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And adds bis rapture to the gen’ral praise. In that blest moment Nature, throwing wide Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile The author of her beauties, who, retir'd Behind his own creation, works unseen By the impure, and hears his pow'r denied, Thou art the source and centre of all minds, Their only point of rest, eternal Word! From thee departing they are lost, and rove At random without honour, hope, or peace. From thee is all that soothes the life of man, His high endeavonr, and his glad success, His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. But O thou bounteous giver of all good, Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown! Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor; And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away,

BOOK VI.

THE WINTER WALK AT NOON.

Argument. Bells at a distance. Their effect. A fine noon in

winter. A sheltered walk. Meditation better than books. Our familiarity with the course of nature makes it appear less wonderful than it is. The transformation that Spring effects in a shrubbery described. A mistake concerning the course of natore corrected. God maintains it by an unremitted act. The amusements fashionable at this hour of the day reproved. Animals happy, a delightful sight. Origin of cruelty to animals. That it is a great crime proved from Scripture. That proof illustrated by a tale. A line drawn between the law. ful and unlawful destruction of them. Their good and useful properties insisted on. Apology for the encomiums bestowed by the author on animals. Instances of man's extravagant praise of man. The groans of the creation shall bave an end. A view taken of the restoration of all things. An invocation and an invitation of Him, who shall bring it to pass. The retired man vindicated from the charge

of uselessness. Conclusion.
THERE is in souls a sympathy with sounds,
And as the mind is pitch'd, the ear is pleas'd
Witb melting airs or martial, brisk or grave ;
Some chord in unison with what we hear

Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.
How soft the music of those village bells,
Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet, now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!
With easy force it opens all the cells
Where Mem'ry slept. Wherever I bave heard
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,
And with it all it's pleasures and it's pains.
Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,
That in a few short moments I retrace
(As in a map the voyager his course)
The windings of my way through many years.
Short as in retrospect the journey seems,
It seem'd not always short; the rugged path,
And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn,
Mov'd many a sigh at it's disheart'ning length.
Yet feeling present evils, while the past
Faintly impress the mind, or not at all,
How readily we wish time spent revok'd,
That we might try the ground again, where once
(Through inexperience, as we now perceive)
We miss'd that happiness we might have found !
Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend,
A father, whose authority, in show
When most severe, and inust'ring all it's force,
Was but the graver countenance of love;
Whose favour, like the clouds of Spring, might low'r,
And utter now and then an aweful voice,
But had a blessing in it's darkest frown,
Threatning at once and nourishing the plant.
We lov'd, but not enough, the gentle hand
That rear'd us.

At a thoughtless age, allar'd

By ev'ry gilded folly, we renounc'd
His shelt'ring side, and wilfully forewent
That converse, which we now in vain regret.
How gladly would the man recall to life
The boy's neglected sire! a mother too,
That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still,
Might he demand them at the gates of death.
Sorrow has, since they went, subdu'd and tam'd
The playful humour ; he could now endure,
(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears,)
And feel a parent's presence no restraint.
But not to understand a treasure's worth,
Till time has stolen away the slighted good,
Is cause of half the poverty we feel,
And makes the world the wilderness it is.
The few that pray at all pray oft amiss,
And, seeking grace t improve the prize they hold,
Would urge a wiser suit than asking more.

The night was Winter in his roughest mood;
The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon
Upon the southern side of the slant hills,
And where the woods fence off the northern blast,
The season smiles, resigning all it's rage,
And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue
Without a cloud, and white without a speck
The dazzling splendour of the scene below.
Again the harmony comes o'er the vale;
And through the trees I view th' embattled tow'r,
Whence all the music. I again perceive
The soothing influence of the wafted strains,
And settle in soft musings as I tread
The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms,
Whose outspread branches over-arch the glace.
The roof, though moveable through all it's length

As the wind sways it, has yet well suffic'd, And, intercepting in their silent fall The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. The red-breast warbles still, but is content With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd: Pleas'd with his solitude, and flitting light From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence. Meditation here May think down hours to' moments. Here the heart May give a useful lesson to the head, And Learning wiser grow without his books. Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, Have oft-times no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, The mere materials with which Wisdom builds, Till smooth'd, and squar'd, and fitted to it's place, Does but encumber whom it seems t'enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much ; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more, Books are not seldom talismans and spells, By which the magic art of shrewder wits Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd. Some to the fascination of a name Surrender judgment hood-wink'd. Some the style Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds Of errour leads them, by a tune entranc'd. While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear The insupportable fatigue of thought ;