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Seated sublime on his meridian throne.

Then constant Faith, and holy Hope shall die,
One lost in certainty, and one in joy:
Whilst thou more happy power, fair Charity,
Triumphant sister, greatest of the three,

Thy office, and thy nature still the same,
Lasting thy lamp, and unconsum'd thy flame,
Shalt still survive-
Shall stand before the host of heaven confest,
For ever blessing, and forever blest.

Section IV.

THE PLEASURE AND BENEFIT OF AN IMPROVED

AND WELL DIRECTED IMAGINATION.

Oh! blest of Heaven, who not the languid songs
Of Luxury, the siren ! not the bribes
Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave
Those ever blooming sweets, which from the store
Of nature, fair Imagination culls,
To charm the enliven'd soul! What though not all
Of inortal offspring can attain the height
Of envy'd life: though only few possess".
Patrician treasures, or Imperial state;
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures, and an ampler state,
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,
The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marble and the sculptur'd gold.
Beyond the proud possešsor's narrow claim,
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfold: for him, the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch

With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings i
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow; not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence; not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends; but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure unreprov'd. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only; for the attentive Mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home,
To find a kindred order; to exert
Within herself this elegance of love,
This fair inspir'd delight : her temper'd powers
Refine at length, and every passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.
But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze
On nature's form, where, negligent of all
These lesser graces, she assumes the port
Of that Eternal Majesty that weigh'd
The world's foundations, if to these the Mind
Exalts her daring eye ; then mightier far
Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of servile custom cramp her generous powers?
Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth
Of Ignorance and Rapine, bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear;
Lo! she appears to Nature, to the winds
And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course,
The elements and seasons : all declare
For what the eternal Maker has ordain'd
The powers

of man : we feel within ourselves
Ilis energy divine: he tells the heart,
He meant, he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orb
Of life and being ; to be great like Ilim,
Benificent and active. Thus the men

Whom nature's works instruct, with God himself
Hold converse ; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions ; act upon his plan;
And form to his, the relish of their souls

Chapter IV.

PATHETIC PIECES.

Section 1.

REFLECTIONS ON THE MISERIES OF

LIFE.

Ah little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround; They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, And wanton, often cruel riot waste; Ah little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death, And all the sad variety of pain. How many sink in the devouring flood, Or more devouring flame. How many bleed, By shameful variance betwixt man and man. How many pine in want and dungeon glooms, Shut from the common air, and common use Of their own limbs. How many drink the cup Of baleful Grief, or eat the bitter bread Of Misery. Sore pierc'd by wintry winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless Poverty. How many shake With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse. How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop In deep retir'd distress. How many stand:

Around the death-bed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguish. Thought fond man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one incessant struggle renders life
One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appallid,
And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think ;
The conscious heart of Charity would warm,
And her wide wish Benevolence dilate;
The social tear would rise, the social sigh ;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining still, the social Passions work.

Section II.

LEONIDAS FAREWELL.

Here paus'd the patriot. With religious awe Grief heard the voice of virtue. No complaint The solemn silence broke. Tears ceas'd to flow; Ceas'd for a moment ; soon again to stream. For now,

in arms before the palace rang'd, His brave companions of the war demand Their leader's presence; then her griefs renew'd, Too great for utt'rance, intercept her sighs, And freeze each accent on her fault'ring tongue. In speechless anguish on the hero's breast She sinks. On ev'ry side his children press, Hang on his knees, and kiss his honour'd hand. His soul no longer struggles to confine Its strong compunction. Down the hero's cheek, Down flows the manly sorrow.

Great in woe, Amid his children, who inclose him round, He stands indulging tenderness and love In graceful tears, when thus, with lifted eyes, Address'd to Heaven : “Thou ever living Pow'r, Look down propitious, sire of gods and men ! And to this faithful woman, whose desert

May claim thy favour, grant the hours of peace.
And thou, my great forefather, son of Jove,
O Hercules, neglect not these thy race !
But since that spirit I from thee derive,
Now bears me from them to resistless fate,
Do thou support their virtue! Be they taught,
Like thee, with glorious labour life to grace,
And from their father let them learn to die !"

Section II.

THE FUNERAL.

........ No place inspires Emotions more accordant with the day, Than does the field of graves, the land of rest :Oft at the close of evening pray'r, the toll, The fun'ral toll, announces solemnly The service of the tomb; the homeward crouds Divide on either hand : the pomp draws near; The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing, * I am the resurrection and the life.Ah mé ! these youthful bearers rob'd in white, They tell a mournful tale ; some blooming friend Is gone, dead in her prime of years was she, The poor man's friend, who, when she could not give With angel tongue pleaded to those who could, With angel tongue and mild beseeching eye, That ne'er besought in vain, save when she pray'd For longer life, with heart resign'd to die, Rejoic'd to die ; for happy visions bless'd Her voyage's last days, and, hov'ring round, Alighted on her soul, giving presage That heav'n was nigh: what a burst of rapture from her lips ! what tears of joy Her heav'nward eyes suffus’d! Those eyes are clos'd: Yet all her loveliness is not yet flown : She smil'd in death, and still her cold pale face

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