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 it'; 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 gratitude. 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 thee', sweet Hope', resides the heavenly light' Primeval Hope! the Aōnian mūses sãy', When man and nature mourned their first decay'; When peace and mercy', banished from the plain', Auspicious Hopè! in thy sweet garden grow' Wreaths for each toil', a charm for every wō': Won by their sweets', in nature's languid hōūr The waywōrn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower'; There', as the wild bee murmurs on the wing', What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring! What viewless forms th' Eōlian organs play', And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought away'. Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds', and ocean's wildest shōre'. Lo' to the wintry winds the pilot yields' His bark carēĕring ō'er unfathomed fields'; Now on Atlantick waves he rides afar', Where Andes', giant of the western star', With meteor-standard to the winds unfurled', Looks', from his throne of clouds', ō'er half the world'. Now far he swēēps', where scarce a summer smiles' On Behring's rocks', or Greenland's nāked isles', Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow From wastes that slumber in eternal snōw': And waft', across the wave's tumultuous rōar', The wolf's long howl from Onalaska's shōre'. Pôôr child of danger', nursling of the storm, But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep', Friend of the brave! in peril's darkest hōür', As rings his glittering tube', he lifts on high' SECTION XII. Address to Greece.-BYRON. He'.. who hath bent him o'er the dead', Have swept the lines where beauty lingers',) And'-but for that sad', shrouded eye' That fires not, wins not', weeps not'.. now', Where cōld obstruction's apathy' The doom he dreads', yet dwells upon' ;- 'Tis GREECE', but living Greece'... nō mōre! We start,... for sôUL.. is wanting there'. That parts not quite with parting breath'; A gilded halo'.. hovering round decay', 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 brave`! Whose land'.. from plain to mountain-cave", That this.. is all remains of thêê'? Approach, thou craven', crouching SLAVE': Sây, is not this Thermopyla'? These waters blue'.. that round you lave'— These scènes their story not unknown'- Bear witness', Greece', thy living page', Thy heroes', though the general dōōm' 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace' SECTION XIII. The Passions.-COLLINS. When Musick', heavenly maid', was young, They snatched her instruments of sound'; Would prove his own expressive power`. Next', Anger rushed'; his eyes on fire, And', from the rocks', the woods', the vale', A soft', responsive voice was heard at every close'; He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down', 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', 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', to naught were fixed`, Sad proof of thy distressful state': Of 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', 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', Love of peace', and lonely musing', In hollow murmurs died away`. But', O'! how altered was its sprightlier tone', When Cheerfulness', a nymph of healthiest hue', Her buskins gemmed with morning dew', Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung, |