and her Song kindles into Ardor; the Tone is fo bold, and ftrikes with fuch Energy, that you would imagine the fprightly Serenader in the very next Thicket. Anon, the Strain languishes, and the mournful Minftrel melts into Tendernefs. The melancholy Notes just steal upon the Shades, and faintly touch your Ear; or, in soft and fadly-pleasing Accents, seem to die along the diftant Vale. Silence is all Attention, and Night liftens to the trilling Tale.

WHAT an Invitation is this, to flip away from the thronged City! This coy and modeft Minstrel entertains only the Lovers of Retirement. Thofe, that are caroufing over their Bowls, or ranting at the riotous Club, lofe this Feaft of Harmony. In like manner, the Pleasures of Religion; the Joy of Reconciliation with GOD; the Satisfactions arifing from the unbounded, ravifhing, Profpect of a blissful Immortality; these are all loft to the Mind that is ever in the Croud; and dares not, or delights not, to retire inte itself. Are we charmed with the Nightingale's Song? Do we wish to have it nearer, and hear it oftner? O let us feek a renewed Heart, and a refigned Will; a Confcience that whispers Peace, and Paffions that are tuned by Grace; then, fhall we never want a Melody in our own Breafts, far more mufically pleafing than fweet Philomela's fweetest Strains.

VOL. II.

F

As

As different as the Voices of these Birds, are the Circumftances of thofe few Mortals, who continue awake.----Some are squandering, Pearls, fhall I fay, or Kingdoms? No; but what is unfpeakably more precious, Time. Squandering this ineftimable Talent, with the moft fenfelefs and wanton Prodigality. Not content with allowing a few fpare Minutes, for the Purpose of neceffary Recreation; they lavifh many Hours, devote whole Nights, to that idle Diverfion of Shuffling, ranging, and detaching, a Set of painted Pafteboards. Others, inftead of this bufy Trifling, act the Part of their own Tormentors. They even picquet themselves, and call it Amusement; they are torn by wild Horfes, and yet term it a Sport. What elfe is the Gamefter's Practice; while his Mind is held in the most anxious Sufpenfe, and agitated by the fierceft Extremes of Hope and Fear? While the Dice are rattling, his Heart is throbbing; his Fortune is tottering; and, poffibly, at the very next Throw, the one finks in the Gulph of Ruin, the other is burried into the Rage of Diftraction.

SOME, fnatched from the Bloom of Health, and the Lap of Plenty, are confined to the Chamber of Sickness. Where they are conftrained

* In Allufion to a very painful Punishment, in Aicted on Delinquents among the Soldiery.

O fad Alternative!) either to plunge into the everlasting World, in an unprepared Condition; or elfe, to think over all the Follies of a heedlefs Life, and all the Bitterness of approaching Death. The Disease rages; it baffles the Force of Medicine; and urges the reluctant Wretch to the Brink of the Precipice. While Furies rouse the Confcience, and point at the bottomless Pit bedow.-Perhaps, his drooping Mother, deprived long ago of the Hufband of her Bofom; and bereft of all her other Offspring; is, even now, receiving the Blow which confummates her Milfortunes *. In vain she tries to affwage the SorF.2

rows

This brings to my Mind one of the the deepest and moft affecting Mourning-Pieces, extant in Writing. The facred Hiftorian paints it in all the Simplicity of Stile, and yet in all the Strength of Colouring.

When JESUS came nigh to the Gate of the City, behold! there was a dead Man carried out, the only Son of his Mother, and he was a Widow.. What a beautiful Gradation is here? Every fresh Circumftance is an additional Aggravation of the Calamity: "Till, at length, the Defcription is worked up into the most finished Picture, of exquifite and inconfolable Diftrefs. He was a young Man; cut off in the Flower of Life, amidst a Thousand gay Expectations, and fmiling Hopes.-He was an only Son; the afflicted Mother's All: So that none rer mained to preserve the Name, or perpetuate the Family.And, what rendered the Cafe ftill more deplorable, She was a Widow; left intirely defolate; abandoned to her Woes, without any to share her

Sorrows,

rows of a beloved Son; in vain fhe attempts, with her tender Offices, to prolong a Life, dearer than her own. He faints in her Arms; he bows his Head; he drops in Death. The laft Pang, which diflodges the unwilling Soul, rends an only Child, from the yearning Embraces of a Parent; and tears away the Support of her Age, from a difconfolate Widow.

WHILE Thofe long for a Reprieve, Other's invite the Stroke. Quite weary of the World, with a restless Impatience, they figh for Diffolution. Some, pining away under the tedious Decays of an incurable Confumption; or gasping for Breath, and almoft fuffocated, amidst an Inundation of dropfical Waters. On fome a relentless Cancer has fastened its envenomed Teeth; and is gnawing them, though in the midst of bodily Vigour, in the midst of pitying Friends, gradually to Death. Others are on a Rack of Agonies, by convulfive Fits of the Stone: O how the Pain writhes their Limbs; how the Sweat bedews their Flesh; and their Eye-Balls wildly roll! Methinks, the Night condoles with thefe her diftreffed Children, and sheds dewy Tears

Sorrows, or comfort her under her Misfortunes. It not this a fine Sketch of the Picturesque? Who can confider the Narrative with any Attention, and not feel his Heart penetrated with a tender Commifaration? Luke vii. 12.

Tears over their forrowful Abodes.-But, of all Mortals, They are the moft exquifitely miferable, who groan beneath the Pressure of a melancholy Mind, or fmart under the Lashes of a refentful Confcience. Though robed in Ermine, or covered with Jewels, the State of a Slave chained to the Gallies, or of an Exile condemned to the Mines, is a perfect Paradife compared with theirs.

O! that the Votaries of Mirth, whofe Life is a continued Round of Merriment and Whim, would beftow one ferious Reflection on this Variety of human Woes. It might render them lefs enamoured with the few languid Sweets, that are thinly scattered through this Vale of Tears, and are invironed with such a Multitude of ragged Thorns. It might teach them, no longer to dance away their Years, with a giddy rambling Impulfe; but to afpire, with a determined Aim, after those happy Regions, where Delights unmingled flow.

CAN there be Circumstances, which a Man of Wisdom would more earnestly deprecate, than these several Cafes of grievous Tribulation? There are; and, what is very aftonishing, they are frequently the Defire and the Choice of Thofe, who fanfy themselves the fole Heirs of Happinefs: Those I mean, who are launching out into the Depths of Extravagance, and running F 3

exceffive