Their only labour was to kill the time; They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme; Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow. This soon too rude an exercise they find; Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw. Where hours and hours they sighing lie reclin'd, And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the wind. Now must I mark the villany we found, For of these wretches taken was no care : Alas! the change! from scenes of joy and rest, To this dark den, where sickness toss'd alway. Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep opprest, Stretch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay, Heaving his sides, and snored night and day; To stir him from his traunce it was not eath, And his half-open'd eyne he shut straightway: He led, I wot, the softest way to death, And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the breath. Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound, For still he drank, and yet he still was dry. And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd a wit. A lady proud she was, of ancient blood, Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low: For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry, Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why. Fast by her side a listless maiden pin'd, With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings; Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind, Yet lov'd in secret all forbidden things. And here the tertian shakes his chilling wings; The sleepless gout here counts the crowing cocks, A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings; Whilst apoplexy cramm'd intemperance knocks Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox. ISAAC WATTS. BORN 1674.-DIED 1748. DR. WATTS's devotional poetry was for the most part intentionally lowered to the understanding of children. If this was a sacrifice of taste, it was at least made to the best of intentions. The sense and sincerity of his prose writings, the excellent method in which he attempted to connect the study of ancient logic with common sense, and the conciliatory manner in which he allures the youthful mind to habits of study and reflection, are probably remembered with gratitude by nine men out of ten, who have had proper books put into their hands at an early period of their education. Of this description was not poor old Percival Stockdale, who in one of his lucubrations gives our author the appellation of "Mother Watts." The nickname would not be worth mentioning if it did not suggest a compassionate reflection on the difference between the useful life and labours of Dr. Watts, and the utterly useless and wasted existence of Percival Stockdale. It might have been happy for the frail intellects of that unfortunate man, if they had been braced and rectified in his youth by such works as Watts's Logic and Improvement of the Mind. The study of them might possibly have saved even him from a life of vanity, exation, and oblivion. FEW HAPPY MATCHES. SAY, mighty Love, and teach my song, To whom thy sweetest joys belong, And who the happy pairs Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains Not sordid souls of earthly mould So two rich mountains of Peru May rush to wealthy marriage too, Not the mad tribe that hell inspires The purer bliss destroy: On Ætna's top let furies wed, And sheets of lightning dress the bed Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms Can mingle hearts and hands: Logs of green wood that quench the coals Are married just like Stoic souls, With osiers for their bands. Not minds of melancholy strain, Nor can the soft enchantments hold Samson's young foxes might as well Nor let the cruel fetters bind For Love abhors the sight: Two kindest souls alone must meet, |