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Spring.-MILTON.

Now gentle gales,

Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense

Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole
Those balmy spoils. As when, to them who sail
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozambic, off at sea northeast winds blow
Sabean odours from the spicy shore

Of Araby the blest; with such delay

Well-pleas'd they slack their course, and many a league Cheer'd with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles.

Mercy.-SHAKSPEARE.

The quality of mercy is not strain'd;
It droppeth as the gentle dew from Heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes,
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice.-We do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.

The deserted mansion.

Forsaken stood the hall,
Worms ate the floors, the tap'stry fled the wall;
No fire the kitchen's cheerless grate display'd;
No cheerful light the long-clos'd sash convey'd!
The crawling worm that turns a summer fly,
Here spun his shroud, and laid him up to die
His winter death:-upon the bed of state,
The bat shrill shrieking, woo'd his flickering mate :
To empty rooms the curious came no more,
From empty cellar, turn'd the angry poor.
To one small room the steward found his way,
Where tenants followed to complain and pay.

The man of a cultivated imagination.-CAMPBELL. His path shall be where streamy mountains swell Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell,

* Pronounced et.

Where mouldering piles and forests intervene,
Mingling with darker tints the living green;
No circling hills his ravish'd eye to bound,
Heaven, Earth, and Ocean, blazing all around!
The moon is up-the watch-tower dimly burns-
And down the vale his sober step returns ;
But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey
The still sweet fall of Music far away;
And oft he lingers from his home awhile

To watch the dying notes !—and start, and smile!

Evening sounds.-GOLDSMITH.

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.

There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below:
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young,
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school,
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind :
These all in soft confusion sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.

Moonlight.-POPE.

When the fair moon, refulgent lamp of night,
O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light;
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene;
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole,
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain's head;
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies;
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.

Morning sounds.-BEATTIE.

But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain's side;

The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd, dim descried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;

Crown'd with her pail the tripping milk-maid sings;
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and hark!
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;
Thro' rustling corn the hare astonished springs;
Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour;
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;
Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower,
And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower.,

The beauties of Nature.—BEATTIE.

O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms that nature to her votary yields!
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, the garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even,
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of Heaven,

O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven?

LESSON VIII.

The advantages of a taste for natural history.—WOOD.

WHEN a young person who has enjoyed the benefit of a liberal education, instead of leading a life of indolence, dissipation, or vice, employs himself in studying the marks of infinite wisdom and goodness which are manifested in every part of the visible creation, we know not which we ought most to congratulate, the publick, or the individual. Selftaught naturalists are often found to make no little progress

in knowledge, and to strike out many new lights, by the mere aid of original genius and patient application. But the well educated youth engages in these pursuits with peculiar advantage. He takes more comprehensive views, is able to consult a greater variety of authors, and, from the early habits of his mind, is more accurate and more methodical in all his investigations. The world at large, therefore, cannot fail to be benefited by his labours; and the value of the enjoyments, which at the same time he secures to himself, is beyond all calculation. No tedious, vacant hour ever makes him wish for he knows not what-complain, he knows not why. Never does a restless impatience at having nothing to do, compel him to seek a momentary stimulus to his dormant powers in the tumultuous pleasures of the intoxicating cup, or the agitating suspense of the game of chance. Whether he be at home or abroad, in every different clime, and in every season of the year, universal nature is before him, and invites him to a banquet richly replenished with whatever can invigorate his understanding, or gratify his 'mental taste. The earth on which he treads, the air in which he moves, the sea along the margin of which he walks, all teem with objects that keep his attention perpetually awake, excite him to healthful activity, and charm him with an ever varying succession of the beautiful, the wonderful, the useful, and the new. And if, in conformity with the direct tendency of such occupations, he rises from the creature to the Creator, and considers the duties which naturally result from his own situation and rank in this vast system of being, he will derive as much satisfaction from the anticipation of the future, as from the experience of the present, and the recollection of the past. The mind of the pious naturalist is always cheerful, always animated with the noblest and most benign feelings. Every repeated observation, every unexpected discovery, directs his thoughts to the great Source of all order, and all good; and harmonizes all his faculties with the general voice of nature.

-The men

Whom nature's works can charm, with God himself
Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,

With his conceptions; act upon his plan,
And form to his the relish of their souls."

LESSON IX.

The pleasures of a cultivated Imagination.—DUGALD
STEWART.

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THE attention of young persons may be seduced, by wellselected works of fiction, from the present objects of the senses, and the thoughts accustomed to dwell on the past, the distant or the future; and in the same proportion in which this effect is, in any instance, accomplished, "the man," Dr. Johnson has justly remarked," is exalted in the scale of intellectual being." The tale of fiction will probably be soon laid aside with the toys and rattles of infancy; but the habits which it has contributed to fix, and the powers which it has brought into a state of activity, will remain with the possessor, permanent and inestimable treasures, to his latest hour.

Nor is it to the young alone that these observations are to be exclusively applied. Instances have frequently occur red of individuals, in whom the power of imagination has, at a more advanced period of life, been found susceptible of culture to a wonderful degree. In such men, what an ac cession is gained to their most refined pleasures! What en chantments are added to their most ordinary perceptions! The mind awakening, as if from a trance, to a new existence, becomes habituated to the most interesting aspects of life and of nature; the intellectual eye "is purged of its film ;" and things the most familiar and unnoticed, disclose charms invisible before.

The same objects and events which were lately beheld with indifference, occupy now all the powers and capacities of the soul: the contrast between the present and the past serving only to enhance and to endear so unlooked for an acquisition. What Gray has so finely said of the pleasures of vicissitude, conveys but a faint image of what is experienced by the man, who, after having lost in vulgar occupations and vulgar amusements, his earliest and most precious years, is thus introduced at last to a new heaven and a new earth:

"The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise."

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