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What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards ?
Who builds a church to God, and not to fame,
All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body nature is, and God the soul; That, changed through all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame, Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns As the rapt seraph that adores and burns: To him no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.
Know, then, this truth, -enough for man to know:“ Virtue alone is happiness below.”
All nature is but art, unknown to thee;
'Tis with our judgments as our watches: none Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
A little learning is a dangerous thing!
True wit is nature to advantage dressed,
Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate,
Good nature and good sense must ever join;
Order is heaven's first law.
'Tis education forms the common mind, And as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined.
Who shall decide when doctors disagree,
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offense,
Know, then, thyself — presume not God to scan:
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
For forms of government let fools contest; Whate'er is best administered is best : For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight; His can't be wrong whose life is in the right: In faith and hope the world will disagree, But all mankind's concern is charity: All must be false that thwart this one great end; And all of God that bless mankind or mend.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast :
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me. 1 “I have often wondered,” says wrote The Dunciad should have Cowper, “that the same poet who I written these lines."
LIFE AND WORKS.
It is no wonder that the colonial period of our country's history was one of comparative literary barrenness. Our forefathers were too busily engaged in subduing the wilderness, and in laying the foundations of states, to occupy themselves much with writing books.
Accordingly it was to the mother-country that they looked for intellectual food; and as regards learning, culture, art, and literature, the six generations of colonists were in a state of almost absolute dependence on England. The books and pamphlets of a political nature that came from the press were elicited by local causes, and possessed but transient interest; while the few sallies in "belles-lettres” were feeble imitations of the English poets and essayists of the eighteenth century.
In the midst of this provincial dependence and intellectual sterility stands out in sharp relief the luminous figure of Franklin,—the first truly great original literary man of America, the first American in whom the inarticulate genius of our country found prophetic voice.
The father of this illustrious man, about the year 1685, emigrated from Old England to New England, and established himself in Boston as a tallow-chandler and soap-boiler. He lived in a little house in Milk Street, opposite the Old South Church; and here was