O endless! though divine!-Eternity,

Th' immortal soul shares but a part of thee!
For thou wert present when our life began,
When the warm dust shot up in breathing man.

Ah! what is life? with ill encompassed round, Amidst our hopes, fate strikes the sudden wound: To-day the statesman of new honour dreams, To-morrow, death destroys his airy schemes. Is mouldy treasure in thy chest confined? Think, all that treasure thou must leave behind; Thy heir with smiles shall view thy blazoned hearse, And all thy hoards with lavish hands disperse. Should certain fate the impending blow delay, Thy mirth will sicken, and thy bloom decay: Then feeble age will all thy nerves disarm, No more thy blood its narrow channels warm. Who then would wish to stretch this narrow span, To suffer life beyond the date of man?

The virtuous soul pursues a nobler aim,

And life regards but as a fleeting dream :

She longs to wake, and wishes to get free,

To launch from earth into eternity.

For while the boundless theme extends our thought, Ten thousand thousand rolling years are nought.

RURAL DELIGHTS.

"Tis not that rural sports alone invite,
But all the grateful country breathes delight;
Her blooming health exerts her gentle reign,
And strings the sinews of the industrious swain.

GAY.

Soon as the morning lark salutes the day,

Through dewy fields I take my frequent way,
Where I behold the farmer's early care

In the revolving labours of the year.

When the fresh spring in all her state is crowned, And high luxuriant grass o'erspreads the ground, The labourer with a bending scythe is seen, Shaving the surface of the waving green; Of all her native pride disrobes the land, And meads lays waste before his sweeping hand; While with the mounting sun the meadow glows, The fading herbage round he loosely throws: But, if some sign portend a lasting shower, Th' experienced swain foresees the coming hour, His sun-burnt hands the scattering fork forsake, And ruddy damsels ply the saving rake; In rising hills the fragrant harvest grows, And spreads along the field in equal rows.

Now when the height of heaven bright Phoebus gains, And level rays cleave wide the thirsty plains; When heifers seek the shade and cooling lake, And in the middle pathway basks the snake; Oh, lead me, guard me from the sultry hours, Hide me, ye forests, in your closest bowers, Where the tall oak his spreading arms entwines, And with the beech a mutual shade combines; Where flows the murmuring brook inviting dreams, Where bordering hazel overhangs the streams, Whose rolling current winding round and round, With frequent falls makes all the wood resound; Upon the mossy couch my limbs I cast, And e'en at noon the sweets of evening taste.

GAY.

DEATH.

How shocking must thy summons be, O Death!
To him that is at ease in his possessions;
Who, counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnished for that world to come!
In that dread moment how the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement,
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help,
But shrieks in vain! How wishfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer, yet a little longer,
Oh might she stay, to wash away her stains,
And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight!
Her very eyes weep blood; and every groan
She heaves is big with horror: but the foe,
Like a staunch murderer, steady to his purpose,
Pursues her close through every lane of life,
Nor misses once the track, but presses on;
Till, forced at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.

Sure, 'tis a serious thing to die, my soul!
What a strange moment must it be, when, near
Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view!
That awful gulf, no mortal e'er repassed
To tell what's doing on the other side.

Nature runs back, and shudders at the sight,

And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of parting!

For part they must: body and soul must part: Fond couple! linked more close than wedded pair. This wings its way to its Almighty Source,

The witness of its actions, now its judge;

That drops into the dark and noisome grave,
Like a disabled pitcher, of no use.

If death were nothing, and nought after death;
If, when men died, at once they ceased to be,
Returning to the barren womb of nothing,

Whence first they sprung; then might the debauchee

Untrembling mouth the heavens: then might the drun

kard

Reel over his full bowl, and, when 'tis drained,

Fill up another to the brim, and laugh

At the poor bugbear Death: then might the wretch
That's weary of the world, and tired of life,

At once give each inquietude the slip,
By stealing out of being when he pleased,
And by what way, whether by hemp or steel:

Death's thousand doors stand open. Who could force
The ill-pleased guest to sit out his full time,

Or blame him if he goes? Sure he does well,
That helps himself as timely as he can,
When able. But if there's an hereafter-
And that there is, conscience, uninfluenced,
And suffered to speak out, tells every man-
Then must it be an awful thing to die:
More horrid yet to die by one's own hand!
Self-murder! Name it not; our island's shame,
That makes her the reproach of neighbouring states.
Shall Nature, swerving from her earliest dictate,
Self-preservation, fall by her own act?

Forbid it, Heaven! Let not, upon disgust,
The shameless hand be foully crimsoned o'er
With blood of its own lord. Dreadful attempt!
Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage
To rush into the presence of our Judge;

As if we challenged him to do his worst,

And mattered not his wrath? Unheard-of tortures
Must be reserved for such: these herd together,

The common damned shun their society,

And look upon themselves as fiends less foul.
Our time is fixed, and all our days are numbered;
How long, how short, we know not:-this we know,
Duty requires we calmly wait the summons,
Nor dare to stir till heaven shall give permission:
Like sentries that must keep their destined stand,
And wait th' appointed hour, till they're relieved.
Those only are the brave who keep their ground,
And keep it to the last. To run away
From this world's ills, that, at the very worst,
Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves
By boldly vent'ring on a world unknown,
And plunging headlong in the dark ;-'tis mad!
No frenzy half so desperate as this.

BLAIR.

EFFECTS OF SPRING.

SEE where the winding vale its lavish stores,
Irriguous, spreads. See, how the lily drinks
The latent rill, scarce oozing through the grass
Of growth luxuriant; or the humid bank,
In fair profusion, decks. Long let us walk,
Where the breeze blows from yon extended field

Of blossomed beans. Arabia cannot boast

A fuller gale of joy, than, liberal, thence

Breathes through the sense, and takes the ravished soul. Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot,