ral moralists have considered the creation as the temple of God, which he has built with his own hands, and which is filled with his presence. Others have considered infinite space as the receptacle, or rather the habitation of the Almighty; but the noblest and most exalted way of considering this infinite space is that of Sir Isaac Newton, who calls it the sensorium of the Godhead. Brutes and men have their sensoriola, or little sensoriums, by which they apprehend the presence and perceive the actions of a few objects that lie contiguous to them. Their knowledge and observation turn within a very narrow circle. But as God Almighty cannot but perceive and know every thing in which he resides, infinite space gives room to infinite knowledge, and is, as it were, an organ to omniscience. Were the soul separate from the body, and with one glance of thought should start beyond the bounds of the creation; should it for millions of years continue its progress through infinite space with the same activity, it would still find itself within the embrace of its Creator, and encompassed round with the immensity of the Godhead. Whilst we are in the body, he is not less present with us because he is concealed from us. "O that I knew where 1 might find him!" says Job. "Behold I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him; on the left hand, where he does work, but I cannot behold him; he hideth himself on the right hand that I cannot see him." In short, reason as well as revelation assures us that he cannot be absent from us, notwithstanding he is undiscovered by us. In this consideration of God Almighty's omnipresence and omniscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. He cannot but regard every thing that has being, especially such of his creatures who fear they are not regarded by him. He is privy to all their thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart in particular, which is apt to trouble them on this occasion; for, as it is impossible he should overlook any of his creatures, so we may be confident that he regards with an eye of mercy those who endeavor to recommend themselves to his notice, and in an unfeigned humility of heart think themselves unworthy that he should be mindful of them. REFLECTIONS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. Spectator, No. 5t5. When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men that divided the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of us be contemporaries, and make our appearance together. Spectator, No. 26. As a poet, Addison does not take the highest rank, and yet he has written much that would be more valued had it not been thrown into the shade by the comparative brilliancy of his prose. One of his best pieces is his poetical Letter to Lord Halifax, written from Italy in 1701. Of this Dr. Drake1 thus speaks: "Had he written nothing else, this Epistle ought to have acquired for him the reputation of a good poet. Its versification is remarkably sweet and polished, its vein of description usually rich and clear, and its sentiments often pathetic, and sometimes even sublime. We see Addison, with the ardent enthusiasm of a mind fresh from the study of the classics, exploring with unwearied fondness and assiduity the neglected relics of antiquity, and tracing every stream and mountain recorded in the songs of the Bard. His praises of liberty break forth with uncommon warmth and beauty; with that energy of phrase and thought which only genuine emotion can supply." FROM THE LETTER FROM ITALY. For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes, With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart, The reddening orange, and the swelling grain: O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, In ten degrees of more indulgent skies; Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine, Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine: 'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile. PARAPHRASE OF PSALM XXIII. I. The Lord my pasture shall prepare, II. When in the sultry glebe I faint, III. Though in the paths of death I tread, IV. Though in a bare and rugged way, ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA. Died 1720. THIS lady was the daughter of Sir William Kingsmill, of Sidmonton, in the county of Southampton, and was married to Heneage, Earl of Winchelsea. A collection of her poems was printed in 1713. "It is remarkable," says Wordsworth, "that excepting a passage or two in the Windsor Forest of Pope, and some delightful pictures in the poems of Lady Winchelsea, the poetry of the period intervening between the publication of the Paradise Lost and the Seasons, does not contain a single new image of external nature." THE ATHEIST AND THE ACORN. Methinks the world is oddly made, Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing, Whilst on this Oak a fruit so small, That who with sense surveys this all, Its ill contrivance knows. My better judgment would have hung And left this mast, thus slightly strung, No more the caviller could say, For, as he upwards gazing lay, Th' offended part with tears ran o'er, Fool! had that bough a pumpkin bore, LIFE'S PROGRESS. How gayly is at first begun Our life's uncertain race! Whilst yet that sprightly morning sun, How smiling the world's prospect lies, How soft the first ideas prove, Which wander through our minds! Our sighs are then but vernal air, But, oh! too soon, alas! we climb, The gently-rising hill of Time, From whence with grief we see that prime And all its sweetness end. The die now cast, our station known, Fond expectation past: The thorns which former days had sown, To crops of late repentance grown, Through which we toil at last. Whilst every care's a driving harm, Which faded smiles no more can charm, |