written. The creation is a perpetual feast to the mind of a good man, every thing he sees cheers and delights him;

6. Providence has imprinted so many smiles on nature, that it is impossible for a mind which is not sunk in gross and sensual delights, to take a survey of them without secret sensations of pleasure. The psalmist has, in several of his divine poems, celebrated those beautiful and agreeable scenes which make the heart glad, and produce in it that vernal delight which I have before taken notice of.

7. Natural philosophy quickens this state of the creation, and renders it not only pleasing to the imagination, but to the understanding. It does not rest in the murmur of brooks, and the melody of birds, in the shade of groves and woods, or in the embroidery of fields and meadows, but considers the several ends of Providence which are served by them, and the wonders of Divine Wisdom which appear in them. It heightens the pleasure of the eye, and raises such a rational admiration in the soul as is little inferior to devotion.

8. It is not in the power of every one to offer up this kind of worship to the Great Author of nature, and to indulge these more refined meditations of the heart, which are doubtless highly acceptable in his sight; I shall therefore conclude this short essay, on that pleasure which the mind naturally conceives from the present season of the year, by the recommending of a practice for which every one has sufficient abilities.

9. I would have my readers endeavour to moralize this natural pleasure of the soul, and to improve this vernal delight, as Milton calls it, into a Christian virtue. When we find ourselves inspired with this pleasing instinct, this secret satisfaction and complacency arising from the beauties of the creation, let us consider to whom we stand indebted for all these entertainments of sense, and who it is that thus opens his hands and fills the world with good.

10. The Apostle instructs us to take advantage of our present temper of mind, to graft upon it such a religious exercise as is particularly conformable to it; by that precept which advises those who are sad to pray, and those who are merry to sing psalms. The cheerfulness of heart

• The Spring.

which springs up in us from the survey of nature's works is an admirable preparation for gratitude.

11. The mind has gone a great way towards praise and thanksgiving that is filled with such a secret gladness: a grateful reflection on the supreme cause who produces it, sanctifies it in the soul, and gives it a proper value. Such an habitual disposition of mind consecrates every field and wood, turns an ordinary walk into a morning or evening sacrifice, and will improve those transient gleams of joy which naturally brighten up and refresh the soul on such occasions, into an inviolable and perpetual state of bliss and happiness. ADDISON.

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LESSON XLII.

The Hermit.

Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age, a rev'rend hermit grew,
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruit, his drink the crystal well:
Remote from man with God he pass'd the days;
Pray'r all his business, all his pleasure praise.
A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Seem'd heav'n itself, 'till one suggestion rose-
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey;
Thus sprung some doubt of Providence's sway.
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenor of his soul is lost.

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So, when a smooth expanse receives, imprest,
Calm nature's image on its wat'ry breast,
Down bend the banks; the trees, depending, grow:
And skies, beneath, with answ'ring colours glow:
But if a stone the gentle sea divide,

Swift ruffling circles curl on every side;

And glimm'ring fragments of a broken sun,
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.

To clear this doubt; to know the world by sight;
To find if books or swains report it right;
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet came wand'ring o'er the nightly dew,)

He quits his cell; the pilgrim staff he bore,
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before:
Then, with the sun, a rising journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass,
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass;
But, when the southern sun had warm'd the day,
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way:
His raiment decent, his complexion fair,
And, soft, in graceful ringlets, wav'd his hair.

Then, near approaching, Father, hail! he cri'd;
And, Hail my son! the rev'rend sire repli'd;
Words follow'd words; from question answer flow'd;
And talk of various kind deceiv'd the road;
Till each with other pleas'd and loath to part,
While in their age they differ, join in heart.
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound;
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.

Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober grey:
Nature, in silence, bid the world repose;
When, near the road, a stately palace rose.
There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass,
Whose verdure crown'd the sloping sides of grass.
It chanc'd the noble master of the dome

Still made his house the wand'ring stranger's home;
Yet, still the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive; the liv'ry'd servants wait;
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate:
The table groans with costly piles of food;
And all is more than hospitably good.
Then, led to rest, the day's long toil they drown,
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.

At length, 'tis morn; and, at the dawn of day,
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play;
Fresh o'er the gay parterres, the breezes creep,
And shake the neighbouring wood, to banish sleep
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call;

An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall;
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac'd,

Which the kind master forc'd the guests to taste.

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Then pleas'd, and thankful, from the porch they go;
And, but the landlord, none had cause of wo-

His cup was vanish'd; for, in secret guise,
The younger guest purloin'd the glitt'ring prize.

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LESSON XLIII.

The same continued.

As one who spies a serpent in his way,
Glist'ning and basking in the summer ray,
Disorder'd stops, to shun the danger near,

Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear;
So seem'd the sire, when, far upon the road,
The shining spoil his wily partner show'd.
He stopt with silence; walk'd with trembling heart,
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask, to part:
Murm'ring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard
That gen'rous actions meet a base reward.

While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds:
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds;
A sound in air presag'd approaching rain;
And beasts to covert, scud across the plain.
Warn'd by the signs, the wand'ring pair retreat,
To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat.

'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground;
And strong, and large, and unimprov'd around:
Its owner's temper, tim'rous and severe,
Unkind and griping, caus'd a desert there.
As near the miser's heavy doors they drew,
Fierce rising gusts, with sudden fury, blew;
The nimble lightning, mix'd with show'rs, began;
And o'er their heads, loud rolling thunder ran.

Here long they knock; but knock or call in vain,
Driv'n by the wind and batter'd by the rain.
At length, some pity warm'd the master's breast
("Twas then his threshold first receiv'd a guest;)
Slow creaking turns the door, with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in the shiv'ring pair.

One frugal faggot lights the naked walls,
And nature's fervour through their limbs recalls;
Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine,
(Each hardly granted) serv'd them both to dine:

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And when the tempest first appear d to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.

With still remark the pond'ring hermit view'd,
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude;

And why should such (within himself he cri'd)
Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside?

But what new marks of wonder soon take place,
In ev'ry settling feature of his face,

When from his vest the young companion bore
That cup the generous landlord own'd before,
And paid profusely with the precious bowl
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul!
8. But now the clouds in airy tumult fly;
The sun, emerging, opes an azure sky;
A fresher green the smelling leaves display,
And, glitt'ring as they tremble, cheer the day:
The weather courts them from the

poor retreat, And the glad master bolts the wary gate.

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought
With all the travail of uncertain thought;

His partner's acts without their cause appear;
'Twas there a vice; and seem'd a madness here:
Detesting that; and pitying this, he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various shows.

Now night's dim shades again involve the sky;
Again the wand'rers want a place to lie:
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh:
The soil improv'd around, the mansion neat;
And neither poorly low, nor idly great,
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind,
Content, and not for praise, but virtue kind.

Hither the walkers turn, with weary feet;
Then, bless the mansion and the master greet;
Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise,
The courteous master hears, and thus replies:

"Without a vain, without a grudging heart,
To him who gives us all, I yield a part:
From him you come, for him accept it here;
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer."
He spoke; and bade the welcome tables spread;
Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed:
When the grave household round his hall repair,
Wern'd by a bell, and close the hours with pray'r.