Still seems it strange that thou should'st live forever?

Is it less strange that thou should'st live at all?
This is a miracle; and that no more.
Who gave beginning can exclude an end.
Deny thou art, then doubt if thou shalt be.
A miracle with miracles inclosed,

Is man; and starts his faith at what is strange?
What less than wonders from the wonderful;
What less than miracles from God can flow?
Admit a God-that mystery supreme-
That cause uncaused!-all other wonders cease;
Nothing is marvellous for him to do:
Deny him-all is mystery besides :
Millions of mysteries! each darker far
Than that thy wisdom would unwisely shun.

If weak thy faith, why choose the harder side?
We nothing know but what is marvellous,-
Yet what is marvellous we can't believe!

As I have done; and shall inquire no more.
In Nature's channel, thus the questions run :--
"What am I? and from whence?--I nothing
know

But that I am; and, since I am, conclude
Something eternal: had there e'er been naught,
Naught still had been; eternal there must be.-
But what eternal?-Why not human race?
And Adam's ancestors without an end?—
That's hard to be conceived, since every link
Of that long-chained succession is so frail.
Can every part depend, and not the whole?
Yet grant it true; new difficulties rise;
I'm still quite out at sea, nor see the shore.
Whence Earth, and these bright orbs?-Eternal too?
Grant matter was eternal; still these orbs
Would want some other father;-much design
Is seen in all their motions, all their makes;
Design implies intelligence and art;

That can't be from themselves-or man: that art
Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow?
And nothing greater yet allowed than mau.—
Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain,
Shot through vast masses of enormous weight?
Who bid brute matter's restive lump assume
Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly?
Has matter innate motion? then each atom,
Asserting its indisputable right

To dance, would form a universe of dust:
Has matter none? Then whence these glorious

forms

And boundless flights, from shapeless, and reposed?
Has matter more than motion? has it thought,
Judgment, and genius? is it deeply learned
In mathematics? Has it framed such laws,
Which but to guess, a Newton made immortal?-
If so, how each sage atom laughs at me,
Who think a clod inferior to a man!

If art, to form; and counsel, to conduct;
And that with greater far than human skill.
Resides not in each block;-a Godhead reigns.
Grant, then, invisible, eternal Mind;
That granted, all is solved."

sincerely beloved. In 1713, he published his most important philosophical work, "Three Dialogues between Hylas and Philonous," in which his system of ideality is developed with singular felicity of illustration, purity of style, and subtlety of thought. It gave him a reputation that is still upon the increase. In 1729, he sailed for Rhode Island, fixed his residence at Newport, and remained there, or on the farm of Whitehall in the vicinity, some two years. To the libraries of Harvard and Yale he made important donations of books. Returning to England, he was appointed, in 1734, Bishop of Cloyne. In 1752, he removed to Oxford to superintend the education of one of his sons, and died there very suddenly the next year while sitting on a couch in the midst of his family, while his wife was reading to him.

VERSES ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA.

The muse, disgusted at an age and clime, Barren of every glorious theme,

In distant lands now waits a better time, Producing subjects worthy fame.

In happy climes, where from the genial sun
And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true:

In happy climes, the seat of innocence,

Where nature guides, and virtue rules; Where men shall not impose for truth and sense The pedantry of courts and schools:

There shall be sung another golden age, The rise of empire and of arts,

The good and great inspiring epic rage, The wisest heads and noblest hearts.

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; Such as she bred when fresh and young, When heavenly flame did animate her clay, By future poets shall be sung.

Westward the course of empire takes its way;
The four first acts already past,

A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
Time's noblest offspring is the last.

Allan Ramsay.

Ramsay (1686-1758) was a native of Lanarkshire, Scotland. Most of his long life was passed in Edinburgh, where he was a wig-maker, and then a book-seller and

keeper of a circulating library. His pastoral drama, "The Gentle Shepherd," first published in 1725, and written in the strong, broad Doric of North Britain, is the finest existing specimen of its class. His songs, too, have endeared him to the Scottish heart.

THE CLOCK AND DIAL.

