Nought but what wounds his virtue wounds his peace. A covered heart denies him half his praise. His true existence is not yet begun. His glorious course was yesterday complete; PROCRASTINATION. Be wise to-day; 't is madness to defer, Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears At least their own; their future selves applaud; That lodged in Fate's to wisdom they consign; The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone. "T is not in folly not to scorn a fool, And scarce in human wisdom to do more. All promise is poor dilatory man, And that through every stage. When young, indeed, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. As from the wing no scar the sky retains, CONSCIENCE. O treacherous conscience! while she seems to sleep On rose and myrtle, lulled with syren song; While she seems nodding o'er her charge, to drop And give us up to license, unrecalled, Unmarked;-see, from behind her secret stand, The sly informer minutes every fault, Not the gross act alone employs her pen; A watchful foe! the formidable spy, Listening, o'erhears the whispers of our camp As all-rapacious usurers conceal Their Doomsday-book from all-consuming heirs; Unnoted, notes each moment misapplied; In leaves more durable than leaves of brass Writes our whole history, which Death shall read And judgment publish; publish to more worlds CONVERSATION. Hast thou no friend to set thy mind abroach? Good sense will stagnate. Thoughts shut up, want air, And spoil, like bales unopened to the sun. Had thought been all, sweet speech had been denied: Speech, thought's canal! speech, thought's criterion too Thought in the mine may come forth gold or dross; When coined in word, we know its real worth: If sterling, store it for thy future use; 'T will buy thee benefit, perhaps renown. Thought, too, delivered, is the more possessed; Teaching we learn, and giving we retain FRIENDSHIP. What if (since daring on so nice a theme) Reserve will wound it, and distrust destroy; First on thy friend deliberate with thyself; ON DISASTERS COMING TOGETHER. Woes cluster; rare are solitary woes; Or shares it ere it falls. So frequent death, THOMSON. THE principal poems of JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748), are The Seasons, and the Castle of Indolence. The latter poem is written in the style of Spenser, and is a highly polished performance. It is to the former, however, the author owes his chief celebrity. "The publication of the Seasons," says a recent critic, “was an important era in the history of English poetry. So true and beautiful are the descriptions in the poem, and so entirely do they harmonize with those fresh feelings and glowing impulses which all would wish to cherish, that a love of nature seems to be synonymous with a love of Thomson. It is difficult to conceive a person of education in this country, imbued with an admiration of rural or woodland scenery, not entertaining a strong affection and regard for that delightful poet, who has painted their charms with so much fidelity and enthusiasm." A SUMMER SCENE. Low walks the sun, and broadens by degrees, In all their pomp attend his setting throne. Air, earth, and ocean smile immense. And now, Of Amphitrite, and her tending nymphs |