9 above;" and of evil and misery, man is the author to himself.

When, from the condition of individuals, we look abroad to the public state of the world, we meet with more proofs of the truth of this assertion. We see great societies of men torn in pieces by intestine dissensions, tumults, and civil commotions. We see mighty armies going forth, in formidable array, against each other, to cover the earth with blood, and to fill the air with the cries of widows and orphans. Sad evils these, to which this miserable world 10 is exposed. But are these evils, I beseech you, to be imputed to God? Was it he who sent forth slaughtering armies into the field, or who filled the peaceful city with massacres and blood? Are these miseries any other than the bitter fruit of men's violent and disorderly passions? Are they not clearly to be traced to the ambition and vices of princes, to the quarrels of the great, and to the turbu lence of the people? Let us lay them entirely out of the account, in thinking of Providence, and let us think only of the "foolishness of man." Did man control his pas11 sions, and form his conduct according to the dictates of wisdom, humanity, and virtue, the earth would no longer be desolated by cruelty; and human societies would live in order, harmony, and peace. In those scenes of mischief and violence which fill the world, let man behold, with shame, the picture of his vices, his ignorance, and folly. Let him be humbled by the mortifying view of his own perverseness; but let not his "heart fret against the Lord."

LESSON LXXVII.

The Dread of being Over-Eloquent.—BULWER.

1 A LOVE for decencies, and decencies alone-a conclusion that all is vice which dispenses with them, and all hypocrisy which would step beyond them-damps the zeal of the established clergy: it is something disreputable to be too eloquent; the aristocratic world does not like either clergymen or women to make too much noise. A very

* In England.

popular preacher, who should, in the pulpit, be carried away by his fervor for the souls of his flock, who should use an extemporaneous figure of speech, or too vehement a gesticulation, would be considered as betraying the dig2 nity of his profession. Bossuet would have lost his character with us, and St. Paul have run the danger of being laughed at as a mountebank.

Walk into that sacred and well-filled edifice,-it is a fashionable church: you observe how well cleaned and well painted it is; how fresh the brass nails and the redcloth seem in the gentlefolks' pews; how respectable the clerk looks-the curate, too, is considered a very gentlemanlike young man. The rector is going to begin the sermon: he is a very learned man-people say he will be a 3 bishop one of these days, for he edited a Greek play, and was private tutor to Lord Glitter. Now observe him-his voice, how monotonous !-his manner, how cold!—his face, how composed! yet what are his words-" Fly the wrath that is to come. Think of your immortal souls. Remember, oh remember! how terrible is the responsibility of life!-how strict the account!-how suddenly it may be demanded!" Are these his words? they are certainly of passionate import, and they are doled forth in the tone of a lazy man saying, "John, how long is it to dinner?" Why, 4 if the calmest man in the world were to ask a gamekeeper not to shoot his favorite dog, he would speak with a thousand times more energy; and yet this preacher is endeavoring to save the souls of a whole parish-of all his acquaintance-all his friends-all his relations-his wife (the lady in the purple bonnet, whose sins no man doubtless knows better) and his six children, whose immortal welfare must be still dearer to him than their temporal advancement; and yet what a wonderful command over his emotions! I never saw a man so cool in my life. "But, my 5 dear sir," says the fashionable purist, "that coolness is decorum; it is the proper characteristic of a clergyman of the Established Church."

Alas: Dr. Young did not think so, when findin; he could not impress his audience sufficiently, he stopped short, and burst into tears.

16*

LESSON LXXVIII.

Elegy in a Country Church-Yard.-GRAY.
1 THE curfew tolls-the knell of parting day;
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

2 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds ;
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

3 Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

4 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

5 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

6 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share.

7 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke

8 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys and destiny obscure Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

9 The boast of heraldry, the pomp and power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await, alike, the inevitable hour ;—

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

10 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise
Where, through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

11 Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

12 Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid

Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre.

13 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ;
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

14 Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

15 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest;
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

16 The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes—

17 Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ;-

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

18 The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame; Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

With incense kindled at the muse's flame.

19 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray: Along the cool, sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

20 Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial, still, erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked.
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

21 Their names, their years, spelled by the unlettered muse The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

22 For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned,-
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,-
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

23 On some fond breast the parting soul relies :
Some pious drops the closing eye requires:
Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires

24 For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate ;

25 Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.