And disappoint your project. Love the hand
Which steadily corrects, and be not apt
To leave the student's for the jockey's part,
To drink and gamble. Will he thus repay
Parental goodness? Who can wonder then,
The parent's curse on Alma-mater lights,
And the wide world re-echoes with the sound
Of terrible reproach? Forbear, forbear.

Now comes July, and with his fervid noon
Unsinews labour. The swinkt mower sleeps.

The weary maid rakes feebly. The warm swain
Pitches his load reluctant.

The faint steer,

Lashing his sides, draws sulkily along

The slow-encumber'd wain. The hedge-row now Delights, or the still shade of silent lane,

Or cool impending arbour, there to read,

Or talk and laugh, or meditate and sleep.

There let me sit to see the low'ring storm Collect its dusky horrors, and advance To bellow sternly in the ear of night; To see the' Almighty electrician come, Making the clouds his chariot. Who can stand When he appears? The conscious creature flies And skulks away, afraid to see his God Charge and recharge his dreadful battery. For who so pure his lightning might not blast, And be the messenger of justice? Who

Can stand expos'd, and to his Judge exclaim,

My heart is cleansed, turn thy storm away?' Fear not, ye fair, who with the naughty world Have seldom mingled. Mark the rolling storm, And let me hear you tell, when morning comes, With what tremendous howl the furious blast Blew the large show'r in heavy cataract Against your window; how the keen, the quick, And vivid lightning quiver'd on your bed, And how the deep artillery of heaven

Broke loose, and shook your coward habitation.
Fear not; for if a life of innocence,

And that which we deem virtue here below,
Can hold the forky bolt, ye may presume
To look and live. Yet be not bold, but show
Some pious dread, some grave astonishment.
For all our worthy deeds are nothing worth;
And if the solemn tempest cut us short
In our best hour, we are in debt to heav'n.

The storm subsided, and the day begun, Who would not walk along the sandy way,

To smell the shower's fragrance, see the sun
With his sheer eye ascend the zenith joyous,
Mark the still-rumbling cloud crowding away
Indignant, and embrace the gentle breeze,
That idly wantons with the dewy leaf,
And shakes the pearly rain-drop to the ground?
How sweet the incense of reviving flow'rs!
Ye must abroad, ye fair. The angry night
Has done you mischief. Ev'ry plant will need
Your kindly hand to rear its falling head.

Come not St. Swithin with a cloudy face, Ill-ominous; for old tradition says, If Swithin weep, a deluge will ensue, A forty days of rain. The swain believes And blesses sultry Swithin if he smiles, But curses if he frowns. So boding dames Teach the fray'd boy a thousand ugly signs, Which riper judgment cannot shake aside: And so the path of life is rough indeed, And the poor fool feels double smart, compell'd To trudge it barefoot on the naked flint.

For what is judgment and the mind inform'd,
Your Christian armour, Gospel-preparation,
But sandals for the feet, that tread with ease,
Nor feel those harsh asperities of life,
Which ignorance and superstition dread?
I much admire we ever should complain
That life is sharp and painful, when ourselves
Create the better half of all our woe.

Whom can he blame who shudders at the sight
Of his own candle, and foretels with grief
A winding-sheet? who starts at the red coal
Which bounces from his fire, and picks it up,
His hair on end, a coffin? spills his salt,
And dreads disaster? dreams of pleasant fields,
And smells a corpse? and ever shuns with care
The unpropitious hour to pare his nails?
Such fears but ill become a soul that thinks.
Let time bring forth what heavy plagues it will.
Who pain anticipates, that pain feels twice,
And often feels in vain. Yet, though I blame
The man who with too busy eye unfolds

The page of time, and reads his lot amiss,