life which is fixed and settled, and will never end? Every man, upon the first hearing of this question, knows very well which side of it he ought to close with.

3. But however right we are in theory, it is plain that in practice we adhere to the wrong side of the question. We make provision for this life as though it were never to have an end; and for the other life as though it were never to have a beginning.

4. Should a spirit of superior rank, who is a stranger to human nature, accidentally alight upon this earth, and take a survey of its inhabitants-What would his notions of us be? Would he not think that we are a species of beings made for quite different ends and purposes than what we really are? Must he not imagine that we were placed in this world to get riches and honors? Would he not think that it was our duty to toil after wealth, and station, and title?

5. Nay, would he not believe we were forbidden poverty, by threats of eternal punishment, and enjoined to pursue our pleas ures, under pain of damnation? He would certainly imagine that we were influenced by a scheme of duties quite opposite to those which are indeed prescribed to us.

6. And, truly, according to such an imagination, he must conclude that we are a species of the most obedient creatures in the universe; that we are constant to our duty; and that we keep a steady eye on the end for which we were sent hither.

7. But how great would be his astonishment, when he learnt that we were beings not designed to exist in this world above three score and ten years: and that the greatest part of this busy species fall short even of that age! How would he be lost in horror and admiration, when he should know that this set of creatures, who lay out all their endeavors for this life, which scarce deserves the name of existence, when, I say, he should know that this set of creatures are to exist to all eternity in another life, for which they make no preparations?

8. Nothing can be a greater disgrace to reason, than that men who are persuaded of these two different states of being, should be perpetually employed in providing for a life of three score and ten years, and neglecting to make provision for that, which, after many myriads of years, will be still new and still beginning; especially when we consider, that our endeavors for making ourselves great, or rich, or honorable, or whatever else we place our happiness in, may, after all, prove unsuccessful; whereas, if we constantly and sincerely endeavor to make ourselves happy in

the other life, we are sure that our endeavors will succeed, and that we shall not be disappointed of our hope.

9. The following question is started by one of our schoolmen. Supposing the whole body of the earth were a great ball or mass of the finest sand, and that a single grain or particle of this sand should be annihilated every thousand years? Supposing, then, that you had it in your choice to be happy all the while this prodigious mass of sand was consuming, by this slow method, until there was not a grain left, on condition that you were to be miserable for ever after? Or, supposing that you might be happy for ever after, on condition you would be miserable until the whole mass of sand were thus annihilated, at the rate of one sand in a thousand years;-which of these two cases would you make your choice?

10. It must be confessed, in this case, so many thousands of years are to the imagination as a kind of eternity, though, in reality, they do not bear so great a proportion to that duration which is to follow them, as an unit does to the greatest number which you can put together in figures, or as one of those sands to the supposed heap. Reason therefore tells us, without any manner of hesitation, which would be the better part in this choice.

11. However, as I have before intimated, our reason might, in such a case, be so overset by imagination, as to dispose some persons to sink under the consideration of the great length of the first part of this duration, and of the great distance of that second duration which is to succeed it;--the mind, I say, might give itself up to that happiness which is at hand, considering that it is so very near, and that it would last so very long.

12. But when the choice we have actually before us is thisWhether we will choose to be happy for the space of only three score and ten, nay, perhaps of only twenty or ten years, I might say for only a day or an hour, and miserable to all eternity; or, on the contrary, miserable for this short term of years, and happy for a whole eternity--what words are sufficient to express that folly and want of consideration which, in such case, makes a wrong choice!

13. I here put the case even at the worst, by supposing what seldom happens,-that a course of virtue makes us miserable in this life: but if we suppose, as it generally happens, that virtue would make us more happy, even in this life, than a contrary course of vice, how can we sufficiently admire the stupidity or madness of those persons who are capable of making so absurd a choice?

14. Every wise man, therefore, will consider this life only as it may conduce to the happiness of the other, and cheerfully sacrifice the pleasures of a few years, to those of an eternity.

LESSON CIX.

My Mother's Picture.-CowPER.

1. O THAT those lips had language! life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
My mother, when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscions of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss:
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.

2. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day.
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away;
And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu.
But was it such ?-It was-where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells, are a sound unknown.
And if this meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more

3. Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,
And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd.
By expectation, every day beguil❜d,
Dupe of to-morrow, even when a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd, at last, submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplore thee, ne'er forgot.

4. My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise,-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell. Time unrevok'd has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
5. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;

To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft;
Thyself remov'd, thy pow'r to soothe me, left.

LESSON CX.

Ode to Disappointment.-HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1. COME, Disappointment, come,

Not in thy terrors clad;

Come in thy meekest, saddest guise;
Thy chastening rod but terrifies

The restless and the bad.

But I recline

Beneath thy shrine,

And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine.

2. Though Fancy flies away.
Before thy hollow tread,

Yet meditation, in her cell,

Hears, with faint eye, the lingering knell,
That tells her hopes are dead;

And though the tear

By chance appear,

Yet she can smile and say, my all was not laid here.

3. Come, Disappointment, come.

Though from hope's summit hurl'd,
Still, rigid nurse, thou art forgiven,
For thou severe wert sent from heaven
To wean me from the world:

To turn my eye

From vanity,

And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.

4. What is this passing scene?
A peevish April day!

A little sun, a little rain,

And then night sweeps along the plain,

And all things fade away.

Man (soon discuss'd)

Yields up his trust,

And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust,

5. Oh! what is Beauty's power?
It flourishes and dies;

Will the cold earth its silence break,
To tell how soft, how smooth a check
Beneath its surface lies?
Mute, mute is all

O'er Beauty's fall;

Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.
6. The most beloved on earth
Not long survives to-day;
So music past is obsolete,

And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,
But now 'tis gone away.

Thus does the shade

In memory fade,

When in forsaken tomb, the form beloved is laid.

7. Then since this world is vain,
And volatile and fleet,

Why should I lay up earthly joys
Where rust corrupts and moth destroys,
And cares and sorrows eat?

Why fly from ill

With anxious skill,

When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still.

8. Come, Disappointment, come!

Thou art not stern to me:
Sad monitress! I own thy sway;
A votary sad in early day,

I bend my knee to thee.
From sun to sun

My race will run,

I only bow and say—my God, thy will be done.

LESSON CXI.

What is Time ?-MARSDEN.

1. I ASKED an aged man, a man of cares,
Wrinkled, and curved, and white with hoary hairs ;
"Time is the warp of life," he said, "Oh, tell
The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well m