment,
Repentance raise the vain lament,
And malice seal thy doom.

O do not think that Glory's crest,
Though bright it shines, brings nought of care;
Bliss never builds its halcyon rest
On wild ambition's stormy breast;
Nor sheds its radiance there.

Then what is all that mortals deem
Enchanting, lovely, bright, or dear?
Life's gayest space Fancy's dream—
Its brightest glance a fading beam,
Dissolving in a tear.

All things on earth must change or die;
That beautiful but drooping flower,
In beauty's fairest, freshest dye,
When morning open'd met the eye,
But faded in an hour.

Still cruel disappointment tries
To stab young Hope when up she springs;
Or if, indeed, too high she flies,
She bids her blackest clouds arise,
And round her tempests flings.

O Life is but a winter scene!—
A thorny, wild, and toilsome way,
With some sweet spots of cheering green,
Or sunny hours that intervene,
To break the clouds away.

But never were the trifles here
Designed to satisfy the mind;
This spirit, in its high career,
Is fashioned for a nobler sphere,
And will not be confined.