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THOMAS FLATMAN.

THOMAS FLATMAN was born in 1633. He has been honored by Wood with the title of an eminent poet; and though his writings may not entitle him to such a distinction, there is still sufficient beauty in his pieces to show that the censure bestowed on him by some recent critics is wholly undeserved. He died in 1688. Addison borrowed the first of his minor poems from Flatman's “ Thought of Death.”

HYMN FOR THE MORNING.

AWAKE, my soul! awake, mine eyes!
Awake, my drowsy faculties !
Awake, and see the new-born light
Spring from the darksome womb of night.
Look

up

and see the unwearied sun,
Already has his race begun.
The pretty lark is mounted high,
And sings her matins in the sky.
Arise, my soul! and thou, my voice,
In songs of praise early rejoice!
O great Creator ! heavenly King!
Thy praises ever let me sing !
Thy power has made, thy goodness kept,
This fenceless body while I slept ;
Yet one day more has given me
From all the powers of darkness free.
Oh! keep my heart from sin secure,

My life unblameable and pure ; That when the last of all my days is come, Cheerful and fearless I may

wait my

doom.

FOR THE EVENING.

SLEEP! downy sleep! come close mine eyes,
Tired with beholding vanities;
Sweet slumbers, come, and chase away
The toils and follies of the day.

On your soft bosom will I lie,
Forget the world, and learn to die.
O Israel's watchful Shepherd ! spread
Tents of angels round my bed;
Let not the spirits of the air
While I slumber me ensnare;
But save thy suppliant free from harms,
Clasped in thine everlasting arms.
Clouds and thick darkness are thy throne,
Thy wonderful pavilion ;
Oh! dart from thence a shining ray,
And then my midnight shall be day!
Thus when the morn in crimson dressed,
Breaks through the windows of the east,
My hymns of thankful praise shall rise
Like incense at the morning sacrifice !

A THOUGHT OF DEATH.

When on my sickbed I languish,
Full of sorrow, full of anguish,
Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying,

Panting, groaning, speechless, dying,
My soul just now about to take her flight
Into the regions of eternal night;

Oh tell me, you
That have been long below,

What shall I do! What shall I think, when cruel death appears, That may extenuate my

fears! Methinks I hear some gentle spirit say,

Be not fearful, come away! Think with thyself that now thou shalt be free, And find thy long-expected liberty ; Better thou mayst, but worse thou canst not be Than in this vale of tears and misery. Like Cæsar, with assurance then come on, And unamazed attempt the laurel crown That lies on th' other side death's rubicon.

REV. JOHN NORRIS.

John Norris, author of numerous theological works, and of “A Collection of Miscellanies, consisting of Poems, Essays, Discourses, and Letters,” was born in 1657. It has been justly said, that“ in the union of learning and logical argument with sublime piety, few have equalled Norris of Bemerton.” In his poem “ Transient Delight,” is the line,

Like angels' visits, short and bright, the original of the passage in Blair's “ Grave”.

Visits
Like those of angels, short and far between:
and in Campbell's “ Pleasures of Hope,”

Like angels' visits, few and far between.
Norris was rector of Bemerton, in Wiltshire, and died in 1711.

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FAREWELL fruition, thou grand, cruel chcat,
Which first our hopes dost raise, and then defeat;
Farewell thou midwife to abortive bliss,

Thou mystery of fallacies.
Distance presents the object fair,
With charming features and a graceful air ;
But when we come to seize the inviting prey,
Like a shy ghost it vanishes away.

So to the unthinking boy the distant sky
Seems on some mountain's surface to rely ;
He with ambitious haste climbs the ascent,
Curious to touch the firmament.
But when, with an unwearied pace,
Arrived he is at the long-wished-for place,
With sighs the sad defeat he does deplore-
His heaven is still as distant as before.

And yet 'twas long ere I could throughly see
This grand impostor's frequent treachery;
Though often fooled, yet I should still dream on,
of pleasure in reversion:
Though still he did my hopes deceive,
His fair pretensions I would still believe ;
Such was my charity, that though I knew,
And found him false, yet I would think him true.

But now he shall no more with shows deceive,
I will more enjoy, no more believe;
The unwary juggler has so often shown
His fallacies, that now they're known.
Shall I trust on ? the cheat is plain ;
I will not be imposed upon again ;
I'll view the bright appearance from afar,
But never try to catch the falling star.

SUPERSTITION.

I care not, though it be
By the preciser sort thought popery ;

We poets can a license show

For every thing we do :
Hear, then, my little saint, I'll pray to thee.

If now thy happy mind,
Amidst its various joys can leisure find

To attend to any thing so low,

As what I say or do,
Regard, and be what thou wast ever-kind.

Let not the blessed above
Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither rove;

Fain would I thy sweet image see,

And sit and talk with thee,
Nor is it curiosity, but love.

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Ah! what delight 'twould be
Wouldst thou sometimes, by stealth, converse with me!

How should I thy sweet commune prize,

And other joys despise ;
Come, then, I ne'er was yet denied by thee.

I would not long detain
Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in pain;

Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know

Of thy escape below; ;
Before thou’rt missed thou shouldst return again.

Sure heaven must needs thy love
As well as other qualities improve;

Come, then, and recreate my sight

With rays of thy pure light; 'Twill cheer my eyes more than the lamps above.

But if fate's so severe,
As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere,

(And by thy absence I shall know

Whether thy state be so,)
Live happy, but be mindful of me there.

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