The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet.
The smiling infant in his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake,
Pleas'd, the green lustre of the scales survey,
And with their forky tongue shall innocently play
Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise!
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes!
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ;1
See future sons, and daughters yet unborn,
In crowding ranks on every side arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies!
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend,
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend!
See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings,
And heap'd with products of Sabean springs!
For thee Idumé's spicy forests blow,

And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow.
See Heaven its sparkling portals wide display,
And break upon thee in a flood of day!
No more the rising Sun shall gild the morn,
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn;
But lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze
O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine
Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine!
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,'
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away!
But fix'd his word, his saving power remains;
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns!

REV. ROBERT BLAIR.

(1699-1746.)

THE life of a Scottish country clergyman seldom presents materials for biography beyond the record of his active virtues. Blair was minister of Athelstaneford in Haddingtonshire, and was an accomplished gentleman as well as an amiable man. His poem The Grave has been one of the most popular in the English language, at least among the people of Scotland. Its stern tone of reflection, its vigorous and hard-featured diction, so different in its unforced simplicity from the strained grandeur of Young; and its sepulchral and terrible imagery,-rank it among the most impressive of religious poems.

1 Is. ix. 4, &c. Sabea, Arabia Felix. Idumea, Arabia Petren. Ophir, see note 11, P. 216. 2 Is. li. 6; liv. 10.

FROM "THE GRAVE."

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 repass'd

To tell what's doing on the other side!
Nature runs back, and shudders at the sight,
And every life-string bleeds at thought of parting:
For part they must-body and soul must part.
Fond couple! link'd 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.

Death's shafts fly thick :-Here falls the village swain,
And there his pamper'd lord. The cup goes round;
And who so artful as to put it by?

Tis long since Death had the majority;

Yet, strange, the living lay it not to heart.

The Sexton, hoary-headed chronicle,

Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole

A gentle tear, with mattock in his hand,

Digs thro' whole rows of kindred and acquaintance,
By far his juniors. Scarce a skull's cast up
But well he knew its owner, and can tell
Some passage of his life. Thus, hand in hand,
The sot has walk'd with Death twice twenty years;
And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs louder,
Or tells a smuttier tale. When drunkards meet,
None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand

More willing to his cup. Poor wretch! he minds not
That soon some trusty brother of the trade
Shall do for him what he has done for thousands.1

JAMES THOMSON.

(1699-1746.)

It is refreshing, amidst the artificial glare of the eighteenth century, to meet with a poet who unites to its splendid and glittering diction the fresh feelings and enthusiasm of nature; and such was the poet of the Seasons.

Thomson was born at Ednam near Kelso in Roxburghshire, of which pa

1 The strength and effect of Blair's language lie in the Saxon elements of which it is mainly moulded.

rish his father was minister.

men.

A poet from his boyhood, he abandoned the ecclesiastical profession, to which he had been destined, and, in 1725, went to seek in London a sphere for his more congenial pursuit. The publication of his "Winter" raised him to the greatest celebrity, and acquired him the friendship of patrons,-of Pope and other distinguished literary But his celebrity did not enrich his poverty; he was rescued from severe embarrassment by being employed to travel with the son of Chancellor Talbot, who rewarded him with a sinecure office, which his indolence lost at his patron's death. The sentiments of some of his pieces, and his connection with the opposition party, particularly with Mr (afterwards Lord) Lyttleton,1 excluded him from prospects of court patronage. Lyttleton procured for him, however, a pension from the Prince of Wales, the patron of the opposition against Walpole's ninistry. On the fall of that statesman, Thomson's friend, now in power, conferred on the poet a situation which, while it yielded him a competent revenue, he could execute by proxy, so that the concluding years of his life were spent in luxurious ease in a comfortable cottage in the neighbourhood of London. He died in 1748 of a fever contracted by a cold. Few have been more lamented by friendship than James Thomson. His benevolent nature, and his numberless admirable qualities, independent of his shining genius, endeared him to all.

