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If seized at last, compute your mighty gains; What is it but rank poison in your veins?

GAMBLING.

IMMORTAL were we, or else mortal quite,
I less should blame this criminal delight;
But since the gay assembly's gayest room
Is but an upper story to some tomb,
Methinks we need not our short being shun,
And thought to fly, content to be undone.
We need not buy our ruin with our crime,
And give eternity to murder time.

RESIGNATION.

THESE hearts, alas! cleave to the dust
By strong and endless ties:
Whilst every sorrow cuts a string,
And urges us to rise.

When heaven would kindly set us free,
And earth's enchantment end;
It takes the most effectual way,
And robs us of a friend.

Resign, and all the load of life

That moment you remove;
Its heavy load, ten thousand cares,
Devolve on One above-

Who bids us lay our burden down,
On his almighty hand;

Softens our duty to relief,

Our blessings to command.
23*

ROBERT BLAIR,

THE author of "The Grave," was the eldest son of a minister of Edinburgh, and was born in that city in 1699. He graduated at the university of his native city, travelled on the continent, and on his return, in 1731, was ordained to a parish in East Lothian, where, living in a gentlemanly style, he discharged the duties of his profession in an exemplary manner, and gave his leisure to the cultivation of his garden, to science, and to literature. He died on the 4th of February, 1746, and was succeeded in his office by Home, the author of " Douglass." The reputation of Blair rests chiefly upon " The Grave,” originally published in London, through the kindly offices of Doddridge, in 1743. The execution of the poem is uneven; it has some striking faults; but the work is altogether justly described by Hazlitt as "a serious and somewhat gloomy poem, pregnant with striking reflections and fine fancy."

A SHOOLBOY, AT NIGHT, IN A CHURCHYARD.

OFT in the lone churchyard at night I've seen,
By glimpse of moonlight check'ring through the trees,
The schoolboy with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up,
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown)
That tell in homely phrase who lies below.
Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears,
The sound of something purring at his heels:
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind,
Till, out of breath, he overtakes his fellows,
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition pale and ghastly,

That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O'er some new-opened grave-and (strange to tell)
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

A RICH MAN SURPRISED BY DEATH.

In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement,
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help,
But shrieks in vain! how wistfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer, yet a little longer,
O! might she stay to wash away her stains,
And fit her for her passage. Mournful sight;
Her very eyes weep blood; and every groan
She heaves is big with horror. But the foe,
Like a stanch murderer, steady to his purpose,
Pursues her close through every lane of life,
Nor misses once the track, but presses on;
Till forced at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks to everlasting ruin!

JAMES THOMSON.

THIS eminent poet was born at Ednam, in Roxburghshire, in 1700. He was educated at Jedburgh and Edinburgh, and was intended for the ministry. Poetry, however, led him aside from this path, and in 1725 he went to London, where he soon attracted notice by the publication of his "Winter," and was patronised by the Lord Chancellor Talbot, with whose son he travelled afterwards on the Continent. After this nobleman's death, he enjoyed the friendship of Frederic, Prince of Wales, and Mr. Lyttleton. He died in 1748. Thomson is described by Hazlitt as the best and most original of the British descriptive poets. “He had nature, but through indolence or affectation, too often embellished it with the gaudy ornaments of art. He sometimes rises into sublimity; he has occasional pathos, and wit, and humor too, of a most voluptuous kind." Perhaps the best recent criticism of Thomson may be found in Professor Wilson's writings.

A HYMN ON THE SEASONS.

THESE as they change, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God. The rolling year
Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love.
Wide flush the fields: the softening air is balm,
And every sense and every heart is joy.
Then comes thy glory in the Summer months,
With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year;
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks,
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
By brooks and groves, and hollow whispering gales.
Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
In Winter, awful Thou! with clouds and storms
Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled,

Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing
Riding sublime, Thou bidd'st the world adore,
And humblest nature with thy northern blast.
Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine,
Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train,
Yet so delightful mixed with such kind art,
Such beauty and beneficence combined!
Shade unperceived so soft'ning into shade,
And all so forming an harmonious whole,
That as they still succeed they ravish still.
But wand'ring oft with brute unconscious gaze,
Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand
That ever busy wheels the silent spheres ;
Works in the secret deep; shoots teeming thence
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring;
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day;
Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth;
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,
With transport touches all the springs of life.
Nature, attend! join every living soul
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky,

In adoration join: and ardent raise

One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales,

Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes.

Oh! talk of Him in solitary glooms,

Where o'er the rock the scarcely waving pine

Fills the brown shade with a religious awe.

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar,

Who shake th' astonished world, lift high to heaven
Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage.
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills,
And let me catch it as I muse along.

Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound;
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze
Along the vale; and thou, majestic main,
A secret world of wonders in thyself,
Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall.

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