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:-
Mark how it mounts to man's imperial race,-
From the green myriads in the peopled grass:-
What modes of sight betwixt each wide ex-
treme,

The mole's dim curtain,-and the lynx's beam;-
Of smell,-the head-long lioness between,
And hound sagacious on the tainted green;-
Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood,-
To that which warbles through the vernal wood,,
The spider's touch how exquisitely fine!
Feels at each thread,-and lives along the line:-
In the nice bee,-what sense so subtly true,
From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew!
How instinct varies in the groveling swine,
Compared,-half-reasoning elephant,-with thine!
T'wixt that and reason-what a nice barrier,-
For ever separate,-yet for ever near !
Remembrance and reflection how allied!
What thin partitions sense from thought divide,
And middle natures-how they long to join!-
Yet never pass the insuperable line!
Without this just gradation-could they be
Subjected, these to those, or all to thee?
The powers of all subdued by thee alone,-
Is not thy reason all these powers in one?
РОРЕ..

Before the pilgrims part,-the younger crept
Near the clos'd cradle, where an infant slept,
And writh'd his neck-the landlord's little pride,-
O strange return !-grew black,-and gasp'd-and

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
Life called for her last refuge in despair!
For what calls thy disease? for moral aid.-
Thou think'st it folly to be wise too soon.
Youth is not rich in time ;-it may be poor :-
Part with it-as with money, sparing;-pay
No moment, but in purchase of its worth:-
And what it's worth,-ask death-beds:-they can
tell.

YOUNG.

Night,-sable power!-from her ebon throne,
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world.-
Silence,-how dead,-and darkness,-how profound!
Nor eye,-nor list'ning ear, an object finds :-
Creation sleeps.-"Tis as the gen❜ral pulse
Of life stood still;-and nature made a pause,—
An awful pause! prophetic of her end.

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!-
Who on this earth,-whate'er his envy'd state,
Can hope that joy will long upon him wait?
Is empire his pursuit ?- why-let him reign
In gorgeous luxury,-he'll find it vain ;-
Does he love beauty?-lo! the brilliant eye,-
The crimson cheek,-how soon does time destroy!
RHODES.

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
Their blazing magazines;-and take by storm
This poor terrestrial citadel of man.

Amazing period !--when each mountain height
Out burns Vesuvius ;-rocks eternal pour
Their melted mass,-as rivers once they pour'd ;-
Stars rush; and final ruin fiercely drives
Her ploughshare o'er creation!—while aloft
More than astonishment !-if more can be!
Far other firmament than e'er was seen,-
Than e'er was thought by man! far other stars!
Stars animate, that govern these of fire;-

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;