jgunfloSxifr. 
105 
Think’st thou the man whose mansions hold 
The worldling’s pride, the miser’s gold, 
Obtains a richer prize 
Than he who in his cot, at rest, 
Finds heavenly peace a willing guest, 
And bears the earnest in his breast 
Of treasure in the skies ? 
Mrs. Sigourney. 
Is all that heart requires, accomplished when 
A heap of wealth is gathered at our door ? 
How thirsts the yearning soul for something more, 
Some good that lies beyond its keenest ken! 
MacKellar. 
Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine ? 
Can we dig peace, or wisdom, from the mine ? 
Wisdom to gold prefer: for ’tis much less 
To make our fortune, than our happiness. 
Young. 
It’s no in titles nor in rank; 
It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank, 
To purchase peace and rest; 
It’s no in making muckle mair: 
It’s no in books : it’s no in lear, 
To make us truly blest: 
If happiness hae not her seat 
And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest. 
Bums. 