Besides the "Seasons," he left a long and somewhat tedious poem, "Liberty;" some tragedies, the most successful of which was "Tancred and Sigismunda ;" several elegies and smaller pieces; and the "Castle of Indolence," a composition replete with beauty of imagery and melody of

verse.

แ

FROM SPRING."

DOMESTIC BLISS.

But happy they! the happiest of their kind!
Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate

Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend.
'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws,

Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind,

That binds their peace, but harmony itself,

Attuning all their passions into love;

Where friendship full exerts her softest power,

Perfect esteem, enliven'd by desire

Ineffable, and sympathy of soul;

Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will,
With boundless confidence.

*

What is the world to them,

Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all!
Who in each other clasp whatever fair
High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish;
Something than beauty dearer, should they look
Or on the mind, or mind-illumin'd face;

1 He is to be distinguished from his infamous son.

Truth, goodness, honour, harmony, and love,
The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven.
Meantime a smiling offspring rises round,
And mingles both their graces. By degrees,
The human blossom blows; and every day,
Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm,
The father's lustre, and the mother's bloom.
Then infant reason grows apace, and calls
For the kind hand of an assiduous care.
Delightful task! to rear the tender thought,
To teach the young idea how to shoot,
To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind,
To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fix
The generous purpose in the glowing breast.
Oh, speak the joy! ye whom the sudden tear
Surprises often, while you look around,
And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss,
All various nature pressing on the heart:
An elegant sufficiency, content,

Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
Ease and alternate labour, useful life,
Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven.
These are the matchless joys of virtuous love;
And thus their moments fly. The seasons thus,
As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll,
Still find them happy; and consenting Spring
Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads:
Till evening comes at last, serene and mild;
When, after the long vernal day of life,
Enamour'd more, as more remembrance swells
With many a proof of recollected love,
Together down they sink in social sleep;
Together freed, their gentle spirits fly

To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign.

Yonder comes the powerful king of day,
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud,
The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow
Illum'd with fluid gold, his near approach
Betoken glad. Lo! now, apparent all,
Aslant the dew-bright Earth, and colour'd air,
He looks in boundless majesty abroad;

And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays

On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams, High gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer Light!

Of all material beings first, and best!
Efflux divine! Nature's resplendent robe !
Without whose vesting beauty all were wrapt
In unessential gloom; and thou, O Sun!
Soul of surrounding worlds! in whom best seen
Shines out thy Maker! May I sing of thee?

Meantime th' expecting nations, circled gay
With all the various tribes of foodful earth,
Implore thy bounty, or send grateful up

A common hymn: while, round thy beaming car,
High-seen, the Seasons lead, in sprightly dance
Harmonious knit, the rosy-finger'd Hours,
The Zephyrs floating loose, the timely Rains
Of bloom ethereal, the light-footed Dews,
And soften'd into joy the surly Storms.
These, in successive turn, with lavish hand,
Shower every beauty, every fragrance shower,

Herbs, flowers, and fruits; till kindling at thy touch,
From land to land is flush'd the vernal year.

Then comes the father of the tempest forth, Wrapt in black glooms. First joyless rains obscure Drive through the mingling skies with vapour foul; Dash on the mountain's brow, and shake the woods, That grumbling wave below. Th' unsightly plain Lies a brown deluge, as the low-bent clouds Pour flood on flood, yet unexhausted still Combine, and deepening into night, shut up The day's fair face. The wanderers of Heaven, Each to his home, retire; save those that love To take their pastime in the troubled air, Or skimming flutter round the dimply pool. The cattle from th' untasted fields return, And ask, with meaning low, their wonted stalls, Or ruminate in the contiguous shade. Thither the household feathery people crowd, The crested cock, with all his female train, Pensive, and dripping; while the cottage hind Hangs o'er th' enlivening blaze, and taleful there Recounts his simple frolic: much he talks,

And much he laughs, nor recks the storm that blows

Without, and rattles on his humble roof.

Wide o'er the brim, with many a torrent swell'd, And the mix'd ruin of its banks o'erspread,

At last the rous'd-up river pours along :

D d