anticipate the future, by concluding what is possible from what is past.' On her agency depends every effusion of the Fancy, whose boldest effort can only compound or transpose, augment or diminish the materials which she has collected and retained.

When the first emotions of despair have subsided, and sorrow has softened into melancholy, she amuses with a retrospect of innocent pleasures, and inspires that noble confidence which results from the consciousness of having acted well. When sleep has suspended the organs of sense from their office, she not only supplies the mind with images, but assists in their combination. And even in madness itself, when the soul is resigned over

to the tyranny of a distempered imagination, she revives past perceptions, and awakens the train of thought which was formerly most familiar.

Nor are we pleased only with a review of

the brighter passages of life; events, the most

distressing in their immediate consequences,

are often cherished in remembrance with a

degree of enthusiasm.

But the world and its occupations give a mechanical impulse to the passions, which is not very favourable to the indulgence of this feeling. It is in a calm and well-regulated mind that the Memory is most perfect; and solitude is her best sphere of action. With this sentiment is introduced a Tale, illustrative

of her influence in solitude, sickness, and sorrow. And the subject having now been considered, so far as it relates to man and the animal world, the Poem concludes with a conjecture, that superior beings are blest with a nobler exercise of this faculty.

Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail,

To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours,

Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers.

Ages and climes remote to Thee impart

What charms in Genius, and refines in Art;

Thee, in whose hand the keys of Science dwell,

The pensive portress of her holy cell;

Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp
Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp.

The friends of Reason, and the guides of Youth,
Whose language breath'd the eloquence of Truth;
Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught
The great in conduct, and the pure in thought;

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These still exist, by Thee to Fame consign'd, "
Still speak and act, the models of mankind.

From Thee sweet Hope her airy colouring draws;

And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws.

From Thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows,.

Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows.

When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening-ray,

And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play;