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and against which nothing known in the present system of things', provides us with any security'. They might not annihilate the earth', but they would unpeople il'; and we', who tread its surface with such firm and assured footsteps', are at the mercy of devouring elements, which', if let loose upon us by the hand of the Almighty', would spread solitude', and silence', and death, over the dominions of the world'.

Now', it is this littleness', and this insecurity', which make the protection of the Almighty so dear to us', and which bring', with such emphasis', to every pious bosom', the holy lessons of humility and gratiiude' The God who sitteth above', and who presides in high authority over all worlds', is mindful of man; and', though at this moment his energy is felt in the remotest provinces of creation', we may feel the same security in his providence', as if we were the objects of his undivided care'.

It is not for us to bring our minds up to this mysterious agency'. But', such is the incomprehensible fact', that the same Being', whose eye is abroad over the whole universe', gives vegetation to every blade of grass', and motion to every particle of blood which circulates through the veins of the minutest animal'; that, though his mind takes into its comprehensive grasp', immensity and all its wonders', I am as much known to him', as if I were the single object of his attention'; that he marks all my thoughts; that he gives birth to every feeling and every movement within me'; and that, with an exercise of power which I can neither describe nor comprehend', the same God who sits in the highest heaven', and reigns over the glories of the firmament', is at my right hand, to give every breath which I draw', and every comfort which I enjoy'.

SECTION XI.
Pleasures of Hope.—CAMPBELL.
With thēë', swēēt Hope', resides the heavenly light
That pours remõtest rapture on the sight':
Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way',
That calls each slumbering passion into plāy'.
Waked by thy touch', I see the sister band',
On tiptoe watching', start at thy command',
And fly where'er thy mandāte bids them stéēr',
To pleasure's path', or glory's bright carēêr',

Primēval Hõpë'! the Aonian mūses såy',
When man and nature mourned their first decāy';
When every form of death', and every wo',
Shot from malignant stārs to earth below';
When murder bāred her arm', and rampant wär'
Yoked the red dragons of her iron car';
When pēace and mercy', banished from the plain',
Sprung on the viewless winds to heaven again';
All', all forsook the friendless', guilty mind',
But hôpe', the chārmer', lingered still behind.
Thus', 'while Elijah's burning whēēls prepare
From Carmel's heights to swēēp the fields of air',
The prophet's mantle', ere his fight began',
Dropped on the world'-a sacred gift ic man'.

Auspicious Hope' ! in thy swēēt garden grow' Wrēaths for each toil', a charm for every woʻ; Won by their swēēts', in nature's languid hõūr The wăyworn pilgrim sēēks thy summer bower'; Thēre', as the wild bēē murmurs on the wing', What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits

bring'! What viewless forms th' Æolian organs plāy', And swēēp the furrowed lines of anxious thought away'.

Angel of life'! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds', and ocean's wildest shore', Lo'! to the wintry winds the pilot yiēlds' His bark carēēring ö’er unfathomed fields'; Now on Atlantick wāves he rides afar', Where Andes', giant of the western star', With mēteor-standard to the winds unfurled', Looks', from his throne of clouds', o'er half the world'.

Now far he swēēps', whēre scarce a summer smiles' On Behring's rocks', or Grēēnland's nāked isles', Cold on his midnight watch the brēēzes blow From wāstes that slumber in eternal snow: And wāft', across the wave's tumultuous röar', The wolf's long howl from Onalaska's shore'.

Pôôr child of danger', nursling of the storm',
Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form'!
Rocks', wāves', and winds', the shattered bark delay';
Thy heart is sad', thy home is far away'.

But Hope can hēre her moonlight vigils kēēp',
And sing'..to chārm the spirit of the dēēp',
Swift as yon strēamer lights the starry pūle',
Her visions wārm the watchman's pensive soul.
His native hills', that rise in happier climes',
The grot', that heard his song of other times',
His cottage home', his bark of slender săil',
His glassy lake', and broomwood-blossomed väle',
Rush on his thought'; he swēēps before the wind',
Treads the loved shore he sighed to lēave behind;
Méēts at each step a friend's familiar face',
And flies at last to Helen's long embrāce';
Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking téar',
And clasps', with many a sigh’, his children dēar:
While', long neglected', but at length caressed',
His fāithful dog salūtes the smiling guest',
Points to the master's eyes' (where'er they roam)
His wistful face', and whines a welcome home'.

Friend of the brāve'! in peril's darkest hõūr',
Intrepid virtue looks to thee for power';
To tħēē the heart its trembling homage yields',
On stormy floods and carnage-covered fields',
When front to front the bannered hosts combine',
Halt ere they close', and form the dreadful line',
When all is still on death's devoted sõil',
The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil':

As rings his glittering tūbe', he lifts on high
The dauntless brow', and spirit-speaking eye';
Hâils in his heārt the triumph yet to come',
And hears thy störmy músick in the drum!

