ISAAC WATTS.

Born, 1674; Died, 1748.

LAUNCHING INTO ETERNITY. Ir was a brave attempt! adventurous he Who in the first ship broke the unknown sea; And leaving his dear native shores behind, Trusted his life to the licentious wind. I see the surging brine; the tempest raves; He on a pine-plank rides across the waves, Exulting on the heads of thousand gaping graves: He steers the winged boat, and shifts the sails, Conquers the flood, and manages the gales.

Such is the soul that leaves this mortal land,
Fearless, when the great Master gives command.
Death is the storm: she smiles to hear it roar,
And bids the tempest waft her from the shore :
Then with a skilful helm she sweeps the seas,
And manages the raging storm with ease:
(Her faith can govern death :) she spreads her wings
Wide to the wind, and as she sails she sings,
And loses by degrees the sight of mortal things.
As the shores lessen, so her joys arise;

The waves roll gentler, and the tempest dies:
Now vast eternity fills all her sight,

She floats on the broad deep with infinite delight,

The seas for ever calm, the skies for ever bright.

EDWARD YOUNG.

Born, 1681; Died, 1765.

FROM "THE COMPLAINT." ◇ THOU great Arbiter of life and death! Nature's immortal, immaterial Sun! Whose all-prolific beam late call'd me forth From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay The worm's inferior, and, in rank, beneath The dust I tread on, high to bear my brow, To drink the spirit of the golden day, And triumph in existence; and couldst know No motive, but my bliss; and hast ordain'd A rise in blessing! with the Patriarch's joy, Thy call I follow to the land unknown; I trust in Thee, and know in whom I trust; Or life, or death, is equal; neither weighs : All weight in this—O, let me live to Thee!

*

*

*

*

Blest be that hand Divine, which gently laid, My heart at rest, beneath this humble shed. The world's a stately bark, on dangerous seas, With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril. Here, on a single plank, thrown safe ashore, I hear the tumult of the distant throng, As that of seas remote, or dying storms; And meditate on scenes more silent still, Pursue my theme, and fight the fear of Death. Here, like a shepherd gazing from his hut, Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff,

Eager Ambition's fiery chase I see ;
I see the circling hunt of noisy men

Burst Law's enclosure, leap the mounds of Right,
Pursuing and pursued, each other's prey;
As wolves for rapine, as the fox for wiles;
Till Death, the mighty hunter, earths them all.
Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour?
What, though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame?
Earth's highest station ends in, "Here he lies;"
And "Dust to dust" concludes her noblest song.

And on humanity much happiness;
And yet still more on piety itself.

A soul in commerce with her God is heaven;
Feels not the tumults nor the shocks of life;
The whirls of passions and the strokes of heart.
A Deity believed, is joy begun ;

A Deity adored, is joy advanced;

A Deity beloved, is joy matured.

Each branch of piety delight inspires;

Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next, O'er Death's dark gulf, and all its horror hides; Praise, the sweet exhalation of our joy,

That joy exalts, and makes it sweeter still

Prayer ardent opens heaven, lets down a stream

Of glory on the consecrated hour

Of man, in audience with the Deity.

First on thy friend deliberate with thyself;
Pause, ponder, sift; not eager in thy choice,
Nor jealous of the chosen; fixing, fix :
Judge before friendship, then confide to death.

FROM "THE LOVE OF FAME;

A SATIRE.”

LET high-birth triumph! What can be more great?
Nothing-but merit in a low estate.

To virtue's humblest son let none prefer
Vice, though descended from the Conqueror.
Shall men, like figures, pass for high, or base,
Slight, or important, only by their place?
Titles are marks of honest men, and wise ;
The fool or knave that wears a title, lies.
They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
Produce their debt, instead of their discharge.

ALEXANDER POPE.

Born, 1688; Died, 1744.

FROM "THE MESSIAH."

RISE, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thine eyes!
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ;
See future sons, and daughters yet unborn,
In crowding ranks on every side arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies!
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend,
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend!
See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings,
And heap'd with products of Sabæan springs !

For thee Idume's spicy forests blow,

And seeds of gold on Ophir's mountains glow.
See heaven its sparkling portals wide display,
And break upon thee in a flood of day!
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn,
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn:
But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze
O'erflow thy courts; the Light Himself shall shine
Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine!
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away:
But fix'd His word, His saving power remains ;
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns!

SAMUEL WESLEY, JUN.
Born, 1690; Died, 1739.

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.

BENEATH, a sleeping infant lies;

To earth whose ashes lent

More glorious shall hereafter rise,

Though not more innocent.

When the archangel's trump shall blow,

And souls and bodies join,

What crowds shall wish their lives below

Had been as short as thine!