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"'Twas th'us, (by the glare of false sc'ience betrayed,
"That leads, to bewi'lder; and daz`zles, to bli'nd ;)
My thoughts wont to roa'm, from shade on'ward to sh ́ade,
"Destruction be'fore me, and s'orrow behin'd.

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"O pity, (great Father of light), then I cried,

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Thy creature, (who fain would not wan`der from th ́ee!) "Lo, humbled in du'st, I relin'quish my pri'de;

"From doubt and from dar'kness/ thou only/ canst free'. “And darkness and doubt/ are now flying away; "No longer I ro`am/ in conjecture forl'orn: "So breaks on the traveller, fai'nt, and astray, "The bright and the balmy effulgence of mo'rn. "See tr'uth, love, and me'rcy, in triumph descending, "And na'ture (all glow'ing in E`den's first blo'om!) "On the cold ch'eek of de^ath/ sm'iles and ro`ses/ are blending, "And be`auty/ immortal/ awa'kes from the tomb."

PICTURES OF THE GOOD PREACHER AND
CLERICAL COXCOMB.

COWPER.*

I VENERATE the m'an/ whose he'art/ is war'm,
Whose hands/ are pu're, whose doc'trine and whose life,
Co-'incident, exhibit lucid pro'of/

That he is honest in the sa'cred cau'se.

To su ch/ I render more than mere respect,

Whose actions s'ay/ that they respect themselves.
But/loose in mo'rals, and in man'ners vai'n,
In conversation frivolous, in dress
Extre'me, at once rapa'cious and profuse';
Frequent in p'ark/ with lady at his s'ide,
Ambling and prattling scan'dal/ as he goes;
But ra're at home, and never at his boo`ks,
Or with his p'en, sa've/ when he scrawls a car'd;
Co'nstant at rou'ts, familiar with a round

Of la'dyships a stranger to the poo'r;

* The inimitable author of "John Gilpin." This accomplished scholar and poet, after dreadfully suffering from mental derangement, died in 1800, aged 68.

Lower tone.

Ambitious of pref'erment for its go^ld,

A'nd/ we'll prepa'red, by i'gnorance and slot'h,
By infidelity and love of world,

To make God's w'ork/ a si`necure; a slav'e
To his own pl'easures and his p'atron's pri'de :
From such-apostles, (oh, ye mitred h ́eads,)
Preserve the church! and lay not careless ha'nds/
On skulls/ that can'not te'ach, and will not lea'rn.
Would I describe a pre'acher/ su'ch as Pa'ul,
Were he^ on earth, would he`ar, appro've, and own-
Paul should himself/ direct me. I would trace
His master-strokes, and draw from hi^s design.
I would express him sim'ple, gra've, since're ;
In do'ctrine/ uncorr'upt; in lan'guage pl'ain,
And pla ́in/ in man'ner; d'ecent, so'lemn, ch'aste,
And natural in ges'ture; much impressed
Himself, (as co'nscious of his awful cha'rge,)
And an'xious/ mai^nly, that the flock he feed's
May feel it too'; affect'ionate in lo'ok,
And ten'der in addr'ess, as we'll becomes
A messenger of grace/ to guilty ma'n.
Behold the picture !-Is it lik'e ?-Like who^m ?
The things/ that mount the rostrum with a sk'ip,
And then skip dow'n ag'ain; pronounce a te`xt;
C'ry-he'm; an'd, (reading/ what they never wro^te,
Just fifte^en mi'nutes,) hu'ddle up their work,
A'nd/ with a well-bred whi'sper/ close the sce`ne!
In m'an or wo`man, but far most in ma^n,

And/ mo'st of all/ in man/ that ministers
And serves the altar, in my soul/ I loa'the
All affecta'tion. 'Tis my perfect sco`rn;
Object/ of my impla'cable disgu'st.
What!-will a man play tri'cks, will he indulge
A silly/ fo^nd conceit of his fair fo'rm,
And just proportion, fashionable mie'n,
And pretty face, (in presence of his Go'd ?)
Or/ will he seek to dazzle me with tr'opes,
(As with the di'amond/ on his lily ha'nd,)
And play his brilliant pa'rts/ before my eyes,
(When I am hungry/ for the bre'ad of life ?)
He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and sha'mes
His n'oble office, a'nd, instead of truth,
Displaying his own be'auty, sta'rves his flo`ck!

There'fore/ avaunt a'll attitude; and star ́e,
And start the'atric, prac'tised at the gla'ss!
I seek divine simplicity/ in him/

Who handles things div'ine; and all besi'des,
(Though learned with la'bour, and though much admired
By curious eyes/ and ju`dgments ill info'rmed,)

To me/ is o'dious as the nasal twa'ng

Heard at conven'ticle, where worthy m'en,
(Misled by custom,) strain celes'tial the'mes
Through the pressed n'ostril, spe'ctacle-bestr'id.
So'me, (decent in demeanour, while they pre'ach,)
That task perfo'rmed, relapse into themselves;
An'd, having spoken wi'sely, at the cl'ose
Grow wan'ton, giving proof/ to every eye-
Who'e'er was e'dified, themselves were n'ot!
Forth comes the pocket mirror.-First/ we stroke
An eye-brow; ne'xt/ compose a straggling loc'k;
Th'en (with an air, most gracefully performed,)
Fall back into our se'at, extend an arm,
And lay' it/ at its ea ́se,

With handkerchief/ in hand/ depending_lo`w:
The better ha'nd, (more bu'sy,) gives the nose
Its bergamot, or/ aids the indebted-eye
With op'era-glass, to watch the moving sc'ene,
And recognise the slo^w-retiring fair.—
No'w this is ful'some; and offends me more
Th'an/ in a churc'hman slovenly neglect

And rustic coarseness wou'ld. A heavenly mind/
May be indi'fferent to her house of cl'ay,
And sl'ight the hov'el/ as beneath her ca're;
But/ how a bo`dy/ so fanta ́stic, tri'm,
And quai^nt, in its depor'tment and att'ire,
Can lodge a heavenly miˇnd-demands a doubt.

