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“ 'Twas th'us, (by the glare of false sc'ience betra’yed,

“ That le’ads, to bewi'lder ; and daz'zles, to bli'nd ;)
My thou'ghts wont to roa'm, from shade on'ward to shľade,

“ Destruction be'fore me, and s'orrow behind. “O pisty, (great Father of light), then I cr'ied,

Thy cr’eature, (who fain would not wan der from th’ee !) “ Lo, humbled in du'st, I relin'quish my pri'de ;

“ From dou'bt and from darʻkness/ th ou only/ canst free'. “ And darkness and dou'bts are now flying aw'ay;

“ No lon'ger I ro'am/ in conjec'ture forlorn : “ So breaks on the traveller, fai'nt, and astr'ay,

“The bright and the balmy effu'lgence of mo'rn. “ See tr’uth, lo've, and me'rcy, in tri'umph descen'ding,

“ And na'ture (all glow'ing in E'den's first blo'om !) “On the cold ch'eek of deʻath/sm'iles and ro'ses/ are ble’nding,

“ And beauty/ immoʻrtal/ awa'kes from the tom'b.”

Lower tone.



I VENERATE the m'an/ whose he'art/ is war'm,
Whose han'ds/ are pu're, whose doc'trine and whose li'fe,
Co-'incident, exhibit lucid pro'of/
That he is ho'nest in the sa'cred cau'se.
To suoch/ I render more than mere resp'ect,
Whose actions say that they respect themselves.
But/ loose in mo'rals, and in man'ners vai'n,
In convers’ation frivolous, in dr'ess
Extre'me, at once rapa'cious and profuse';
Frequent in p'ark/ with lady at his s'ide,
Ambling and prattling scan dal/ as he g'oes;
But ra’re at home, and ne’ver at his books,
Or with his p'en, sa've/ when he scrawls a car'd;
Coʻnstant at routs, familiar with a ro'und
Of la dyships-a stra'nger to the poo'r;

* The inimitable author of “ John Gilpin." This accomplished scholar and poet, after dreadfully suffering from mental derangement, died in 1800, aged 68.

Ambitious of pref'erment for its goʻld,
A'nd/ we'll prepa'red, by i'gnorance and slot'h,
By infide'lity and love of wor'ld,
To make God's w'ork/ a si'necure; a slave
To his own pl'easures and his patron's pri'de :
From suoch-apostles, (oh, ye mitred h’eads,)
Preserve the chu'rch ! and lay not careless ha'nds/
On sku'lls/ that can not teľach, and will not lea'rn.

Would I describe a pre’acher/ su'ch as Pa'ul,
Were he“ on e’arth, would he'ar, appro've, and o`wn-
Paul should himself/ direc't me. I would trace
His master-st'rokes, and draw from hi`s desi'gn.
I would express him sim’ple, gra've, since're ;
In doctrine uncorrupt ; in language plain,
And plasin/ in man'ner ; d'ecent, so'lemn, ch'aste,
And na'tural in ges'ture ; much impressed
Himself, (as co'nscious of his awful cha'rge,)
And an'xious/ mai^nly, that the flock he feed's
May feel it too'; affect'ionate in lo’ok,
And tender in addr'ess, as we'll becomes
A messenger of grace to guilty ma'n.
Behold the pic'ture !- Is it lik'e ?-Like whoʻm ?
The things that mount the rostrum with a skřip,
And then skip dow'n agʻain ; pronounce a te'xt;
C'ry-hem; an'd, (reading/ what they never wroʻte,
Just fifte^en mi'nutes,) hu'ddle up their woʻrk,
A'nd/ with a well-bred whi'sper/ close the sce'ne !

In m'an or wo'man, but far most in ma`n,
And/ mo'st of a‘ll/ in man/ that ministers
And serves the altar, in my soʻul/ I loa'the
All affecta'tion. 'Tis my perfect sco'rn;
Object/ of my impla cable disgu'st.
Wha't !-wili a man play tricks, will he indulge
A si'lly/ foʻnd conceit of his fair foʻrm,
And just propo'rtion, fashionable mie'n,
And pretty fa'ce, (in presence of his Good ?)
Or/ will he seek to dazzle me with tropes,
(As with the diamond/ on his lily ha'nd,)
Ànd play his brilliant pa'rts/ before my eyes,
(When I am hu'ngry/ for the bread of life ?)
He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and sha'mes
His n'oble oʻffice, a'nd, instead of truoth,
Displaying his own beauty, staʼrves his flock !

There'fore/ avaunt all atti'tude ; and star'e,
And sta'rt the'atric, prac'tised at the glass !
I seek divine simpli city, in him/
Who han'dles things div'ine ; and all besi’des,
(Though learned with la'bour, and though much admired
By curious ey'es/ and ju'dgments ill info'rmed,)
To me is o dious as the nasal twa'ng
Heard at conven'ticle, where worthy m'en,
(Misled by cus'tom,) strain celes'tial theʼmes
Through the pressed n'ostril, spe'ctacle-bestr'id.

