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will, by refreshing, invigorate him for nobler pursuits. In the regions inhabited by angelick natures, unmingled felicity for ever blooms; joy flows there with a perpetual and abundant stream, nor needs any mound to check its course. Beings conscious of a frame of mind originally diseased, as all the human race has cause to be, must use the regimen of a stricter self-government. Whoever has been guilty of voluntary excesses, must patiently submit both to the painful workings of nature, and needful severities of medicine, in order to his cure. Still he is entitled to a moderate share. of whatever alleviating accommodations this fair mansion of his merciful Parent affords, consistent with his recovery. And, in proportion as this recovery advances, the liveliest joy will spring from his secret sense of an amended and improved heart. So far from the horrours of despair is the condition even of the guilty.—Shudder, poor mortal, at the thought of the gulf into which thou wast just now going to plunge.

Whilst the most faulty have every encouragement to amend, the more innocent soul will be supported with still sweeter consolations under all its experience of human infirmities, supported by the gladdening assurances, that every sincere endeavour to outgrow them, shall be assisted, accepted, and rewarded. To such a one, the lowliest selfabasement is but a deep-laid foundation for the most elevated hopes; since they who faithfully examine and acknowledge what they are, shall be enabled under my conduct, to become what they desire. The Christian and the hero are inseparable; and to the aspirings of unassuming trust and filial confidence, are set no bounds. To him who is animated with a view of obtaining approbation from the Sovereign of the universe, no difficulty is insurmountable. Secure, in this pursuit, of every needful aid, his conflict with the severest pains and trials, is little more than the vigorous exercises of a mind in health. His patient dependence on that Providence which looks through all eternity, his silent resignation, his ready accommodation of his thoughts and behaviour to its inscrutable ways, are at once the most excellent sort of self-denial, and a source of the most exalted transports. Society is the true sphere of human virtue. In social, active life, difficulties will perpetually be met with; restraints of many kinds will be necessary; and studying to behave right in respect of these, is a discipline of the human heart, useful to others, and improving to itself. Suffering

is no duty, but where it is necessary to avoid guilt, or to do good; nor pleasure a crime, but where it strengthens the influence of bad inclinations, or lessens the generous activity of virtue. The happiness alloted to man in his present state, is indeed faint and low, compared with his immortal prospects, and noble capacities: but yet whatever portion of it the distributing hand of heaven offers to each individual, is a needful support and refreshment for the present moment, so far as it may not hinder the attaining of his final destination.

"Return then with me from continual misery, to moderate enjoyment, and grateful alacrity; return from the contracted views of solitude, to the proper duties of a relative and dependent being. Religion is not confined to cells and closets, nor restrained to sullen retirement. These are the gloomy doctrines of Superstition, by which she endeavours to break those chains of benevolence and social affection, that link the welfare of every particular with that of the whole. Remember that the greatest honour you can pay the Author of your being, is a behaviour so cheerful as discovers a mind satisfied with his dispensations."

Here my preceptress paused; and I was going to express my acknowledgments for her discourse, when a ring of bells from the neighbouring village, and the new risen sun darting his beams through my windows, awoke me.


The waterfall.-Derzhavin.

Lo! like a glorious pile of diamonds bright,
Built on the steadfast cliffs, the waterfall
Pours forth its gems of pearl and silver light:
They sink, they rise, and sparkling, cover all
With infinite refulgence; while its song,
Sublime as thunder, rolls the woods along-

Rolls through the woods-they send its accents back,
Whose last vibration in the desert dies:
Its radiance glances o'er the watery track,
Till the soft wave, as wrapt in slumber, lies
Beneath the forest-shade; then sweetly flows
A milky stream, all silent, as it goes

Its foam is scattered on the margent bound,
Skirting the darksome wood. But list! the hum
Of industry, the rattling hammer's sound,
Files whizzing, creaking sluices, echoed come
On the fast-travelling breeze! O no! no noise
Is heard around, but thy majestick voice!

When the mad storm-wind tears the oak asunder,
In thee its shivered fragments find their tomb;
When rocks are riven by the bolt of thunder,
As sands they sink into thy mighty womb:
The ice that would imprison thy proud tide,
Like bits of broken glass is scattered wide.

The fierce wolf prowls around thee-there he stands
Listening not fearful, for he nothing fears:
His red eyes burn like fury-kindled brands,
Like bristles o'er him his coarse fur he rears;
Howling, thy dreadful roar he oft repeats,
And, more ferocious, hastes to bloodier feats.

