lamps,

For ever streaming o'er the azure deep
To point our path and light us to our home.
How soft they slide along their lucid spheres!
And, silent as the foot of time, fulfil
Their destin'd courses: Nature's self is hush'd,
And, but a scatter'd leaf which rustles through|
The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard
To break the midnight air; though the rais'd
ear,

Intensely list'ning, drinks in ev'ry breath.
How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise!
But are they silent all? or is there not
A tongue in ev'ry star that talks with man,
And wooes him to be wise? nor wooes in vain.
This dead of midnight is the noon of thought,
And wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars.
At this still hour the self-collected soul
Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there
Of high descent and more than mortal rank;
An embryo God; a spark of fire divine,
Which must burn on for ages, when the sun
(Fair transitory creature of a day)
Has clos'd his golden eye, and, wrapt in shades,
Forgets his wonted journey through the east.
Ye citadels of light, and seats of Gods!
Perhaps my future home, from whence the
soul,

Revolving periods past, may oft look back,
With recollected tenderness, on all
The various busy scenes she left below,
Its deep-laid projects and its strange events,
As on some fond and doting tale that sooth'd
Her infant hours-O be it lawful now

To tread the hallow'd circle of your courts,
And with mute wonder and delighted awe
Approach your burning confines !-Seiz'd in
thought,

On fancy's wild and roving wing I sail
From the green borders of the peopled earth,
And the pale moon, her duteous fair at-
tendant;

From solitary Mars; from the vast orb
Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk
Dances in ether like the lightest leaf;
To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system,
Where cheerless Saturn, 'midst his wat'ry
moons,

Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp,
Sits like an exil'd monarch; fearless thence
I launch into the trackless deeps of space,
Where, burning round, ten thousand suns
appear,

Of elder beam; which ask no leave to shine
Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light
From the proud regent of our scanty day;
Sons of the morning, first-born of creation,
And only less than him who marks their
track,
[stop,
And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I
Or is there aught beyond? What hand un-

seen

Impels me onward thro' the glowing orbs Of habitable nature, far remote,

To solitudes of vast unpeopled space,
The deserts of creation, wide and wild,
Where embryo systems and unkindled suns
Sleep in the womb of chaos? Fancy droops,
And thought astonish'd stops her bold career.
But, oh thou mighty Mind! whose pow'rful

word

Said, Thus let all things be, and thus they were, [blam'd Where shall I seek thy presence? how unInvoke thy dread perfection?[thee? Have the broad eyelids of the morn beheld Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion Support thy throne? O look with pity down On erring, guilty man! not in thy names Of terror clad; not with those thunders arm'd That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appail'd The scatter'd tribes! Thou hast a gentler voice

That whispers comfort to the swelling heart, Abash'd, yet longing to behold her Maker.

But now my soul, unus'd to stretch her

O THOU, the Nymph with placid eye! O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temp'rate vow.
Not all the storms that shake the pole,
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,

And smooth unalter'd brow.
O come, in simple vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd,

To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,

And chaste subdu'd delight.
No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet

To find thy hermit cell; Where in some pure and equal sky, Beneath thy soft indulgent eye The modest virtues dwell. Simplicity in Attic vest, And Innocence with candid breast, And clear undaunted eye; And Hope, who points to distant years, Fair op'ning through this vale of tears A vista to the sky.

There Health, through whose calm
The temp'rate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;
And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek

To meet the offer'd blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to meet ;
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.
But thou, O Nymph, retir'd and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy

To tell thy tender tale?
The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet blossom round,
And lily of the vale.

O say what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy pow'r,
And court thy gentle sway?
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,

And shed thy milder day:
When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,

And every storm is laid;

If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice,

Low whisp'ring through the shade.

32. To Wisdom. MRS. BARBAULD. O WISDOM, if thy soft control Can sooth the sickness of the soul, Can bid the warring passions cease, And breathe the calm of tender peace: Wisdom! I bless thy gentle sway, And ever, ever will obey.

But if thou com'st with frown austere
To nurse the brood of care and fear;
To bid our sweetest passions die,
And leave us in their room a sigh;
Or if thine aspect stern have pow'r

To wither each poor transient flow'r
That cheers this pilgrimage of woe,

Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sick'ning scenes appear?
What sorrows yet may pierce me through,
Too justly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing
Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here shall close ne'er,
But with the closing tomb!
Happy! ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!

Ev'n when the wished end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,

Meet ev'ry sad returning night
And joyless morn the same.
You, bustling and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I, listless yet restless,

Find ev'ry prospect vain.
How blest the Solitary's lot,
Who all-forgetting, all-forgot,
Within his humble cell,
The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!

Or haply to his ev'ning thought,
By unfrequented stream,

The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint-collected dream :

While praising, and raising

His thoughts to Heav'n on high,
As wand'ring, meand'ring,

He views the solemn sky.

