Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze
Along the vale; and thou, majestic main,
A secret world of wonders in thyself,

Sound His stupendous praise; whose greater voice
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall.
Soft-roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers,
In mingled clouds to him; whose sun exalts,
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.
Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave to Him;
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon.
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams,
Ye constellations, while your angels strike,
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.
Great source of day! best image here below
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide,

From world to world, the vital ocean round,
On Nature write with every beam His praise.
The thunder rolls: be hush'd the prostrate world;
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn.
Bleat out afresh, ye hills: ye mossy rocks,
Retain the sound: the broad responsive low,
Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns;
And His unsuffering kingdom yet will come.
Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song
Burst from the groves; and when the restless day,
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep,
Sweetest of birds, sweet Philomela, charm

The listening shades and teach the night His praise.
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles,
At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all,
Crown the great hymn! In swarming cities vast,
Assembled men, to the deep organ join
The long-resounding voice, oft-breaking clear,
At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass;
And, as each mingling flame increases each,
In one united ardour rise to heaven.
Or if you rather choose the rural shade,
And find a fane in every sacred grove;

Then let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay,
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,
Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll.
For me, when I forget the darling theme,
Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray
Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams,
Or Winter rises in the blackening East;
Be my tongue mute, may Fancy paint no more,
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat!

Should fate command me to the furthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam. Flames on the Atlantic Isles; 'tis nought to me: Since God is ever present, ever felt,

In the void waste as in the city full;

And where He vital breathes there must be joy.
When e'en at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers,
Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go
Where Universal love not smiles around,
Sustaining all yon orbs and all their suns;
From seeming Evil still educing Good,
And Better thence again, and Better still,
In infinite progression.-But I lose
Myself in Him, in light ineffable!

Come, then, expressive silence, muse His praise.

RULE BRITANNIA.

HEN Britain first at Heaven's command

WHEN

Arose from out the azure main,

This was the charter of her land,

And guardian angels sung the strain: Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee

Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free The dread and envy of them all.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
And work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine;

All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine!

The Muses, still with Freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd
And manly hearts to guard the fair:--
Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
Britons never shall be slaves!

YOUNG'S NIGHT THOUGHTS.

EDWARD YOUNG.-1681-1765.

[The "Night Thoughts" are not only what the author is mainly known by, but their celebrity is so identified with his name as almost to exclude his other productions from notice, and to require the prefix of his name for identity with what has long been so pre-eminently an English favourite. The work itself, as Dr. Johnson remarks, exhibits a very wide display of original poetry varied with deep reflections and striking allusions, a wildness of thought in which the fertility of fancy scatters flowers of every hue and order; the excellence not consisting so much in exactness as copiousness. For these reasons, possibly, the work can hardly be read continuously with pleasure, and is peculiarly suited for the quotation of favourite passages. Possibly no portion of the poem affords a better example of the writer's power than the apostrophe on “Life, death, and immortality," and his ever memorable and often quoted lines on "Procrastination," given here; amongst the other productions of the poet is "Love of Fame, the universal passion," in seven characteristic satires,—a style often adopted by Pope. Edward Young was born at Upham near Winchester, and educated at Winchester School and New College, Oxford; he took orders in 1727, and soon afterwards was appointed a King's chaplain. He made an unsuccessful effort to enter Parliament before becoming a clergyman, and even afterwards engaged in politics. This disposition, as well as his anxiety for preferment, has laid him open to much sarcasm from Swift and others, and undoubtedly detracts somewhat from the impression that his poetry would have given of his true aims and pleasures. His great work, however, was written late in life, after he had experienced a good deal of its vanity and vexation of spirit. At the advanced age of eighty, Young was appointed by Archbishop Secker clerk of the closet to the Princess-Dowager of Wales; he died four years afterwards.]