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SECTION VII.

Picture of a good mart
Some angel guide my pencil, while I draw ,
What nothing else than angel can exceed,
A man on earth devoted to the skies ;
Like ships at sea, while in, above the world.

With aspact mild, and elevated eye,
Behold bim seated on a mount serene,
Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm :
All the black cares and tumults of this life,
Like harmless thunders, breaking at his teet,
Excite his pity, not impair his peace.
Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred, and the slave,
A mingled mob ! a wand'ring herd ! he sees,
Bewilder'd in the vale ; in all unlike !
His full reverse in all! Wbat higher praise !
What stronger demonstration of the right?

The present all their care ; the future his.
When public welfare calls, or private want,
They give to fame ; his bounty he conceals.
Their virtues varnish nature ; bis exalt.
Mankind's esteem they court; and he his own.
Theirs the wild chase of false felicities;
His the compos'd possession of the true.
Alike throughout is his consistent piece,
All of one colour, and an even thread;
While party-colour'd shreds of happiness,
With hideous gaps between, patch up for them
A madman's robe ; each puff of fortune blows
The tatters by, and shows their nakedness.

He sees with other eyes than theirs : where they
Behold a sun, he spies a Deity ;
What makes them only smile, makes him adore.
Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees.;
An empire in his balance, weighs a grain.
They things terrestrial worship, as divine :
His hopes immortal blow them by, as dust,
That dims his sight, and shortens his survey.
Which longs, infinite, to lose all bound.
Titles and honours (if they prove his sate)
He lays aside to find his dignity :
No dignity they find in aught besides.
They triumph in externals, (which conceal
Man's real glory,) proud of an eclipse :
Himself too much he prizes to be proud ;
And nothing thinks so great in man, as mari.
Too dear be holds bis int'rest, to neglect
Another's welfare, or his right invade ;
Teir int'rest, like a lion, lives on prey.

They kindle at the shadow of a wrong :
Wrong he sustains with lemper, looks on lieav'n,
Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe :
Nought, bu: wbat wounds his virtue, wounds his peace.
A cover'd heart their character defends :
A cover'd heart denies him half his praise.
With nakedness his innocence agrees !
While their broad foliage testifies their fall!
There no joys end, where his full feast begins.
His joys crcate, theirs murder, future bliss.
To triumph in existence, his alone ;
And his alone triumphantly to think
His true existence is not yet begun.
His glorious cause was, yesterday, complete :
Death, then, was welcome ; yet life still is sweet.

YOUNG

SECTION VIII.

The pleasures of retirement. O KNEW he hut his happiness, of men The happiest he! who, far from public rage, Deep in the vale, with a choice few retird, Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural lite. What tho' the dome be wanting, whose proud gate, Each morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd Ot flatterers false, and in their turn abus'd ? Vile intercourse! What though the glitt’ring rohe, Of ev'ry hue reflected light can give. Or floated loose, or stiff with mazy gold, The pride and gaze of fools, oppress him not? Who tho', from utmost land and sea purvey'd From him each rarer tributary life Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps With luxury and death? Wbat tho, his bowl Flames not with costly juice ; nor sunk in beds Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night, Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state ? What tho? he knows not those fantastic joys, Thal still amuse the wanton, still deceive ; A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain ; Their hollow moments undelighted all ? Sure peace is his ; a solid life estrang'd To disappointment, and fallacious hope. Rich in content, in nature's bounty rich, In herbs and fruits ; whatever greens the spring, When heav'n descends in show'rs; or bends the bough When summer reddens, and when autumn beams : Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies Conceal'd and fattens with the richest sap;

These are not wanting ; nor the milky drove,
Luxuriant, spread o'er all the lowing vale;
Nor bleating niountains ; nor the chide of streams,
And bum of bees, inviting sleep sincere
Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade,
Or ibrown at large amid the fragrant hay;
Nor aught beside of prospect, grove, or song,
Dim grottoes, gleaming lakes, and fountains clear.
Here too dwells simple truth ; plain innocence ;
Unsullied beauty; sound unbroken youth,
Patient of labour, with a little pleas'd ;
Healtb ever blooming ; unambitious toil;
Calm contemplation, and poetic ease.

THOMSON.

SECTION IX.
The pleasure and benefit of an improved and well-

directed imagination.
Oh! blest of Heav'n, whom not the languid songs
Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes
Ot 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 th’enliven'd soul! What tho? not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the height
Of envied life; tho 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.

llis the city's pomp, The rural honours his. Whare'er adorns The princely dome, the column, and the arch, The breathing warble and the sculptur'd gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring Distils her dews, and from the silken gein Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him the hand Of autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, agd blushes like the morn, Each pasaing hour sheds tribute from her wings and And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze

Flies o'er the meadow; pot a cloud imbibes
The setting sub'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 partake's
Fresh pleasure only; for th' attentive mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herselt harmonious : wont so oft
Io outward things to meditate the charm
Ot 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 pow'rs
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 dariog eye; then mightier far
Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of servile custom cramp her gen'rous pow's ?
Would sordid policies, the barb'rous growth
Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear?
Lo! she appeals 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 pow'rs of man : we feel within ourselves
His

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 Him,
Beneficent 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, AKENSIDE

CHAPTER V.

PATHETIC PIECES.

SECTION I.

The hermit.
Ar the close of the day, when the hamiet is still,

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove; When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,

And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove: 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,

While his harp ruog symphonious, a hermit began; No more with himself or with nature at war,

Ile thought as a sage, tho' he felt as a man. “Ah! why all abandon'd to darkness aod wo;

Why, lode Philomela, that languishing fall? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,

Mourn, sweetest complainer,.nan calls thee to moura. O sooth him, whose pleasures like thine pass away:

Full quickly they pass but they never return. "Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,

The moon half extinguish'd ber crescent displays : But lately I mark,d, when majestic on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thoy fair orb, and with gladness pursue

The path that conducts thee to splendour again : But man's faded, glory what change sball renew!

Ah tool! to exult in a glory so vain! "Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more :

I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For moro is approaching, your charms to restort,

Perfum'd with fresh fragrance,and glitt'ring with dew Nor yet for the rayage of winter I mourn ;

Kind uature the embryo blossom will save; But when shall spring visit the mouldering uro!

O when shall day dawn on the night of the grave!

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