Than I, no lonely Hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac'd,
Less fit to play the part,
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop and just to move,

With self-respecting art:

Wisdom, thine empire I disclaim,
Thou empty boast of pompous name!
In gloomy shade of cloisters dwell,
But never haunt my cheerful cell.
Hail to pleasure's frolic train!
Hail to fancy's golden reign!
Festive mirth and laughter wild,
Free and sportful as the child!
Hope with eager sparkling eyes,
And easy faith and fond surprise!

Let these, in fairy colors drest,

For ever share my careless breast:
Then, tho' wise I may not be,
The wise themselves shall envy me.

33. Despondency. An Ode. BURNS. OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care, A burden more than I can bear,

Which I too keenly taste,
The Solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate!
Whilst I here, must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate!

Oh! enviable early days,

When dancing thoughtless Pleasure's maze,
To Care, to Guilt unknown!
How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies or the crimes

Of others, or my own!
Ye tiny elves, that guiltless sport
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man, whose aged step

Seem'd weary worn with care;

His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

'Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ?' Began the reverend sage;

'Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage?

Or, haply, press'd with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man.

"The Sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.
'O man! while in thy early years
How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime !
Alternate follies take the sway!
Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force gives nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

'Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn;
Then age and want, O ill-match'd pair!
Show man was made to mourn.

A few seem favorites of fate,
In pleasure's lap caress'd;
Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly bless'd.
But, oh! what crowds in ev'ry land,
Are wretched and forlorn!
Through weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.
'Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame;
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame;
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

'See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,

So abject, mean and vile,

Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,
By Nature's law design'd,
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn?

Or why has man the will and pow'r
To make his fellow mourn?
'Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man,
Had never, sure, been born,

Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

O death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn:
But, oh! a bless'd relief to those
That weary-laden mourn!'

$35. The Frailty and Folly of Man. PRIOR. GREAT Heav'n! how frail thy creature Man is made!

How by himself insensibly betray'd!

In our own strength unhappily secure,
Too little cautious of the adverse pow'r ;
And, by the blast of self-opinion mov'd,
We wish to charm, and seek to be belov'd,
On pleasure's flow'ry brink we idly stray,
Masters as yet of our returning way:
Seeing no danger we disarm our mind,
And give our conduct to the waves and wind:
Then in the flow'ry mead, or verdant shade,
To wanton dalliance negligently laid,
We weave the chaplet, and we crown the
And smiling see the nearer waters roll; [bowl,
Till the strong gusts of raging passion rise,
Till the dire tempest mingles earth and skies;
And, swift into the boundless ocean borne,
Our foolish confidence too late we mourn:
Round our devoted heads the billows beat;
And from our troubled view the lessen'd lands
retreat.

§36. Charity: A Paraphrase on 1 Cor. XIII. PRIOR.

DID Sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue
Than ever man pronounc'd or angel sung;
Had I all knowledge, human and divine,
That thought can reach or science can define

But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,

39. The Rose. WATTS.

How fair is the Rose! what a beautiful flow'r ! The glory of April and May!

ant,

[want, If I take not due care for the things I shall Nor provide against dangers in time: When death or old age shall stare in my face,

Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flow'rs of the field:
When its leaves are all dead, and fine colors
are lost,

Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
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

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.

$40. The Rose. CowPER.

THE rose had been washed, just washed in a
Which Mary to Anna conveyed, [shower,
The plentiful moisture incumbered the flower,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cup was all filled, and the leaves were
And it seemed, to a fanciful view, [all wet;
To weep for the buds it had left with regret,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapped it, it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resigned.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner a while, And the tear, that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile.

41. The Ant, or Emmet. Watts. THESE emmets, how little they are in our eyes! [dies, We tread them to dust and a troop of them Without our regard or concern:

Yet as wise as we are, if we went to their school,

There's many a sluggard, and many a fool,
Some lessons of wisdom might learn.

If I trifle away all their prime! [days, Now, now, while my strength and my youth [shall come, Let me think what will serve me when sickness And pray that my sins be forgiven:

are in bloom,

Let me read in good books, and believe and obey, [of clay, That, when death turns me out of this cottage I may dwell in a palace in heaven.

§ 42. A Summer Evening. Watts. How fine has the day been, how bright was the sun.

How lovely and joyful the course that he run, Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun,

And there followed some droppings of rain! But now the fair traveller's come to the west, His rays all are gold, and his beauties are best; He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest, And foretels a bright rising again. Just such is the Christian: his course he begins, Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins, [shines, And melts into tears; then he breaks out and But, when he comes nearer to finish his race And travels his heavenly way: Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace And gives a sure hope at the end of his days Of rising in brighter array!

$43. Cupio dissolvi. HABINGTON. THE Soul, which doth with God unite, Those gaieties how doth she slight

Which o'er opinion sway!
Like sacred virgin wax, which shines
On altars, or on martyrs' shrines,
How doth she burn away!
How violent are her throes, till she
From envious earth deliver'd be,

Which doth her flight restrain!
How doth she dote on whips and racks,
On fires, and the so dreaded axe,
And ev'ry murd'ring pain!
How soon she leaves the pride of wealth
The flatteries of youth and health,

And fame's more precious breath;
And ev'ry gaudy circumstance,
That doth the pomp of life advance,
At the approach of death?