OH! sacred MEM'RY, tablet of the heart,
Thou breathing shadow of departed days,
Still ever prompt to wake the slumb'ring smart,
And backward lure the visionary gaze;
Thou tellest but of scenes, that melted by,
like wreaths of winter-snow;

Are vanish'd now,

The tear of sorrow gems thy lucid eye,

And yet, so beauteous is thy garb of woe, We love thee still, and clasp thy fond regret, Too tender to renounce, too pleasing to forget!

Why should Mem'ry weep, that frowning truth
So early chas'd the mock'ries of delight,
The idle dreams that flush'd the cheek of youth,
And glitter'd baneful on the dazzled sight?
She hath not murder'd Hope, though distant far,

And trembling at her voice, with drooping plume, Gay Fancy flies; nor quench'd that better star, Whose radiant orb can cheer the wintry gloom, Where sacred Virtue rears her hallow'd nest, There Peace shall linger still, companion of the breast.

GRIEF that can vent itself in imagery, however gloomy, is not of that sort which preys rapidly on life for it is

The grief that doth not speak—

Falls on the burthened heart, and bids it break.

O BEHOLD me

Behold the game that laughing fortune plays;
Fate, or the will of Heaven, call't what you please,
That mars the best designs that prudence lays,
That brings events about, perhaps, to mock
At human reach, and sport with expectation.

LEE.

THE same uncertainty of human affairs which teaches us to fear and doubt, even in the most prosperous state of things, should teach us to hope in their worst appearance: all is so uncertain, nothing is entirely sure or entirely desperate.

THOSE Who once have got the highest stair, Will keep them down that mount with too much haste; 'Tis best (some say) to rise but soft and fair: If thou will gain thy journey's end at last, Tire not thy means by posting over-fast;

Stir like a dial, unperceiv'd to move,

So shalt thou gather strength and purchase love.

HUBERT.

CAPRICE is a terrible tyrant; he hides his rigour under the names of sport, of fancy, whim, or inclination, uncertainty, irresolution, and a thousand fond excuses.

Most people avoid cruelty and se

verity, but caprice and their idle will they think may be their guide and governor. To the torment of their invention each dependant must submit; but happier are they who are governed by another's will, than such as are tyrannized by their own. A thousand accidents may set our actions and our rea. son free from another person's dominion, but if once our own passions conquer us, true liberty and the rule

of reason is for ever at an end: the soul's calm sunshine and the heartfelt joy is then for ever lost. The storms of fortune are nothing to the storm of passion, and the war of will. So equitable is the order of things, who does an ill receives a punishment. . . . . It is most admirably ordered by the Giver of all grace, that good and benefit done to the weakest and meanest, shall to the most great and most powerful derive its adequate reward of peace, of joy, of satisfaction. And on the contrary, the least injury, the smallest oppression offered to the poor and defenceless, shall, even in the bosom of the strong and the mighty, place fear, uneasiness and unhappiness; the conscience accusing or excusing. Conscience is justice's best minister; it threatens, promises, rewards, and punishes, and keeps all under its control; the busy must attend to its remonstrances, the most powerful submit to its reproof, and the angry endure its upbraidings. While conscience is our friend all is peace; but if once offended, farewell the tranquil mind.

MRS. MONTAGU.

BENEATH my grief I fainted not,
And hope within me seem'd to live;
Until the moment when I thought,
That they who injure ne'er forgive.
Be pardon ready; oft one sees
A wound inflicted ne'er intended,
And oftener by carelessness

Than by design, are men offended.
I hoped in vain-when hope had brought
Her dreams so fond-so fugitive-

I hoped-but sunk beneath the thought,
That they who injure ne'er forgive.

KNOWLEDGE is the treasure of the mind; but discretion is the key: without which it lies dead in the dulness of a fruitless rest.

He who would happy live to-day,
Must laugh the present ills away,
Nor think of woes to come;
For come they will, or soon or late;
Since mix'd at best is man's estate
By Heaven's eternal doom.

VILE is the vengeaunce on the ashes cold;
And envy base to barke at sleeping fame.

S

SPENSER.

He that acts towards men, as if God saw him, and prays to God, as if men heard him, although he may not obtain all that he asks, or succeed in all that he undertakes, will most probably deserve to do so. For with respect to his actions to men, however they may fail with regard to others, yet if pure and good, with regard to himself and his highest interests, they cannot fail; and with respect to his prayers to God, although they cannot make the Deity more willing to give, yet they will, and must, make the suppliant more worthy to receive.

COLTON.

To die-what is it but to sleep and sleep,
Nor feel the weariness of dark delay

Through the long night of time, and nothing know
Of intervening centuries elaps'd,

When thy sweet morn, Eternity, begins?
Or else what is it but a welcome change
From worse to better, from a world of pain
To one where flesh at least can nothing feel,
And pain and pleasure have no equal sway?
What is it but to meet ten thousand friends,
Whose earthly race was finish'd ere our own,
And be well welcome, where the tim'rous foot
Fear'd to intrude, and whence no foot returns?

HURDIS.