They view me like the last of things;
They make, and then they dread, my stings.
Fools! if you less provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God:
A port of calms, a state of ease
From the rough rage of swelling seas.

66

Why then thy flowing sable stoles,
Deep pendent cypress, mourning poles,
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the 'scutcheons of the dead?

"Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul these forms of wo;
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
Whene'er their suffering years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glittering sun :
Such joy, though far transcending sense,
Have pious souls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body placed,
A few, and evil years, they waste:
But when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tower away,
And mingle with the blaze of day."

A HYMN TO CONTENTMENT.

"LOVELY, lasting peace of mind! Sweet delight of human kind!

Heavenly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky
With more of happiness below,
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek contented head?
What happy region dost thou please
To make the seat of calms and ease?

"Ambition searches all its sphere
Of pomp and state to meet thee there.
Increasing Avarice would find
Thy presence in its gold enshrin'd.
The bold adventurer ploughs his way,
Through rocks amidst the foaming sea,
To gain thy love; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.
The silent heart which grief assails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales;
Sees daisies open, rivers run,

And seeks (as I have vainly done) Amusing thought; but learns to know That Solitude's the nurse of wo.

No real happiness is found

In trailing purple o'er the ground:
Or in a soul exalted high,

To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its forms below;
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies,
And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise.
"Lovely, lasting Peace, appear!
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast."

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, I sung my wishes to the wood,

And, lost in thought, no more perceiv'd
The branches whisper as they wav'd:
It seem'd as all the quiet place
Confess'd the presence of the Grace.
When thus she spoke-" Go, rule thy will,
Bid thy wild passions all be still;
Know God-and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow:
Then every Grace shall prove its guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest."
Oh! by yonder mossy seat,

In my hours of sweet retreat,
Might I thus my soul employ,
With sense of gratitude and joy:
Rais'd as ancient prophets were,
In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer;
Pleasing all men, hurting none,
Pleas'd and bless'd with God alone :
Then while the gardens take my sight,
With all the colours of delight;
While silver waters glide along,
To please my ear, and court my song;
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string,
And thee, great Source of Nature, sing.
The sun that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day;
The moon that shines with borrow'd light;
The stars that gild the gloomy night;
The seas that roll unnumber'd waves;
The wood that spreads its shady leaves;
The field whose ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain;

All of these, and all I see,

Should be sung, and sung by me :
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.

Go search among your idle dreams,
Your busy, or your vain extremes ;
And find a life of equal bliss,
Or own the next begun in this.

EDWARD YOUNG.

BORN 1681-died 1765.

EDWARD YOUNG, an eminent sacred poet, was born at Upham, in Hampshire, of which place his father was rector. He was educated at Winchester school, from whence he went to New College, Oxford. In 1708 Young obtained a fellowship at All Souls; but it was not till he was nearly fifty years of age, and had long been known as an author, and, as is alleged, as a place and patron hunter, that he took orders, and obtained the living of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire. About this time he married Lady Elizabeth Lee, whose daughter, by a former marriage, is supposed to be the Narcissa of the " Night Thoughts." This noble poem was composed by Young shortly after the death of his wife, and when his age exceeded sixty years. Among his other serious poems are the "Last Day," "A Paraphrase on Part of the Book of Job," and the "Force of Religion," a poem, founded on the history of Lady Jane Grey. These were all written in early life. His latest production, written when he had reached the age of eighty, was "Resignation," a poem, composed on the solicitation of Mrs Montague, to console her friend, Mrs Boscawen, on the death of Admiral Boscawen. The writings of

Young must ever retain a favourite place in a Christian's library, and above all of them the NIGHT THOUGHTS. In this powerful production, notwithstanding its exaggerations, conceits, and turgid affectations of thought and style, the truths of religion appear invested with all the dignity of their immutable and divine nature, amplified and enforced with an energy which few sacred poets have attained. Whatever may be the faults of the poet, the moralist, the preacher of righteousness, and of the judgment to come, fastens his solemn apophthegms on the mind with vigour and authority. The Night Thoughts are fully more popular in Germany and France than at home, where the evangelical simplicity and unquestionable sincerity of Cowper, whose character adorned his poetry, are working a revolution not favourable to the "Midnight Mourner." Those poets who adopt the trick of interesting the public in their private feelings, had need that their loves and sorrows be above all suspicion. But Young was a man of powerful and original mind, a Christian, and a poet. His writings have communicated consolation to thousands, who never dreamed of either questioning the sincerity of his wo or of analyzing his verse. If he stooped below the dignity of his high profession in courting worldly favour and applause, no one has more convincingly shown how utterly worthless was the object of this inconsistent ambition.

DESCRIPTION OF THE MAN WHOSE THOUGHTS ARE NOT OF THIS WORLD. SOME angel guide my pencil, while I draw, What nothing less than angel can exceed, A man on earth devoted to the skies; Like ships in seas, while in, above the world. With aspect mild, and elevated eye, Behold him seated on a mount serene,