Of Ceres, ripe for harvest, waving bends
Her bearded grove of ears, which way the wind
Sways them; the careful ploughman doubting stands,
Lest on the thrashing-floor his hopeful sheaves
Prove chaff. On the other side, Satan, alarm'd,
Collecting all his might, dilated stood,

Like Teneriff or Atlas, unremoved:

His stature reach'd the sky, and on his crest
Sat horror plumed; nor wanted in his grasp

What seem'd both spear and shield. Now dreadful deeds
Might have ensued: Not only Paradise,

In this commotion, but the starry cope
Of heaven perhaps, or all the elements

At least, had gone to wreck, disturb'd and torn
With violence of this conflict, had not soon
The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray,
Hung forth in heaven his golden scales, yet seen
Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign,
Wherein all things created first he weigh'd-
The pendulous round earth with balanced air
In counterpoise; now ponders all events,
Battles, and realms-In these he put two weights,
The sequel each of parting and of fight:

The latter quick up flew, and kick'd the beam;
Which Gabriel spying, thus bespake the fiend:

Satan, I know thy strength, and thou know'st mine;

Neither our own, but given: what folly then

To boast what arms can do? since thine, no more
Than Heaven permits, nor mine, though doubled now
To trample thee as mire: for proof look up,

And read thy lot in yon celestial sign;

Where thou art weigh'd, and shown how light, how weak,
If thou resist." The fiend look'd up, and knew
His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled
Murmuring; and with him fled the shades of night.

The Good Preacher and the Clerical Coxcomb.

WOULD I describe a preacher, such as Paul,
Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own,
Paul should himself direct me: I would trace
His master-strokes, and draw from his design.
I would express him simple, grave, sincere;

Ibid.

In doctrine, uncorrupt; in language, plain;
And plain in manner. Decent, solemn, chaste,
And natural in gesture. Much impress'd
Himself, as conscious of his awful charge,
And anxious, mainly, that the flock he feeds
May feel it too. Affectionate in look,
And tender in address, as well becomes
A messenger of grace to guilty men.

Behold the picture!-Is it like?-like whom?
The things that mount the rostrum with a skip,
And then-skip down again? pronounce a text,
Cry, hem! and, reading what they never wrote
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work,
And, with a well-bred whisper, close the scene?
In man or woman-
-but far most in man,
And most of all in man that ministers,
And serves the altar-in my soul I loathe
All affectation: 'tis my perfect scorn;
Object of my implacable disgust.

What! will a man play tricks-will he indulge
A silly, fond conceit of his fair form
And just proportion, fashionable mien
And pretty face, in presence of his God?
Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes,
As with the diamond on his lily hand;
And play his brilliant parts before my eyes,
When I am hungry for the bread of life?
He mocks his Maker; prostitutes and shames
His noble office; and, instead of truth,
Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock.
Therefore, avaunt! all attitude and stare,
And start theatric, practised at the glass!
I seek divine simplicity in him

Who handles things divine; and all beside,

Though learn'd with labour, and though much admired By curious eyes, and judgments ill-form'd,

To me is odious.

On the Being of a God.

Cowper.

RETIRE; the world shut out;-thy thoughts call home! Imagination's airy wing repress;

Lock up thy senses;-let no passion stir;

Wake all to Reason;-let her reign alone:

Then, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth
Of Nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire,
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 nought,
Nought 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-chain'd 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 allow'd, than man.—
Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain,
Shot through vast masses of enormous weight?
Who bade 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 learn'd
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.-
And, if a God there is, that God how great!

Young.

Dublin Bay Shipwreck—Deserted Passengers.
How beautifully still is all around!

Calm as the couch where slumber seals the eye
Of infant innocence, in deep repose
These sandy ridges and the waters sleep,
Wrapp'd in the golden effluence of day.
Far different the scene, when wintry winds
Rush from their frozen caves, and Eurus rides
On the dark clouds, when by her powerful spell
The attractive moon has call'd around her throne
The congregated floods. Then roars the might
Of ocean, sheeted all in raging foam;

The labouring vessels fly; the thundering surge
Rolls o'er the piers; and mariners thank Heaven,
That they are not at sea.

Yet Memory weeps

That night's sad horrors, when a luckless bark
Was hurl'd upon these sands. Elate with hope,
Some hundred warriors, who in many a field
Had gathered laurels, in this bark resought
Their native Erin. Nearer as they drew,
Each spell of country, with magnetic power,
Wrought in their souls, and all the joys of home
Rush'd on their fancy. Some, in thought, embraced
Their happy parents, and the lover clasp'd

His fair one to his breast. Another morn,

And all these joys are real! Onward speed,

Thou fleet-wing'd bark! More fleet than sea-bird skims
The floods, she sped. Soon Erin's shores arose:-
Howth glimmer'd in the west, and Wicklow's hills
Were blue in the horizon. Then they hail'd
Their own green island, and they chanted loud
Their patriot gratulations, till the sun

Gave them his last farewell. He sank in clouds
Of red portentous glare; when dreary night
Condensed around them, and a mountain swell
Announced the coming tempest. Wrapp'd in sleet,
And arrowy fire, it came. The cutting blast
Smote sore;-yawn'd the precipitous abyss;-
Roar'd the torn surges.-From his slippery stand,
In vain the pilot cast a wistful look,

Some friendly light to spy;-but all was dark;
Nor moon, nor star, nor beacon light, was seen;

While in the yeasty foam, half-buried, toil'd
The reeling ship. At length, that dreadful sound
Which mariners most dread-the fierce, wild din
Of breakers,―raging on the leeward shore,
Appall'd the bravest. On the sands she struck,
Shivering, as in the cold and deadly grasp
Of dissolution. Agonizing screams

Were heard within, which told that hope was fled.
Then might some counsel sage, perchance, have wrought
A great deliverance.
But what shipwreck'd crew

E'er list to counsel? Where 'tis needed most,

'Tis most despised. In such a fearful hour,
Each better feeling dies, and cruel self
Sears all of human in the heart of man.
None counsell'd safety-but a fell design
Rose in the captain's breast, above the throng
To close the hatches, while himself and crew
Flee to the boat, and hope or chance to 'scape,
Leave to the captives none. The recreant slaves
Their ship deserting, in the faithful skiff,

For once too faithful, sweep the foaming gulf,
And reach the strand. But ah! the gallant throng,
Lock'd in the dungeon-hold, around them hear
The roaring cataracts;—their shrieks and groans,
With threats and prayers, and mingled curses, speak
Their soul's last agonies. What boots their prayers,
Their groans, or rage to madness by their wrongs
Exasperated high? Will storms grow calm,
Or warring surges hear the suppliant's voice,
When man has steel'd his heart? Oh! now to die
Amid the strife of arms were ecstacy!

Ay-e'en to perish in the conflict rude

With seas and storms, beneath the cope of heaven,
Where their last breath might mingle with the winds!
But thus to die inglorious! thus immured,

As in some den of hell! They chafe in vain :-
So chafes the lion in the hunter's trap;

So in his coffin turns, with dire dismay,

The wretch unwittingly entomb'd alive.

Now torn and wreck'd-deep-cradled in the sands,
The vessel lies. Through all her yawning sides
She drinks the flood. Loud o'er her roars the surge;
But all within-is still.

Drummond.