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Thou glorious mirror', where the Almighty's form'
And I have loved theé, ocean'! and my joy’
hand upon thy manek-as I do herè.
An is Ah
( Fri Ve
LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD.
Matt. xvii. 4.
No Elias and Moses appear',
Shall we build to Ambition'? Oh, no!
For, see! they would fix him below!
To Beauty'? Ah, nò !she forgets'
Nor knows the foul worm, that he frets'
* Emphasis often inverts the inflections. See under Emphasis.
Shall we build to the purple of Pride'
Alas, they are all lāid āsidē-
But the long winding-sheet' and the fringe of the shroud ! 5. To Riches'? Alas', 'tis in vain – Who hid', in their turns' have been hid —
The treasures are squandered again —
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin' lid'. 6. To the pleasures which mirth can affordThe revel, the laugh' and the jeer' ?
Ah! here is a plentiful board,
Shall we build to Affection and Lové ?
Or fled with the spirit abovè.
Yet none have saluted', and none have replied'. 8. Unto Sorrow' ? The dead cannot grieve; Not a sob', not a sigh' meets mine ear',
Which compassion itself could relieve !
Peace, Peace, is the watch-word", the only one here.
And here there are trophies enowo!
Are the signs of a scepter that none may disown! 10. The first tabernacle to Hope we will build',
And look for the sleepers around us to rise ;
The second to Faith', which ensures it fulfilled
LESSON LX X XII.
Theé, native soil', these happy walks and shades,
Fit haunt of gods' ? where I had hope to spend', 5. Quiet', though sad', the respite of that day
That must be mortal to us both'. O flowers',
At ev'n'; which I bred up with tender hand'
Who now shall rear ye to the sun', or rank'
With what to sight or smell was sweet', from thee 15. How shall I part, and whither wander down'
Into a lower world', to this' obscuré
“How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard? When wilt thou arise out of sleep?”
Not until you have had another' nap' you reply'; not till there has been a little more folding of the hands'!
Various philosophers and naturalists have attempted to define man'. I never was satisfied with their labors ; absurd' to pronounce him a two-legged', unfeathered animal', when it is obvious' he is a sleepy one. In this world there is business enough for every individual': a sparkling sky over his head to admire', a soil under his feet to till”, and innumerable objects', useful', and pleasant', to choosè. But such, in general, is the provoking indolence of our species', that the lives of many'. if impartially journalized', might be truly said to have consisted of a series of slumbers. Some men are infested with day. dreams', as well as by visions of the night': they travel a cer. tain insipid round, like the blind horse of the mill', and', as Bolingbroke observes', perhaps beget others to do the like after them. They may sometimes open their eyes a littlé, but they are soon dimmed by some lazy fog'; they may sometimes stretch a limb', but its efforts are soon palsied by procrastination. Yawning amid tobacco fumes', they seem to have no hopes, except that their bed will soon be madè, and no fears',
except that their slumbers will be broken by business clamoring at the door.
How tender and affectionate is the reproachful question of Solomon, in the texto, “ When wilt thou arise out of sleep' ?” The Jewish prince, whom we know to be an active oné, from the temple which he erected', and the books which he composed', saw, when he cast his eyes around the city', half his subjects asleep. Though in many a wise proverb he had warned them of the baneful effects of indolence, they were deaf to his charming voicé, and blind to his noble example. The men servants and the maid servants, whom he had hired', nodded over their domestic duties in the royal kitchen', and when', in the vineyards he had planted', he looked for grapes', lô, they brought forth wild grapes, for the vintager was drowsy.
At the present time, few Solomons exist to preach against pillows', and never was there more occasion for a sermon. Our country being at peacé, not a drum is heard to rouse the slothful. But', though we are exempted from the tumult and vicissitudes of war', we should remember that there are many posts of duty', if not of danger', and at these we should vigilantly stand. If we will stretch the hand of exertion', means to acquire competent wealth, and honest famé, abound"; and when such ends are in view, how shameful to close our eyes'! He who surveys the paths of active life, will find them so numerous and long, that he will feel the necessity of early rising and late taking resť, to accomplish so much travel. He who pants for the shade of speculation', will find that literature cannot flourish in the bowers of indolence and monkish gloom. Much midnight oil must be consumed, and innumerable pages examined', by him whose object is to be really wise. Few hours has that man to steep', and not one to loiter', who has many coffers of wealth to fill, or many cells in his memory to store.
Among the various men whom I see in the course of my pilgrimage through this world', I cannot frequently find those who are broad awake. Sloth', a powerful magician', mutters a witching spelly, and deluded mortals tamely suffer this drowsy being to bind a fillet over their eyes. All their activity is employed in turning themselves like the door on a rusty hingè, and all the noise they make in the world' is a snore. When I see one, designed by nature for noble purposes', indolently declining the privilege, and heedless', like Esau', bartering the birthright for what is of less worth than his red pottage of lentils',—for liberty to sit still and lie quietly',-I think I seé, not a man', but an oyster'. The drone in society', like that fish on our shores", might as well be sunken in the mud', and en
closed in a shell', as stretched on a couch', or seated in a chimney corner.
The season is now approaching fast, when some of the most plausible excuses for a little more sleep must fail. Exonerated by indulgence', the slothful are of all men most impatient of cold", and they deem it never more intensé than in the morning. But the last bitter month has rolled away, and now, could I persuade to the experiment', the sluggard may discover that he may toss off the bed-quilt, and try the air of early day, without being congealed! He may be assured that sleep is a very stupid employment', and differs very little from death', except in duration. He may receive it implicitly', upon the faith both of the physician and the preacher', that morning is friendly to the health' and the heart'; and if the idler is so manacled by the chains of habit that he can', at first', do no môre, he will do wisely and well to inhale pure air, to watch the rising sun', and mark the magnificence of nature.
LESSON L X X XIV.
ESCAPE OF HARVEY BIRCH AND CAPTAIN HENRY WHARTON.
The road which it was necessary for the pedler and the English captain to travel, in order to reach the shelter of the hills, lay, for half a mile, in full view from the door of the building', that had so recently been the prison of the latter ; running for the whole distance over the rich plain, that spreads to the very foot of the mountains, which here rise in a nearly perpendicular ascent from their bases', it the turned short to the right', and was obliged to follow the windings of naturé, as it won its
way into the bosom of the Highlands. To preserve the supposed difference in their stations', Harvey* rode a short distance ahead of his companion, and maintained the sober, dignified pace, that was suited to his character. On their right, the regiment of foot', that we have already mentioned', lay in tents"; and the sentinels', who guarded their encampment', were to be seen moving, with measured tread, under the skirts of the hills themselves. The first impulse of Henry was, certainly', to urge the beast he rode to his greatest speed at oncè, and', by a coup-de-main't not only to accomplish his escapé, but relieve himself from the torturing suspense of
* Harvey is the pedler. + Coo-de-mang; ng as in mangle. A bold stroke.