While each contracts its bounds, or wider grows, The roving Gaul, to his own bounds restrain'd, Such are th' effects of Anna's royal cares: By her, Britannia, great in foreign wars, Ranges through nations, wheresoe'er disjoin'd, Without the wonted aid of sea and wind. By her th' unfetter'd Ister's states are free, And taste the sweets of English liberty. But who can tell the joys of those that lie Beneath the contant influence of her eye! Whilst in diffusive showers her bounties fall Like Heaven's indulgence, and descend on all, Secure the happy, succor the distrest, Make every subject glad, and a whole people blest Of Marlborough's sword and Hochtste's fatal plain: And round the hero cast a borrow'd blaze. In vain Britannia's mighty chief besets Austria's young monarch, whose imperial sway Taught by his counsels, by his actions warm'd, O'er mines and caves of death provokes the fight, The British chief, for mighty toils renown'd, Increas'd in titles, and with conquests crown'd, To Belgian coasts his tedious march renews, And the long windings of the Rhine pursues, Clearing its borders from usurping foes, And blest by rescued nations as he goes. Treves fears no more, freed from its dire alarms; And Traerbach feels the terror of his arms: Seated on rocks her proud foundations shake, While Marlborough presses to the bold attack. Plants all his batteries, bids his cannon roar, And shows how Landau might have fall'n before. Scar'd at his near approach, great Louis fears Vengeance reserv'd for his declining years, Forgets his thirst of universal sway, And scarce can teach his subjects to obey; His arms he finds on vain attempts employ'd, Th' ambitious projects for his race destroy'd, The works of ages sunk in one campaign, And lives of millions sacrific'd in vain. Marlborough's exploits appear divinely bright, And those who paint them truest praise them most TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER, ON HIS PICTURE OF THE KING. KNELLER, with silence and surprise O may I live to hail the day, The image on the medal plac'd, Thou, Kneller, long with noble pride Thy pencil has, by monarchs sought, From reign to reign in ermine wrought, And, in the robes of state array'd, The kings of half an age display'd. Here swarthy Charles appears, and there Wise Phidias thus, his skill to prove, Great Pan, who wont to chase the fair, And mighty Mars, for war renown'd, By him the childless goddess rose, Her twisted threads; the web she strung, Her short-liv'd darling son to mourn. PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII. THE Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care; His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye: My noonday walks he shall attend, And all my midnight hours defend. When in the sultry glebe I faint, Though in the paths of death I tread, Though in a bare and rugged way, AN ODE. THE spacious firmament on high, Soon as the evening shades prevail, What though in solemn silence all "The hand that made us is divine!" ISAAC WATTS. ISAAC WATTS was born at Southampton, July 17, 1674. He was sent to an Independent academy in London, where he injured his health by hard study. In 1696 he became a private tutor at Stoke-Newington, and in 1702 minister of an Independent church in Mark Lane. In 1712 he was prostrated by an illness from which he never thoroughly recovered, and he then found a home with Sir Thomas Abney, at Theobald's, where he resided until his death, November 25, 1748. He wrote numerous theological works, which have long since gone out of print, and a treatise on logic which held a place much longer, but that also is now almost forgotten. He is remembered by his hymns, which, in nearly all our church collections, are more numerous than those of any other author. The latest edition of his Hora Lyrice was published in 1837, with a memoir by Southey. While the vast majority of Watts's hymns are of little account considered as poetry, some of them have the lyric inspiration, as well as religious fervor, and will be sung as long as music has any part in public worship. THOMAS PARNELL. THOMAS PARNELL was born in Dublin in 1679, and was educated at the university there. He took orders at an early age, and in 1705 was made Archdeacon of Clogher. About this time he married Miss Anne Minchin, who was famous for her beauty. Though a native Irishman, he had little regard for any thing in that country, and spent most of his time in London, where he preached frequently, and was, admired for his oratory and petted in literary circles. At first he was intimate with the Whigs; but when that party was going out of power, he transferred his friendship to the Tories. Though he had inherited two good estates, one in Cheshire and | one in Ireland, and had the revenue of his bene. fices besides, he lived beyond his means in the metropolis, courting preferment, but getting only the vicarage of Finglass, which Swift recommended him to. The death of his wife, in 1712, was a severe affliction, and he fell into intem. perate habits, and died at Chester in July, 1717. Parnell was the author of some papers in the "Spectator" and the "Guardian," and of several poems which are distinguished for their harmonious versification and pleasing tone. The best known of them is "The Hermit." They were collected and published by Pope, and an enlarged edition was issued at Dublin in 1758. A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH. By the blue taper's trembling light, No more I waste the wakeful night, Intent with endless view to pore The schoolmen and the sages o'er: Their books from wisdom widely stray, Or point at best the longest way. I'll seek a readier path, and go Where wisdom's surely taught below. How deep yon azure dyes the sky! Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, While through their ranks in silver pride The nether crescent seems to glide. The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake is smooth and clear beneath, Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds, which on the right aspire, In dimness from the view retire: The left presents a place of graves, Whose wall the silent water laves. That steeple guides thy doubtful sight Among the livid gleams of night. There pass with melancholy state By all the solemn heaps of Fate, as softly sad you tread And think, Above the venerable dead, Time was, like thee, they life possest, And time shall be, that thou shalt rest. Those with bending osier bound, That nameless heave the crumbled ground, Quick to the glancing thought disclose, Where toil and poverty repose. The flat smooth stones that bear a name The chisel's slender help to fame, The marble tombs that rise on high, All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds, And all with sober accent cry, Think, mortal, what it is to die." Now from yon black and funeral yew, (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din, |