So'me, (decent in demeanour, while they pre'ach,)
That task perfoʻrmed, relapse into themselves ;
An'd, having spoken wi'sely, at the close
Grow wan'ton, giving proof/ to every eye.
Whoạe'er was e’dified, themselves were n'ot!
Forth coʻmes the pocket mirror.-Fi’rst/ we stroke
An ey'e-brow; ne'xt/ compose a straggling lock;
Th’en (with an air, most gracefully perfoʻrmed,)
Fall baʼck into our se'at, extend an ar'm,
And lay' it/ at its ea'se,
With handkerchief/ in ba'nd, depending low:
The be^tter ha’nd, (more bu'sy,) gives the nose
Its bergamot, or/ aids the indebted-eye
With op'era-glass, to watch the moving sc'ene,
And recognise the slow-retiring fair. -
No'w this is ful'some ; and offends me more
Th'an/ in a churc'hman slovenly negl'ect
And rustic coa'rseness wou'ld. A heavenly mi’nd/
May be indi'fferent to her house of clay,
And sl’ight the hov'el/ as beneath her ca’re ;
But/ how a bo`dy/ so fanta'stic, tri'm,
And quaiînt, in its depor'tment and att’ire,
Can lod'ge a heavenly mi nd—demands a dou'bt.

Concluding tone -lower and slower than any preceding portion of the lesson.



Thou lingering star; with lessening ra'y,

That lovest to gr'eet the early mo'rn,
Aga'in thou usherest in the day

My Ma'ry from my so’ul was tor'n.

O M'ary! (dear/ departed sh'ade !)

Where is thy pla'ce of blissful res't ?
See'st thou thy lov'er/ lowly l'aid,

Hearest thou the gr'oans/ that re’nd his brea'st ?
That sacred ho'ur/ can I forg'et !-

Can I forget the ha'llowed gr'ove,
Wh'ere (by the winding A'yr,) we me't,

To live one day of parting love !
Eternity/ will not effa'ce

Those records dear of transports p'ast !
Thy i'mage/ at our la'st embrace :-

Ah! little thought we/ 'tw'as our last !
A'yr, (gurgling,) kissed his pebbled sho're,

O'erhung with wild woo'ds, thickening gr'een ;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn ho'ar,

Twined amorous rosund/ the raptured scen'e.
The flow'ers/ sprang wa'nton/ to be pre’ssed ;

The biords/ sung love' on every sp'ray,
Till too, too sooʻn, the glowing west'

Proclaimed the speed of winged day'.
Still o'er these scenes my memory w'akes,

And fondly broods, with miser ca’re ;
ime but the impression/ dee per mak'es,-

(As strea'ms their cha'nnels deeper wea'r.
My M'ary! (dear/ departed sh'ade !)

Wheʻre is thy blissful pla'ce of re’st ?
See'st thou thy lo'ver/ lowly la'id ?

Hea'rest thou the gro'ans/ that re’nd his breas't?




Dr. Johnson. NOTWITHSTANDING the wa’rnings of philo'sophers, and the daʻily examples of losses and misfo'rtunes/ which li'fe/ forces upon our observ'ation, such/ is the absorption of our tho’ughts) in the bu'siness of the preîsent da'y, such the re

* This beautiful and pathetic paper was written on the death of the Doctor's venerable mother.

signa'tion of our reason to empty hopes of fu'ture feli city, or/ such our unwil'lingness/ to foresee what we dre’ad, that every calamity comes suddenly upo'n us, a'nd/ not only pre'sses us/ as a b'urthen, but cru”shes us/ as a bloủw.

There ar'e e’vils which happen out of the common course of na'ture, against whi'ch/ it is no reproach/ not to be provi'ded. A flas'h of ligʻhtning/ intercepts the tra'veller in his wa'y; the concussion of an earthquake/ heaps the ruins of cit'ies/ upon their inna'bitants. But oother miseries/ ti me bri'ngs, (though s'ilently, yet vi^sibly forward/ by its even la'pse,) which yet approach us unse'en, because we turn our eyes aw'ay, and se'ize us, unresi'sted, because we could not arm ourselves again'st them, but/ by setting them, befor'e us.

That it is vain/ to shrink from wh’at/ cannot be avo'ided, and to hide thaạt from ourselves, which must some time be fo’und, is a tru'th/ which we all kn'ow, but which a‘ll/ negleoct; and/ perhaps none more than the speculative re’asoner, whose thougʻhts are always from ho'me, whose e'ye/ wanders over life', whose faîncy/ dances after meteors of happiness kindled by its'elf, and who exa'mines/ every thing/ rather than his oown-state.

Nothing/ is more evident, than that the decays of age/ must terminate in de°ath ; yet/ there is no m'an, (says Tu'lly,) who does not belie've that he may yet live another ye’ar; and there is no'ne/ who do'es not, (upon the same pr’inciple,) hope another year for his pa'rent or his fri'end : but, the fa'llacy will be in tim'el det'ected; the last y'ear, the last dały/ must come. It ha's come, and is pas'sed. The life/ which made my own life ple' asant/ is' at an eʼnd, and the gates of death/ are sh’ut upon my prospects.

The loss of a frie'nd, upon whom the he’art was fixe'd, tạo whom/ every wi'sh and


endea'vour te'nded, is a state of dreary desolation, in whi'ch/ the mind looks abroad/ impat'ient of itse'lf, and finds nothing/ but emptiness and hor'.

The blaʼmeless life', the ar’tless tenderness, the p'ious simpli city, the mo'dest resigna'tion, the pa'tient sickness, and the qui'et dea'th, are remem'bered/ only to add va`lue to the loʻss, to a'ggravate regret/ for what ca'nnot be ame’nded, to dee'pen so rrow/ for what c’annot be reca'lled.

The'se are the calamities/ by which Providence gradually diseng'ages us from the lo've of li'fe. Oother evils/ fortitude may repe'l, or hoʻpe/ may m'itigate ; but irreparable priva'.


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