The wild stag hears thy falling waters'sound,
And tremblingly flies forward-o'er his back
He bends his stately horns-the noiseless ground
His hurried feet impress not—and his track
Is lost amidst the tumult of the breeze,
And the leaves falling from the rustling trees.

The wild horse thee approaches in his turn:
He changes not his proudly rapid stride,
His mane stands up erect-his nostrils burn-
He snorts-he pricks his ears—and starts aside;
Then madly rushing forward to thy steep,
He dashes down into thy torrents deep.

Beneath the cedar, in abstraction sunk,
Close to thine awful pile of majesty,

On yonder old and mouldering moss-bound trunk,
That hangs upon the cliff's rude edge, I see
An old man, on whose forehead winter's snow
Is scattered, and his hand supports his brow.

The lance, the sword, the ample shield beneath,
Lie at his feet obscured by spreading rust;
His casque is circled by an ivy wreath-
Those arms were once his country's pride and trust:

And yet upon his golden breast-plate plays
The gentle brightness of the sunset rays.
He sits, and muses on the rapid stream,
While deep thoughts struggling from his bosom rise:
"Emblem of man! here brightly pictured seem
The world's gay scenery and its pageantries;
Which, as delusive as thy shining wave,
Glow for the proud, the coward and the slave.

So is our little stream of life poured out,
In the wild turbulence of passion: so,
Midst glory's glance and victory's thunder-shout,
The joys of life in hurried exile go-
Till hope's fair smile, and beauty's ray of light,
Are shrouded in the griefs and storms of night.

Day after day prepares the funeral shroud;
The world is gray with age:-the striking hour
Is but an echo of death's summons loud-
The jarring of the dark grave's prison-door:
Into its deep abyss-devouring all-
Kings and the friends of kings alike must fall.”





O glory! glory! mighty one on earth!
How justly imaged in this waterfall!
So wild and furious in thy sparkling birth,
Dashing thy torrents down, and dazzling all;
Sublimely breaking from thy glorious height,
Majestick, thundering, beautiful and bright.


How many a wondering eye is turned to thee,
In admiration lost;-shortsighted men!
Thy furious wave gives no fertility;

Thy waters, hurrying fiercely through the plain,
Bring nought but devastation and distress,
And leave the flowery vale a wilderness.

O fairer, lovelier is the modest rill,
Watering with steps serene the field, the grove-
Its gentle voice as sweet and soft and still,
As shepherd's pipe, or song of youthful love.
It has no thundering torrent, but it flows
Unwearied, scattering blessings as it goes.

To the wild mountain let the wanderer come,
And, resting on the turf, look round and see,

With saddened eye, the green and grassy tomb,
And hear its monitory language: he-
He sleeps below, not famed in war alone;
The great, the good, the generous minded one.





'O! what is human glory, human pride?

What are man's triumphs when they brightest seem?
What art thou, mighty one! though deified?
Methuselah's long pilgrimage, a dream;
Our age is but a shade, our life a tale,
A vacant fancy, or a passing gale,

Or nothing! 'Tis a heavy hollow ball,
Suspended on a slender subtile hair,

And filled with storm-winds, thunders, passions, all
Struggling within in furious tumult there.
Strange mystery! man's gentlest breath can shake it,
And the light zephyrs are enough to break it.

But a few hours, or moments, and beneath
Empires are buried in a night of gloom:
The very elements are leagued with death,
A breath sends giants to their lonely tomb.
Where is the mighty one? He is not found,
His dust lies trampled in the noiseless ground!



But gratitude still lives and loves to cherish
The patriot's virtues, while the soul of song
In sacred tones, that never, never perish,
Fame's everlasting thunder bears along;
The lyre has an eternal voice of all
That's holy, holiest is the good man's pall.




List then, ye worldly waterfalls! Vain men,
Whose brains are dizzy with ambition, bright
Your swords your garments flowery like a plain
In the spring time-if truth be your delight,
And virtue your devotion, let your sword
Be bared alone at wisdom's sacred word.

Roar, roar, thou waterfall! lift up thy voice
Even to the clouded regions of the skies:
Thy brightness and thy beauty may rejoice,
Thy musick charms the ears, thy light the eyes,
Joy-giving torrent! sweetest memory
Receives a freshness and a strength from thee.

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