The Rhode Island American, And General Advertiser

Miscellany.
FOR THE RHODE-ISLAND AMERICAN.
THE COT OF THE HILL.
How blest to the weary yon low cottage looks,
With its forest, and meadows, its garden, and brooks;
Secluded from folly, from falsehood and fame ;
And its neat quiet aspect for ever the same.
Yes, dear to my view is this little retreat,
Where inanimate things thus harmoniously meet;
And each soft shade of green with the pure beams of white,
Makes all the illusion that steals on the sight.
How sacred, to wander, untroubled, at will,
All heaven so glorious, all earth so still;
While day's with full splendour and fresh verdure crown'd,
Or night's holy silence breathes perfumes around.
Will the troubles of life e'er permit me to roam,
In search of a cottage like this, for my home,
Where nature in grandeur and silence pervades,
And speaks to the soul from the depth of her shades?
They'll say that I'm stricken, or selfish; what then?
Why care for the thoughts or the talkings of men?
And how can my joys or my usefulness cease,
When the mind may have impulse, the heart gather peace?
Our youth's full of duties, but if they're discharged,
With an upright intention, a spirit enlarged;
If silence and solitude whisper repose,
Oh! who would deny us this rest to our woes?
How hollow the pleasure, while circling the crowd,
The voice of the flatterer is tedious if loud ;
And I seldom could find in the haunts of the gay,
More comfort or promise than time whiled away.
And idle the meed of distinction must seem,
To those who regard it a wild fever'd dream,
Where phantoms fantastick appear and depart,
And the revel in louder when sickest the heart.
Adieu to the haunts of the light-hearted throng,
And joy to those kind souls who cheev'd me along,
And peace, if there's any, whose bosom, like mine,
Can count each false joy of the worldling decline.
Farewell to the city, farewell to its roar
I pity its victims, its woes I deplore,
And my last humble pittance of Heaven, is still,
To smooth away life in some Cot of the Hill.
My time might be spent, as the seasons depart,
In weeding my garden, in weeding my heart;
Though useless to many, sure some would be yet,
Who'd hallow my grave with a grateful regret.
Oh! who that has strove in the world's sordid chain,
But would fly from the din of the heartless and vain,
And seek for a streamlet of peace, by whose brink,
Some pure drops might bathe off the spots from each link ?
x.
It cannot be charged to us a sin, that a thought of what is evil has passed through our minds. It is in cherishing those thoughts till they become wishes, and those wishes till they ripen into actions, that guilt consists; and there cannot be a higher or nobler effort of virtue; there cannot be a stronger proof of our love to God, and our aspirations after the purity and perfection of his nature, than that we should banish the thought and conquer the desire of evil, as soon as it rises within us.