SECTION XII.
Address to Greece.-BYRON.
He'.. who hath bent him o'er the dead',
Ere the first day of death'.. is fled',
The first dark day of nothingness',
The last' .. of danger and distress',
(Before decây's effacing fingers'
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers',)
And marked the mild', angelick âir,
The rapture of repose' .. that's there',
The fixed', yet tender', traits that strēak'
The languor of the placid cheek',
And'—but for that sad', shrouded eye'

That fires not', wins not', wèēps not'.. now',

And but for that chill', chăngeless brow',
Where cold obstruction's apathy'
Appäls the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him'.. it could impart'
The doom he dreads', yet dwells upon' ;-
Yes', but for thēse', and thēse alone',
Some moments', āy', one treacherous hôûma
He still might doubt the tyrant's power';
So fàir', so câlm', so softly sealed',
The first, last look by death revēaled":
Such is the aspect of this shore';
'Tis GrēÈCE', but living Gréēce'... nö möre'!
So coldly sweet', so deadly fair',
We start, ... for soul'.. is wanting there'.
Hers' .. is the loveliness in death',
That parts not quite with parting breath';
But beauty'.. with that fearful blôôm',
That hüe'.. which haunts it to the tômb,
Expression's last recēding räy',
A gilded hālo'.. hovering round decāy,
The farewell beam of feeling.. past away'!
Spark of that flame', perchance.. of heavenly birth,
Which gleams', but warms no more its cherished earth

Clime of the unforgotten brāve'!
Whose land' .. from plain to mountain-cave",
Was frēēdom's home', or glory's grāve
Shrine of the mighty i can it be',
That this' .. is all remains of thếê'?
Approach', thou crāven', crouching slāve':

Sây', is not this Thermopyla?
These waters blúe'.. that round you lāvel-

Oh'! servile offspring of the frēz'-
Pronounce what sēa', what shõrel .. is this:
The gulf', the rock of Salamis' !

These scēnes'—their story not unknown'-
Arise', and make again your

own';
Snatch from the ashes of your sires'
The embers of their former fires';
And he who', in the strife expires',
Will add to theirs a name of féar
That tyranny shall quake to hear',
And leave his sons a hope', a fame
They', too', will rather die'.. than shâme':
For.. frēēdom's battle'.. once begun',
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son',
Though baffled oft', is ever won'.

Bear witness', Greece', thy living page',
Attest it', many a deathless age':
While kings', in dusty darkness'.. hid',
Have left a nameless pyramid',
Thy heroes', though the general doom'
Hath swept the column from their tômb',
A mighlier monument command",

The mountains'., of their native land'.
There points thy muse to stranger's eye'
The graves of those that cannot die'.

'Twere long to tell', and sad to trăce'
Each step from splendour to disgrāce';
Enough -no foreign fõe could quell'
Thy sôul', till from itself .. it fell':
Yes', self-abāsement led the way'
To villain-bonds and despot-swāy':

SECTION XIII.

The Passions.-COLLINS.
When Musick”, heavenly maid', was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung',
The Passions oft', to hear her shell',
Thronged around her magick cell
Exulting', trembling', raging', fainting',
Possessed beyond the muse's painting';
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed', delighted', raised', refined';
Till once', 'tis said', when all were fired',
Filled with fury', rapt', inspired',
They snatched her instruments of sound';
And', as they oft had heard apart'
Sweet lessons of her forceful art',
Each' (for madness ruled the hour')
Would prove his own expressive power'.
First’, Fear', his hand', its skill to try',

Amid the chords bewildered laid',
And back recoiled', he knew not why',
E'en at the sound himself had made.

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Next', Anger rushed'; his eyes on fire,

In lightnings owned his secret stings'; In one rude clash he struck the lyre',

And swept', with hurried hand', the strings. With woful measures wan Despair',

Low', sullen sounds his grief beguiled'; A solemn', strange', and mingled air';

'Twas sad by fits', by starts 'twas wild'. But thou', O Hope', with eyes so fair', What was thy delighted measure' ?' Still it whispered promised pleasure',

And bade the lovely scenes at distance haill! Still would her touch the strain prolong';

And', from the rocks', the woods', the vale', She called on echo still', through all the song';

And', where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft', responsive voice was heard at every close';
And Hore enchanted smiled', and waved her golden hair'.
And longer had she sung';-but', with a frown',

Revenge impatient rose':
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down',

And', with a withering look',
The war-denouncing trumpet took',
And blew a blast so loud and dread',
Were ne'er prophetick sounds so full of wo':

And ever and anon, he beat'

The doubling drum, with furious heat';
And though', sometimes', each dreary pause between',

Dejected Pity', at his side',
Her soul-subduing voice applied',
Yet still he kept his wild', unaltered mien',
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head'.
Thy numbers', Jealousy', lo naught were fixed',

Sad proof of thy distressful state':
Or differing themes the veering song was mixed';

And now it courted Love', now', raving', called on Hate'.
With eyes upraised', as one inspired',
Pale Melancholy sat retired';
And from her wild', sequestered seat',

In notes by distance made more sweet',
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul';

And', dashing soft from rocks around',

Bubbling runnels joined the sound';
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole';
Or', o'er some haunted stream', with fond delay',

Round a holy calm diffusing',

Love of peace', and lo nusing', In hollow murmurs died away'.

But', O'! how altered was its sprightlier tone',
When Cheerfulness', a nymph of healthiest hue',

Her bow across her shoulder flung',
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew',
Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung",

The hunter's call', to faun and dryad known'.

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