Detains; but tempted now to interpose

He with a smile exclaimed

""Tis well you speak

At a safe distance from our native Land,

And from the Mansions where our youth was taught.

The true Descendants of those godly Men

Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of zeal,
Shrine, Altar, Image, and the massy Piles

That harboured them, the Souls retaining yet
The churlish features of that after Race

Who fled to caves, and woods, and naked rocks,

In deadly scorn of superstitious rites,

Or what their scruples construed to be such,
How, think you, would they tolerate this scheme

Of fine propensities? that tends, if urged

Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh
The weeds of Romish Phantasy, in vain
Uprooted; would re-consecrate our Wells
To good Saint Fillan and to fair Saint Anne;
And from long banishment recal Saint Giles,
To watch again with tutelary love

O'er stately Edinborough throned on crags.

A blessed restoration to behold

The Patron, on the shoulders of his Priests,

Once more parading through her crowded streets;

Now simply guarded by the sober Powers

Of Science, and Philosophy, and Sense!"

This answer followed." You have turned my thoughts

Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose

Against Idolatry with warlike mind,

And shrunk from vain observances to lurk
In caves, and woods, and under dismal rocks,
Deprived of shelter, covering, fire, and food;
Why?-for this very reason that they felt,
And did acknowledge, wheresoe'er they moved
A spiritual Presence, oft-times misconceived;
But still a high dependance, a divine

Bounty and government, that filled their hearts
With joy, and gratitude, and fear, and love;
And from their fervent lips drew hymns of praise
With which the desarts rang. Though favoured less,
Far less, than these, yet such, in their degree,
Were those bewildered Pagans of old time.
Beyond their own poor Natures and above

They looked; were humbly thankful for the good

Which the warm Sun solicited-and Earth

Bestowed; were gladsome,—and their moral sense They fortified with reverence for the Gods;

And they had hopes that overstepped the Grave.

Now, shall our great Discoverers," he exclaimed,
Raising his voice triumphantly, "obtain
From Sense and Reason less than These obtained,
Though far misled? Shall Men for whom our Age
Unbaffled powers of vision hath prepared,

To explore the world without and world within,
Be joyless as the blind? Ambitious Souls-
Whom Earth, at this late season, hath produced
To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh

The planets in the hollow of their hand;

And They who rather dive than soar, whose pains

Have solved the elements, or analysed

The thinking principle-shall They in fact
Prove a degraded Race? and what avails
Renown, if their presumption make them such?
Oh! there is laughter at their work in Heaven!
Enquire of ancient Wisdom; go, demand
Of mighty Nature, if 'twas ever meant

That we should pry far off yet be unraised;
That we should pore, and dwindle as we pore,
Viewing all objects unremittingly

In disconnection dead and spiritless;
And still dividing, and dividing still,
Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied
With the perverse attempt, while littleness
May yet become more little; waging thus
An impious warfare with the very life

Of our own Souls!-And if indeed there be
An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom
Our dark foundations rest, could He design,
Or will his rites and services permit,
That this magnificent effect of Power,

The Earth we tread, the Sky which we behold
By day, and all the pomp which night reveals,
That these and that superior Mystery

Our vital Frame, so fearfully devised,

And the dread Soul within it-should exist

Only to be examined, pondered, searched,
Probed, vexed, and criticised?-Accuse me not
Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I am,
If, having walked with Nature threescore years,

And offered, far as frailty would allow,

My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth,

I now affirm of Nature and of Truth,

Whom I have served, that their DIVINITY
Revolts, offended at the ways of Men

Swayed by such motives, to such end employed;
Philosophers, who, when the human Soul
Is of a thousand faculties composed,

And twice ten thousand interests, do yet prize
This Soul, and the transcendent Universe,
No more than as a Mirror that reflects
To proud Self-love her own intelligence;
That one, poor, finite Object, in the Abyss
Of infinite Being, twinkling restlessly!

Nor higher place can be assigned to Him And his Compeers-the laughing Sage of France.Crowned was He, if my Memory doth not err, With laurel planted upon hoary hairs, In sign of conquest by his Wit atchieved,

And benefits his Wisdom had conferred.

His tottering Body was oppressed with flowers;
Far less becoming ornaments than those

B B