creation,-who can suspect, that it is not the. production of Infinite Benignity and Goodness. How many clear marks of benevolent intentions appear every where around us! What a profusion of beauty and ornament is poured forth on the face of nature! What a magnificent spectacle presented to the view of man! What a variety of objects set before him, to gratify his senses,-to employ his understanding,―to entertain his imagination,-to cheer and gladden his heart! Indeed the very existence of the universe is a standing memorial of the goodness of the Creator. Could we draw back the covering of the tomb;-could we discern what those are now who once were mortals-O! how would it surprise and grieve us!-surprise us,-to behold the prodigious transformation which has taken place in every individual;-grieve us,-to observe the dishonour done to our nature in general within these subterraneous lodgments! O! the perplexity! the distraction, that must seize the impenitent rebels when they are summoned to the great tribunal! What will they do in this day of severe visitation,-this day of final decision? Where? how? whence can they find help? To which of the saints will they turn? Whither betake themselves for shelter or for succour? Alas! 'tis all in vain! 'tis all too late! Friends and acquaintance know them no more; men and angels abandon them to their approaching doom; even the Mediator himself deserts them in this dreadful hour. To flywill be impracticable-to justify themselves, still more impossible - and now, to make any supplications,-utterly unavailable. Far as creation's ample range extends, The scale of sensual,-mental powers ascends:- The mole's dim curtain,-and the lynx's beam;- Before the pilgrims part,-the younger crept died. Horror of horrors! what! his only son! How look'd our hermit when the deed was done! PARNELL. How late I shudder'd on the brink! how late YOUNG. Night,-sable power!-from her ebon throne, YOUNG. Ye generous youth who love this studious shade, How rich a field is to your hopes display'd! Knowledge to you unlocks the classic page;And virtue blossoms for a better age. Oh golden days! Oh bright unvalued hours! What bliss (did you but know that bliss) were yours! BARBAULD. These are thy glorious works,-Parent of good!Almighty!-Thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair!-Thyself how wondrous then! Unspeakable !-who sitt'st above these heav'ns! To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowliest works!-yet these declare Thy GOODNESS beyond thought,-and POW'R divine! MILTON. Ah, human glories,- pomp,- and pride,- and pow'r! What are ye all?—the bubbles of an hour!- THE LAST DAY. -At the destin'd hour, By the loud trumpet summon'd to the charge, See,-all the formidable sons of fire, Eruptions, earthquake, – comets, - light'nings, play Their various engines ;-all at once discharge Amazing period !--when each mountain height Soon after, I proposed prayer-" Pray you that can-I never prayed. I cannot pray-nor need I. Is not Heaven on my side already? It closes with my conscience. Its severest strokes but second my own." Observing that his friend was much touched at this, even to tears-(who could forbear? I could not)-with a most affectionate look, he said, "Keep those tears for thyself, I have undone thee. Dost thou weep for me? That is cruel. What can pain me more.” Here his friend,-too much affected-would have left him." No stay-thou still mayst hope; therefore hear me. How madly have I talked! How madly hast thou listened,-and believed!-but look on my present state,-as a full answer to thee, and to myself. This body is all weakness and pain;-but my soul, as if stung up by torment to greater strength and spirit, is full powerful to reason; full mighty to suffer. And that, which thus triumphs within the jaws of immortality, is doubtless immortal. -And, as for a Deity,-nothing less than Almighty could inflict what I feel.” I was about to congratulate this passive,involuntary confessor, on his asserting the two prime articles of his creed,-extorted by the rack of nature, when he thus very passionately exclaimed;-No, no!-let me speak on. I have not long to speak.-My much injured friend! my soul,-as my body, lies in ruins; in scattered fragments of broken thought.-Remorse for the past throws my thought on the future. Worse dread of the future, strikes it back on the past. I turn and turn, and find no ray. Didst thou feel half the mountain that is on me,- thou wouldst struggle with the martyr for his stake; |