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Their only labour was to kill the time;
Where hours and hours they sighing lie reclin'd, And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the wind.
Now must I mark the villany we found,
For of these wretches taken was no cáre :
Alas! the change! from scenes of joy and rest, To this dark den, where sickness toss'd alway. Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep opprest, Stretch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay, Heaving his sides, and snored night and day; To stir him from his traunce it was not eath, And his half-open'deyne he shut straightway:
He led, I wot, the softest way to death, And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the
Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound,
Who vexed was full oft with ugly fit;
A lady proud she was, of ancient blood,
Forsometimes she would laugh, and sometimescry, Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why.
Fast by her side a listless maiden pin'd,
Whilst apoplexy cramm'd intemperance knocks Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox. ISAAC WATTS.
BORN 1674.-DIED 1748.
Dr. Watts's devotional poetry was for the most part intentionally lowered to the understanding of children. If this was a sacrifice of taste, it was at least made to the best of intentions. The sense and sincerity of his prose writings, the excellent method in which he attempted to connect the study of ancient logic with common sense, and the conciliatory manner in which he allures the youthful mind to habits of study and reflection, are probably remembered with gratitude by nine men out of ten, who have had proper books put into their hands at an early period of their education. Of this description was not poor old Percival Stockdale, who in one of his lucubrations gives our author the appellation of “ Mother Watts." The nickname would not be worth mentioning if it did not suggest a compassionate reflection on the difference between the useful life and labours of Dr. Watts, and the utterly useless and wasted existence of Percival Stockdale. It might have been happy for the frail intellects of that unfortunate man, if they had been braced and rectified in his youth by such works as Watts’s Logic and Improvement of the Mind. The study of them might possibly have saved even him from a life of vanity, exation, and oblivion.
FEW HAPPY MATCHES.
Say, mighty Love, and teach my song, To whom thy sweetest joys belong,
And who the happy pairs Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Find blessings twisted with their bands,
To soften all their cares.
Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
As custom leads the way:
And be as blest as they.
Not sordid souls of earthly mould
To dull embraces move :
And make a world of love.
Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
The purer bliss destroy :
T improve the burning joy.
Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
Can mingle hearts and hands : Logs of green wood that quench the coals Are married just like Stoic souls,
With osiers for their bands.
Not minds of melancholy strain,
Can the dear bondage bless :
Or none besides the bass.
Nor can the soft enchantments hold
The rugged and the keen:
With firebrands tied between.
Nor let the cruel fetters bind
For Love abhors the sight:
Rise and forbid delight.
Two kindest souls alone must meet, 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,
And feeds their mutual loves : Bright Venus on her rolling throne Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,
And Cupids yoke the doves.