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Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows-
Rules universal nature. Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain,
Of his unrivall’d pencil. He inspires
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues,
And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes,
In grains as countless as the seaside sands,
The forms with which he sprinkles all the Earth.
Happy who walks with him ! whom what he finds
Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower,
Or what he views of beautiful or grand
In nature, from the broad majestic oak
To the green blade that twinkles in the sun,
Prompts with remembrance of a present God.
His presence, who made all so fair, perceiv'd,
Makes all still fairer. As with him no scene
Is dreary, so with him all seasons please.



TH' emphatic speaker dearly loves t'oppose, In contact inconvenient, nose to nose. As if the gnomon on his neighbour's phiz, Touch'd with the magnet, had attracted his. His whisper'd theme, dilated and at large, Proves after all a wind-gun's airy charge, An extract of his diary-no more, A tasteless journal of the day before, He walk'd abroad, o’ertaken in the rain Call'd on a friend, drank tea, stepp'd home again,

Resum'd his purpose, had a world of talk
With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk.
I interrupt him with a sudden bow,
Adieu, dear Sir, lest you should lose it now.

I cannot talk with civet in the room,
A fine puss-gentleman, that's all perfume ;
The sight's enough-no need to smell a beau-
Who thrusts his nose into a raree show ?.
His odoriferous attempts to please
Perhaps might prosper with a swarm of bees ;
But we that make no honey, though we sting,
Poets are apt sometimes to maul the thing,
'Tis wrong to bring into a mix'd resort,
What makes some sick, and others a la mort.


cogence, we may say,
Why such a one should keep himself away.

A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see,
Quite as absurd, though not so light as he ;
A shallow brain behind a serious mask,
An oracle within an empty cask,
The solemn fop ; significant and budge;
A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge ;

but little, and that little said Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead. His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock it never is at home : 'Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage, Some handsome present, as your hopes presage : 'Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove An absent friend's fidelity and love ; But when unpack'd your disappointment groans To find it stuff’d with brickbats, earth, and stones, LESSON XXIII.

Sphere of Man.

PRESUMPTUOUS man ! the reason would'st thou find,
Why form’d so weak, so little, and so blind ?
First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,
Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less !
Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made
Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade ?
Or ask of yonder argent fields above,
Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove ?

Of systems possible, if 'tis confest
That wisdom infinite must form the best,
Where all must full or not coherent be,
And all that rises, rise in due degree ;
Then, in the scale of reas'ning life, 'tis plain,
There must be, somewhere, such a rank as man ;
And all the question, (wrangle e'er so long)
Is only this, if God has plac'd him wrong?

Respecting man, whatever wrong we call,
May, must be right, as relative to all.
In human works, though labour'd on with pain,
A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain ;
In God's, one single can its end produce,
Yet serves to second too some other use.
So man, who here seems principal alone,
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown,
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal ;
'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.

When the proud steed shall know why man restrains
His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains ;
When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod,
Is now a victim, and now Egypt's god ;

Then shall man's pride and dullness comprehend
His actions', passions', being's use and end ;
Why doing, suff'ring, check’d, impelld ; and why
This hour a slave, the next a deity.

Then say not, man's imperfect, Heav'n in fault ;
Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought ;
His knowledge measur’d to his state and place,
His time a moment, and a point his space.
If to be perfect in a certain sphere,
What matter soon or late, or here or there ?
The blest to-day, is as completely so,
As who began a thousand years ago.


Imitation from the Persian.

LORD! who art merciful as well as just,
Incline thine ear to me, a child of dust !
Not what I would, O Lord ! I offer thee,

Alas! but what I can.
Father Almighty, who hast made me man,
And bade me look to Heaven, for thou art there,
Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer.
Four things which are not in thy treasury,
I lay before thee, Lord, with this petition -

My nothingness, my wants,
My sins, and my contrition !

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