Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage;
And e'en the story ran, that he could gauge.

In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill;
For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still;
While words of learned strength, and thund'ring
sound,

Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around;

And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot,
Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot.

HOPE.

BY GOLDSMITH.

THE wretch, condemned with life to part,
Still, still on hope relies;

And every pang that rends the heart
Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;

And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.

EXTRACT FROM THE TRAVELLER.

BY GOLDSMITH.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po,
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;

A

Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
weary waste expanding to the skies;
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a length'ning chain.

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend;
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire
To pause from toil and trim their evening fire;
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair.
Blest be those feasts, with simple plenty crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around

Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;
Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good.

But me, not destin'd such delights to share,
My prime of life in wandering spent and care;
Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue,
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view,
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies,
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies;
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own.
E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down, a pensive hour to spend;
And, plac'd on high above the storm's career,
Look downward where an hundred realms appear;
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide,
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.
When thus Creation's charms around combine,
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine?
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain

That good which makes each humbler bosom vain!

Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,
These little things are great to little man;
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind
Exults in all the good of all mankind.

Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd;

Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round;
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale;
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale;
For me your tributary stores combine:
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine.
As some lone miser, visiting his store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er;
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still;
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
Pleas'd with each good that heav'n to man supplies;
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find
Some spot to real happiness consign'd,
Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest,
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.

But where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease;
The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam;
His first best country, ever is at home.

COWPER.-BORN 1731; DIED 1800.

EXTRACTS FROM THE TASK.

GOD SEEN IN HIS WORKS.

ACQUAINT thyself with God, if thou would'st taste
His works. Admitted once to his embrace
Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before:
Thine eye shall be instructed; and thine heart,
Made pure, shall relish, with divine delight
Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought.
Brutes graze the mountain top, with faces prone

And eyes intent upon the scanty herb

It yields them; or, recumbent on its brow,
Ruminate, heedless of the scene outspread
Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away
From inland regions to the distant main.
Man views it, and admires; but rests content
With what he views. The landscape has his praise,
But not its Author. Unconcerned who formed

The paradise he sees, he finds it such,

And, such well pleased to find it, asks no more.

Not so the mind that has been touched from Heaven, And in the school of sacred Wisdom taught

To read His wonders, in whose thought the world, Fair as it is, existed ere it was.

Not for its own sake merely, but for His

Much more who fashioned it, he gives it praise;
Praise that from earth resulting, as it ought,
To earth's acknowledged Sovereign, finds at once
Its only just proprietor in Him.

The soul that sees Him, or receives sublimed
New faculties, or learns at least to employ
More worthily the powers she owned before,
Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze

Of ignorance, till then she overlooked,
A ray of heavenly light gilding all forms.
Terrestrial, in the vast and the minute,
The unambiguous footsteps of the God
Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing,
And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds.

So reads he Nature whom the lamp of Truth
Illuminates; Thy lamp, mysterious Word!
Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost;
With intellects bemazed in endless doubt,
But runs the road of Wisdom. Thou hast built
With means that were not, till by Thee employed,
Worlds that had never been, hadst Thou in strength
Been less, or less benevolent than strong.

Thee we reject, unable to abide

Thy purity, till pure as Thou art pure,

Made such by Thee; we love Thee for that cause
For which we shunned and hated Thee before.
Then we are free. Then liberty, like day,
Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heaven
Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.

A voice is heard, that mortal ears hear not
Till Thou hast touched them: 'tis the voice of song
A loud Hosanna sent from all Thy works;
Which he that hears it, with a shout repeats,
And adds his rapture to the general praise.
In that blest moment, Nature, throwing wide
Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile
The Author of her beauties, who, retired
Behind his own creation, works unseen
By the impure, and hears his power denied.
Thou art the source and centre of all minds,
Their only point of rest, Eternal Word!