Praising grey hairs, sure mark of Wisdom's sway,
Ev'n while he curses TIME which made him grey;
Scoffing at Youth, ev'n whilst he would afford
All but his gold to have his youth restor❜d;
Shall for a moment, from himself set free,
Lean on his crutch and pipe forth praise to me!
DR. HAWKESWORTH, an elegant writer, and what is of more value, a good man, has drawn his picture of human life with a melancholy fidelity:
LIFE, the dear precarious boon,
Soon we lose, alas! how soon;
Fleeting vision, falsely gay,
Grasp'd in vain, it fades away;
Mixing with surrounding shades,
Lovely vision, how it fades!
Let THE MUSE, in Fancy's glass,
Catch the phantoms as they pass;
See, they rise, a nymph behold,
Careless, wanton, young, and bold;
Mark her devious hasty pace,
Antic dress, and thoughtless face;
Smiling cheeks, and roving eyes,
Causeless mirth, and vain surprise ;
Tripping at her side, a Boy
Shares her wonder and her joy;
This is Folly, CHILDHOOD'S guide,
This is Childhood at her side!
What is HE succeeding now,
Myrtles blooming on his brow;
Bright and blushing as the morn,
Not on earth a mortal born?
Shafts to pierce the strong I view,
Wings the flying to pursue;
Victim of his power, behind,
Stalks a slave of human kind;
Whose disdain of all the free
Speaks his mind's captivity!
Love, the tyrant-YOUTH, the slave,
Youth in vain is wise or brave;
Love with conscious pride defies
All the brave, and all the wise!
WHO art thou with anxious mien,
Stealing o'er the shifting scene?
Eyes, with tedious vigils red,
Sighs, by doubts and wishes bred;
Cautious step, and glancing tear,
Speak thy woes, and speak thy leer.
Arm in arm, what wretch is he,
Like thyself, that walks with thee?
Like thy own, his fears and woes,
All thy pangs his bosom knows.
Well-too well-my boding breast
Knows the names your looks suggest;
Anxious, busy, restless pair!
MANHOOD, link'd by Fate to Care;
Wretched state-and yet 'tis dear!
Fancy-close the prospect here!
Close it, or recall the past,
Spare my eyes-my heart the last!
Vain the wish-the last appears,
While I gaze it swims in tears;
AGE-my future self, I trace,
Moving slow with feeble pace,
Bending with disease and cares,
All the load of life he bears;
White his locks, his visage wan,
Strength, and ease, and hope are gone!
DEATH! the shadowy form I know,
DEATH o'ertakes him, dreadful foe!
Swift they vanish, mournful sight,
Night succeeds-impervious night;
What these dreadful glooms conceal,
Fancy's glass can ne'er reveal!
When shall TIME the veil remove?
When shall LIGHT the scene improve?
When shall TRUTH my doubts dispel?
Awful period-who can tell?
To these two extracts illustrative of SHAKSPEARE'S progress of Human Life, shall be subjoined the Psalmist's delineation, marked by a supereminent degree of beauty and fidelity. We spend our years (Psalm xc. 9, 10, 12.) as a tale that is told, the days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be FOURSCORE YEARS: yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away. SO TEACH US TO NUMBER OUR DAYS, THAT WE MAY APPLY OUR HEARTS UNTO WISDOM.
Our favourite Bard has in the following lines united the energetic force of argument with the charms of poesy:
Why did the fiat of a GOD give birth
To yon fair sun, and his attendant earth?
And when descending he resigns the skies,
Why takes the gentler moon her turn to rise,
Whom ocean feels through all his countless waves,
And owns her power on every shore he laves?
Why do the seasons still enrich the year,
Fruitful and young as in their first career?
Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees,
Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze;
Summer in haste the thriving charge receives
Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves.
Till Autumn's fiercer heats, and plenteous dews,
Dye them at last in all their glowing hues!
"Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste,
Power misemploy'd—munificence misplac'd—
Had not its Author dignified the plan,
And crown'd it with the majesty of MAN!
Thus form'd, thus plac'd, intelligent, and taught,
Look where he will, the wonders God has wrought,
The wildest scorner of his Maker's laws,
Finds in a sober moment time to pause;
To press the important question on his heart,
"Why form'd at all—and wherefore as thou art?"
If MAN be what he seems-this hour a slave,
The next-mere dust and ashes in the grave!
Endued with reason, only to descry
His crimes and follies with an aching eye!
With passions just, that he may prove with pain
The force he spends against their fury vain;
And if, soon after, having burnt by turns
With every lust with which frail Nature burns;
His being end, where Death dissolves the bond,
The TOMB take all, and all be blank beyond;
Then he of all that Nature has brought forth,
Stands self-impeach'd, the creature of least worth!
And useless while he lives, and when he dies
Brings into doubt-the wisdom of THE SKIES!
I make no apology for the frequent introduction of the hopes and prospects of the Christian religion throughout the whole of this work; and the following remarks are happily illustrative of the subject:
"For my own part," says DR. WATSON, the late venerable Bishop of Landaff, "I can see no reason
why either REVEALED or NATURAL RELIGION should be abandoned on account of the difficulties which attend either of them. I look up to the incomprehensible Maker of heaven and earth with unspeakable admiration, and self-annihilation, and am a THEIST. I contemplate with the utmost gratitude and humility of mind, his unsearchable wisdom and goodness in the redemption of the world from eternal death, through the intervention of his Son Jesus Christ, and am A CHRISTIAN. As a Theist, I have little expectation. As a Christian I have no doubt of a future state! I speak for myself, and may be in an error as to the ground of the first part of this opinion. You and other men may conclude differently. From the inert nature of matter, from the faculties of the human mind, from the apparent imperfection of God's moral government of the world, from many modes of analogical reasoning, and from other sources, some of the philosophers of antiquity did collect, and modern philosophers may perhaps collect, a strong probability of a future existence; and not only of a future existence, but (which is quite a distinct question) of a future state of RETRIBUTION, proportioned to our moral conduct in this world. Far be it from me to loosen any of the obligations to virtue, but I must confess I cannot from the same sources of argumentation, derive any positive assurance on the subject. Think then with what thankfulness of heart I receive the word of God, which
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