Ae day a Clock wad brag a Dial,
And put his qualities to trial;
Spake to him thus, “My neighbor, pray,
Can'st tell me what's the time of day?"
The Dial said, "I dinna ken.”—
"Alake! what stand ye there for, then ?"-
"I wait here till the sun shines bright,
For naught I ken but by his light:"
"Wait on," quoth Clock, "I scorn his help,
Baith night and day my lane' I skelp.2
Wind up my weights but anes a week,
Without him I can gang and speak;
Nor like an useless sumph I stand,
But constantly wheel round my hand:
Hark, hark, I strike just now the hour;
And I am right, ane-twa-three-four."
Whilst thus the Clock was boasting loud,
The bleezing sun brak throw a cloud;
The Dial, faithfu' to his guide,
Spake truth, and laid the thumper's pride.
"Ye see," said he, "I've dung you fair;
'Tis four hours and three-quarters mair.
My friend," he added, "count again,
And learn a wee to be less vain:
Ne'er brag of constant clavering cant,
And that you answers never want;
For you're not aye to be believed:
Wha trusts to you may be deceived.
Be counselled to behave like me;
For when I dinna clearly see

I always own I diuna ken,
And that's the way of wisest men."

Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Though hurricanes rise, aud rise every wind, They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind; Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse:
Since honor commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,
And without thy favor I'd better not be.
I gae, then, my lass, to win honor and fame;
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

Anne, Countess of Winchelsea.

Daughter of Sir Richard Kingsmill, and wife of Heneage, Earl of Winchelsea, this lady (circa 1660-1720) published a volume of poems in 1713, and left many in manuscript. Her fable of "The Atheist and the Acorn" is well known, and is still often reprinted. Wordsworth says of her: "She is one of the very few original observers of nature who appeared in an artificial age ;" and Leigh Hunt says: "She deserves to have been gathered into collections of English verse far more than half of our minor poets." She was the friend of Pope, who addressed an "Impromptu" to her, complimentary in its character. The following beautiful poem is not a continuous extract, but is made up of passages, the omissions in which are not indicated by the usual marks.

FROM "A WISHED-FOR RETREAT."

Give me, O indulgent Fate,
Give me yet, before I die,

A sweet but absolute retreat,
'Mong paths so lost, and trees so high,
That the world may ne'er invade,
Through such windings and such shade,
My unshaken liberty!

No intruders thither come

Who visit but to be from home,-
None who their vain moments pass,
Only studious of their glass!

Be no tidings thither brought!
But, silent as a midnight thought,
Where the world may ne'er invade,
Be those windings and that shade!

Courteous Fate! afford me there
A table spread without my care
With what the neighboring fields impart,
Whose cleanliness be all its art.-
Fruits, indeed (would Heaven bestow),
All that did in Eden grow
(All but the forbidden tree),
Would be coveted by me;—
Grapes, with juice so crowded up

As breaking through their native cup;
Figs (yet growing) candied o'er

By the sun's attracting power;
Cherries, with the downy peach,-

All within my easy reach!

Whilst, creeping near the humble ground, Should the strawberry be found,

Springing wheresoe'er I strayed

Through those windings and that shade!
Give me there (since Heaven has shown
It was not good to be alone),
A partner suited to my mind,—
Solitary, pleased, and kind,-
Who, partially, may something see,
Preferred to all the world, in me;
Slighting, by my humble side,

Fame and splendor, wealth and pride.
Rage, and jealousy, and hate,—
Transports of man's fallen state
When by Satan's wiles betrayed,-
Fly those windings and that shade!
Let me, then, indulgent Fate,
Let me, still in my retreat,
From all roving thoughts be freed,
Or aims that may contention breed;
Nor be my endeavors led

By goods that perish with the dead!
Fitly might the life of man
Be, indeed, esteemed a span,
If the present moment were
Of delight his only share;
If no other joys he knew

Than what round about him grew :-
But, as those who stars would trace
From a subterranean place,
Through some engine lift their eyes
To the outward glorious skies,-
So the immortal spirit may,
When descended to our clay,