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rapture in the soul, finding in the regions of scepticism nothing to which it corresponds, droops, and languishes. In a world which presents a fair spectaclea of order, and beauty, of a vast family, nourished, and supported by an Almighty Parent-in a world which leads the devout mind, step by step, to the contemplation of the first fair, and the first good, the sceptic is encompassed with nothing but obscurity, meanness, and disorder. |

When we reflect on the manner in which the idea of Deity is formed, we must be convinced that such an idea intimately present to the mind, must have a most powerful effect in refining the moral taste. Composed of the richest elements, it embraces in the character of a beneficent Parent, and Almighty Ruler, 1 whatever is venerable in wis dom, whatever is awful in authority, whatever is touching in good.ness.

Human excellence is blended with many imperfections, and seen under many limitations. It is beheld only in detached, and separate portions, nor ever appears in any one character, whole, and entire. | So that, when, in imitation of the Stoics, we wish to form out of these fragments, the notion of a perfectly wise, and good man, we know it is a mere fiction of the mind, without any real being in whom it is embodied, and realized. In the belief of a Deity, these conceptions are reduced to reality the scattered rays of an ideal excellence, are concentrated, and become the real attributes of that Being with whom we stand in the nearest relation who sits supreme at the head of the universe, is armed with infinite pow`er, and pervades all nature with his presence.

The efficacy of these sentiments, | in producing, and augmenting a virtuous taste, will indeed be proportioned to the vividness with which they are formed, I and the frequency with which they recur; yet some 1

Spêk'ta-kl. b El'è-mênts; not elurmunts.


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benefit will not fail to result from them even in their low'est degree. |

The idea of the Supreme Being, has this peculiar property that, as it admits of no substitute, so, from the first moment it is impressed, it is capable of continual growth, and enlargement. God himself, is immutable; but our conception of his character, is continually receiving fresh accessions, is continually growing more extended and refulgent, | by having transferred upon it new perceptions of beauty, and goodness; by attracting to itself, as a centre, whatever bears the impress of dignity, or'der, or happiness. | It borrows splendour from all that is fair, subordinates to itself all that is great, and sits enthroned on the riches of the universe. |



The tree of deepest root, is found, I
Least willing still to quit the ground: |
'T was therefore said by ancient_sages, |

That love of life increas'd with years, I
So much, that, in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, |
The greatest love of life appears. |
This great affection to believe, |
Which all confess, but few perceive, |
If old assertions can't prevail, |
Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale. I

When sports went round, and all were gay, |
On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day, |
Death call'd aside the jocund groom, I
With him, into another room'; |
And looking grave "You must," says he, |
"Quit your sweet bride', and come with me."


"With you! and quit my Susan's side'! |
With you!" 'the hapless husband cried, ; |
Young as I am, 't is monstrous hard! |
Beside, in truth, I'm not prepar'd: |
My thoughts on other matters go; |
This is my wed'ding-day, you know." |

What more he urg'd, I have not heard, |

His reasons could not well be stronger;|
So Death the poor delinquent spar'd, |
And left to live a little longer. |
Yet, calling up a serious look




('His hour-glass trembled while he spoke) |
2. Neighbour," he said, "farewell. No more,
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour; |
And farther, to avoid all blame, I
Of cruelty upon my name,

To give you time for preparation, |
And fit you for your future station, |
Three several war'nings you shall have, |
Before you're summon'd to the grave. |
Willing for once, I'll quit my prey', |
And grant a kind reprieve, |
In hopes you'll have no more to say`;!
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleas'd the world will leave." |
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented. |

What next the hero of our tale befell, I
How long he liv'd', | how wise', how well, |
How roundly he pursued his course,

And smok'd his pipe', and strok'd his horse', |
The willing muse shall tell.:!

he sold,

He chaffer'd then, he bought,
Nor once perceiv'd his growing old',
Nor thought of Death as near; |
His friends not false', his wife no shrew', |
Many his gains', his children few,, |


He pass'd his hours in peace. I
But, while he view'd his wealth increase, |
While thus along Life's dusty road, |
The beaten track content he trod, |.
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, |
Uncall'd', unheeded, unawares1, |
Brought on his eightieth year. |
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate, |
Once more before him stood. |

Half kill'd with anger, and surprise, I
"So soon return'd'!" | 'old Dodson cries,, |
2" So soon, d'ye call it?" 'Death replies : |
"Surely, my friend, you're but, in jest! |
Since I was here before, |

'Tis six-and-thirty years', at least,

And you are now fourscore." |

"So much the worse," 'the clown rejoin'd, |
2 To spare the aged would be kind: |
However, see your search be le'gal;
And your author'ity is 't regal? |
Else you are come on a fool's' errand, |
With but a secretary's warrant. |
Beside, you promis'd me Three War'nings, |
Which I have look'd for nights, and mornings! |
But, for that loss of time, and ease, |
I can recover dam'ages.” |

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"I know," cries Death, "that, at the best', |
I seldom am a welcome guest; |
But don't be captious, friend, at least: 1
I little thought you'd still be able,|
To stump about your farm', and stable; |
Your years have run to a great length; |
I wish you joy, though, of your strength!" |

But in jest; not button jest. b Years at least; not years'at-least.

"Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast! |
I have been lame these four years past." |
"And no great won'der," Death replies :|
"However, you still keep your eyes';]
And sure, to see one's loves, and friends, |
For legs, and arms, would make amends." |
Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, |
But latterly, I've lost my sight." |


"This is a shocking tale, 't is true, But still there's comfort left for you:] Each strives your sadness to amuse 1 I warrant you hear all the news." | "There's none'," cries he;" and, if there were, | I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." |


Nay, then," | the spectre stern rejoin'd, | "These are unjus'tifiable yearnings; | If you are Lame', and Deaf', and Blind', |

You've had your Three sufficient Warnings. | So, come along, no more we'll part;" | He said, and touch'd him with his dart. | And now, old Dodson turning pale, | Yields to his fate. so ends my tale. |



Oft has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark1, |
With eyes that hardly serv'd at most', |
To guard their master 'gainst a post; |
Yet round the world the blade has been, |
To see whatever could be seen: |
Returning from his finish'd tour, |
Grown ten times perter than before ; |
Whatever word you chance to drop, |
The travell'd fool your mouth will stop. :|

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