Concluding tone

-lower and slower
than any preceding
portion of the lesson.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

BURNS.

THOU lingering st'ar; with lessening ra ́y,
That lovest to greet the early mo'rn,

Aga'in thou usherest in the d'ay

My Ma'ry from my so'ul was tor'n.

O Mary (dear/ departed sh'ade !)
Where is thy pla'ce of blissful res't?
See'st thou thy lov'er/ lowly l'aid,

Hearest thou the gr'oans/ that re'nd his brea`st?
That sacred ho'ur/ can I forget!-

Can I forget the ha'llowed gr'ove,
Wh'ere (by the winding A'yr,) we me't,
To live one da'y of parting love!
Eternity/ will not effa'ce

Those records de'ar of transports p'ast!
Thy i'mage/ at our la'st embrace :-

Ah! little thought we/ 'tw'as our laˇst!
A'yr, (gur'gling,) kissed his pebbled sho're,
O'erhung with wild woo'ds, thickening green;
The fragrant birc'h, and hawthorn ho'ar,

Twined amorous ro'und/ the raptured scen'e.
The flow'ers/ sprang wa'nton/ to be pre'ssed;
The birds/ sung love' on every spray,
Till t'oo, too soo^n, the glowing west'
Proclaimed the spe'ed of winged day'.
Still o'er these scenes my memory w'akes,
And fondly broo`ds, with miser ca're;
ime but the impression/ dee^per mak ́es,—
(As streams their cha'nnels deeper wea'r.
My M'ary! (dear/ departed sh ́ade !)
Where is thy blissful pla'ce of re'st?
See'st thou thy lo`ver/ lowly la'id ?

Hea'rest thou the gro'ans/ that re'nd his breas't?

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.*

Dr. JOHNSON.

NOTWITHSTANDING the wa'rnings of philo'sophers, and the daily examples of los'ses and misfortunes/ which life/ forces upon our observation, such/ is the absorption of our thoughts/ in the business of the present day, such the re

This beautiful and pathetic paper was written on the death of the Doctor's venerable mother.

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signation of our rea'son/ to empty hopes of future felicity, or/ such our unwillingness/ to foresee what we dre ́ad, that every calamity comes suddenly upon us, and/ not only pre'sses us/ as a b'urthen, but crushes us/ as a blo^w.

There are evils/ which happen out of the common course of nature, against whi'ch/ it is no reproach/ not to be provi'ded. A flash of lightning/ intercepts the traveller in his wa'y; the concussion of an earthquake/ heaps the ruins of cities upon their inna'bitants. But other miseries/ ti^me bri'ngs, (though s'ilently, yet vi'sibly forward/ by its even lapse,) which yet approach us unse'en, because we turn our eyes away, and se'ize us, unresi'sted, because we could not arm ourselves again'st them, but/ by set'ting them/ befor`e us.

That it is vain/ to shrink from wh'at/ cannot be avo`ided, and to hide tha^t from ourselves/ which must some time be found, is a truth/ which we all kn'ow, but which a^ll/ negle ct; and/ perhaps none more than the speculative re'asoner, whose thoughts/ are always from home, whose e'ye/ wanders over life', whose fa^ncy/ dances after meteors of happiness kindled by its'elf, and who exa'mines/ every thing/ rather than his own-state.

Nothing is more evident, than that the decays of age/ must terminate in death; yet/ there is no m'an, (says Tu'lly,) who does not believe that he may yet live another year; and there is no`ne/ who does not, (upon the same pr'inciple,) hope another year for his parent or his friend : but, the fallacy will be in time/ det'ected; the last y'ear, the last day/ must c'ome. It has come, and is pas'sed. The life/ which made my own life pleasant/ is at an e'nd, and the gates of death/ are sh'ut upon my prospects.

The loss of a friend, upon whom the heart was fixe'd, t'o whom every wish and every endeavour te'nded, is a state of dreary desolation, in whi'ch/ the mind looks abr`oad/ impatient of itself, and finds not'hing/ but emp'tiness and hor'ror. The blameless life', the ar'tless ten'derness, the p'ious simplicity, the mo'dest resignation, the pa'tient sickness, and the qui'et dea'th, are remembered/ only to add va^lue to the lo'ss, to a'ggravate regret/ for what cannot be ame'nded, to dee'pen so rrow/ for what c'annot be recalled.

The'se are the cal'amities/ by which Providence gradually disengages us/ from the lo've of life. Other evils/ fortitude may repe'l, or ho`pe/ may m'itigate; but irreparable priva ́

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