'Twas hard to make so rich a soul submit,

And lay her shining honours at thy sovereign feet.

Sister of Faith, fair Charity,

Show me the wondrous man on high;

Tell how he sees the Godhead Three in One:
The bright conviction fills his eye,

His noblest powers in deep prostration lie
At the mysterious throne.

"Forgive," he cries,, " ye saints below,
“The wavering and the cold assent
"I gave to themes divinely true:
"Can you admit the blessed to repent?
"Eternal darkness veil the lines

"Of that unhappy book,

"Where glimmering reason with false lustre shines, "Where the mere mortal pen mistook "What the celestial meant !

TRUE RICHES.

I AM not concern'd to know
What to-morrow fate will do;
"Tis enough that I can say,
I've possest myself to day.
Then if haply midnight-death
Seize my flesh, and stop my breath,

Yet to-morrow I shall be

Heir to the best part of me.

Glittering stones, and golden things, Wealth and honours that have wings, Ever fluttering to be gone, I could never call my own: Riches that the world bestows, She can take, and I can lose ; But the treasures that are mine Lie afar beyond her line. When I view my spacious soul, And survey myself a-whole, And enjoy myself alone, I'm a kingdom of my own.

I've a mighty part within
That the world hath never seen,
Rich as Eden's happy ground,
And with choicer plenty crown'd.
Here on all the shining boughs
Knowledge fair and useful grows :
On the same young flowery tree
All the seasons you may see;
Notions in the bloom of light,
Just disclosing to the sight;

Here are thoughts of larger growth,

Ripening into solid truth;

Fruits refin'd, of noble taste;
Seraphs feed on such repast.

Here, in a green and shady grove,
Streams of pleasure mix with love;
There, beneath the smiling skies,
Hills of contemplation rise;

Now upon some shining top
Angels light, and call me up;
I rejoice to raise my feet,

Both rejoice when there we meet.

There are endless beauties more Earth hath no resemblance for; Nothing like them round the pole, Nothing can describe the soul. 'Tis a region half unknown, That has treasures of its own, More remote from public view Than the bowels of Peru; Broader 'tis, and brighter far, Than the golden Indies are; Ships that trace the watery stage Cannot coast it in an age; Harts or horses, strong and fleet, Had they wings to help their feet, Could not run it half way o'er In ten thousand days or more.

Yet the silly wandering mind, Loth to be too much confin'd, Roves and takes her daily tours, Coasting round the narrow shores, Narrow shores of flesh and sense, Picking shells and pebbles thence. Or she sits at Fancy's door,

Calling shapes and shadows to her,

Foreign visits still receiving,
And to herself a stranger living.
Never, never would she buy
Indian dust or Tyrian dye,
Never trade abroad for more,
If she saw her native store:
If her inward worth were known,
She might ever live alone.

THE ADVENTUROUS MUSE

URANIA takes her morning flight

With an inimitable wing:

Through rising deluges of dawning light
She cleaves her wondrous way,

She tunes immortal anthems to the growing day, Nor Rapin1 give her rules to fly, nor Purcell 2 notes to sing.

She nor inquires, nor knows, nor fears, Where lie the pointed rocks, or where the ingulfing

sand:

Climbing the liquid mountains of the skies,
She meets descending angels as she flies,
Nor asks them where their country lies,

Or where the sea-marks stand.

་

A French critic.

2

An English master of music.

Touch'd with an empyreal ray,

She springs, unerring, upward to eternal day,
Spreads her white sails aloft, and steers,

With bold and safe attempt, to the celestial land;

Whilst little skiffs along the mortal shores
With humble toil in order creep,
Coasting in sight of one another's oars,
Nor venture through the boundless deep.
Such low pretending souls are they
Who dwell inclos'd in solid orbs of skull:

Plodding along their sober way,

The snail o'ertakes them in their wildest play,
While the poor labourers sweat to be correctly dull.

Give me the chariot whose diviner wheels

Mark their own route, and, unconfin'd,
Bound o'er the everlasting hills,

[behind.

And lose the clouds below, and leave the stars
Give me the muse whose generous force,
Impatient of the reins,

Pursues an unattempted course,
Breaks all the critic's iron chains,

And bears to paradise the raptur'd mind.

There Milton dwells: the mortal sung
Themes not presum'd by mortal tongue;
New terrors, or new glories, shine

In every page, and flying scenes divine [along.
Surprise the wondering sense, and draw our souls