Glean'd scraps of Greek; and, curious, trac'd afar,
Through Pope's clear glass, the bright Mæonian star.
Yet oft his students at his wisdom star'd,
For many a student to his side repair'd,
Surpriz'd, they heard him Dilworth's knots untie,
And tell, what lands beyond the Atlantic lie.
Many his faults; his virtues small, and few;
Some little good he did, or strove to do;
Laborious still, he taught the early mind,
And urg'd to manners meek, and thoughts refin'd;
Truth he impress'd, and every virtue prais'd;
While infant eyes, in wondering silence, gaz'd;
The worth of time would, day by day, unfold,
And tell them, every hour was made of gold.
Brown Industry he lov'd; and oft declar'd
How hardy Sloth, in life's sad evening, far'd.

THE MUTABILITY OF EARTHLY THINGS

[From "Greenfield Hill"]

Ah me! while up the long, long vale of time,
Reflection wanders towards th' eternal vast,
How starts the eye, at many a change sublime,
Unbosom'd dimly by the ages pass'd!

What Mausoleums crowd the mournful waste!
The tombs of empires fallen! and nations gone!
Each, once inscrib'd, in gold, with "AYE TO LAST"
Sate as a queen; proclaim'd the world her own,
And proudly cried, "By me no sorrows shall be known."

Soon fleets the sunbright Form, by man ador'd.
Soon fell the Head of gold, to Time a prey;

The Arms, the Trunk, his cankering tooth devour'd;
And whirlwinds blew the Iron dust away.

Where dwelt imperial Timur? - far astray,
Some lonely-musing pilgrim now enquires:

And, rack'd by storms, and hastening to decay,

Mohammed's Mosque forsees it's final fires;

And Rome's more lordly Temple day by day expires.

As o'er proud Asian realms the traveller winds,
His manly spirit, hush'd by terror, falls;
When some deceased town's lost site he finds,
Where ruin wild his pondering eye appals;
Where silence swims along the moulder'd walls,
And broods upon departed Grandeur's tomb.
Through the lone, hollow aisles sad echo calls,
At each slow step; deep sighs the breathing gloom,
And weeping fields, around, bewail their Empress' doom.

Where o'er an hundred realms, the throne uprose,
The screech-owl nests, the panther builds his home;
Sleep the dull newts, the lazy adders doze,
Where pomp and luxury danc'd the golden room.
Low lies in dust the sky-resembled dome;
Tall grass around the broken column waves;
And brambles climb, and lonely thistles bloom:
The moulder'd arch the weedy streamlet laves,
And low resound, beneath, unnumber'd sunken graves.

Soon fleets the sun-bright Form, by man ador'd;
And soon man's dæmon chiefs from memory fade.
In musty volume, now must be explored,
Where dwelt imperial nations, long decay'd.

The brightest meteors angry clouds invade;

And where the wonders glitter'd, none explain.

Where Carthage, with proud hand, the trident sway'd,

Now mud-wall'd cots sit sullen on the plain,

And wandering, fierce, and wild, sequester'd Arabs reign.

In thee, O Albion! queen of nations, live

Whatever splendours earth's wide realms have known;
In thee proud Persia sees her pomp revive;

And Greece her arts; and Rome her lordly throne:
By every wind, thy Tyrian fleets are blown;

Supreme, on Fame's dread roll, thy heroes stand;

All ocean's realms thy naval scepter own;

Of bards, of sages, how august thy band!

And one rich Eden blooms around thy garden'd land.

But O how vast thy crimes! Through Heaven's great year,
When few centurial suns have trac'd their way;

When southern Europe, worn by feuds severe;
Weak, doating, fallen, has bow'd to Russian sway;
And setting glory beam'd her farewell ray;

To wastes, perchance, thy brilliant fields shall turn;
In dust, thy temples, towers, and towns decay;
The forest howl, where London's turrets burn;
And all thy garlands deck thy sad, funereal urn.

Some land, scarce glimmering in the light of fame,
Scepter'd with arts, and arms (if I divine)
Some unknown wild, some shore without a name,
In all thy pomp, shall then majestic shine.

As silver-headed Time's slow years decline,
Not ruins only meet th' enquiring eye:

Where round yon mouldering oak vain brambles twine,
The filial stem, already towering high,

Erelong shall stretch his arms, and nod in yonder sky.

PSALM CXXXVII

[From Dwight's revision of Watts's Psalms]

I love thy kingdom, Lord,
The house of thine abode,

The church, our blest Redeemer sav'd
With his own precious blood.

I love thy Church, O God!
Her walls before thee stand,
Dear as the apple of thine eye,
And graven on thy hand.

If e'er to bless thy sons

My voice, or hands, deny,

These hands let useful skill forsake,
This voice in silence die.

If e'er my heart forget
Her welfare, or her wo,
Let every joy this heart forsake,
And every grief o'erflow.

For her my tears shall fall;
For her my prayers ascend;
To her my cares and toils be given,
"Till toils and cares shall end.

Beyond my highest joy

I prize her heavenly ways,

Her sweet communion, solemn vows,
. Her hymns of love and praise.

Jesus, thou Friend divine,
Our Saviour and our King,
Thy hand from every snare and foe
Shall great deliverance bring.

Sure as thy truth shall last,
To Zion shall be given

The brightest glories, earth can yield,

And brighter bliss of heaven.

THE ORIGIN OF A NAME

[From the "Travels in New-England and New-York"]

In this township there are two mountains; one of which is named Mount Cuba, from a dog which bore that name, and was killed upon it by a bear. The other was named Mount Sunday, Seven men, one of them a Mr. Palmer, went into the Eastern part of the township, and, in the language

from the following fact.

of the country, were lost; that is, they became wholly uncertain of the course, which they were to pursue, in order to regain their habitations. Palmer insisted, that it lay in a direction, really Eastward, although he believed it to point Westward. His companions, judging more correctly, determined to take the opposite course. In their progress, they passed over this mountain. The day, on which they ascended it, was the Sabbath; and the mountain has, from this circumstance, derived a name, which it will probably retain, so long as the posterity of the English colonists inhabit this country. The six men, returning home, and not finding Palmer, went again in search of him. In a place, two miles Eastward of the spot where they had left him, they found him engaged in a contest with a bear; which had attacked him the preceding evening, on his way. As the bear was advancing towards him, he was fortunate enough to procure a club; with which he had been able to defend himself, until he made good his retreat to a neighbouring tree. The bear followed him as he ascended the tree; but his club enabled him to keep the animal at bay, until his companions came up, and delivered him from the impending destruction.

I presume you will wonder at my mentioning these trifling incidents. I have mentioned them because they are trifles. The names of mountains, rivers, and other distinguished natural objects, both here and in England, have often seemed to me strange and inexplicable. The little incidents, which I have mentioned, furnish, I suspect, a probable explanation of this enigmatical subject, in a great proportion of cases. Events, sometimes more, and sometimes even less, significant than these, have, I am persuaded, been the origin of a great part of those odd appellations, given to so many of the objects in question. Among the proofs, that this opinion is just, the oddity, and the vulgarity of the appellations, and the speedy oblivion, into which the causes of them have fallen, are, to me, satisfactory. Their oddity proves them to have been derived from incidents, aside from the ordinary course of things: their vulgarity shews them to have been given by persons in humble life; and the fact, that the sources from which they have sprung have been so soon forgotten, evinces their insignificancy.