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MORAL PIECES, 



IN 



Prose and Verse. 



BY LYDIA HTJNTLEY. 



HARTFORD : 

Sheldon < Goodwin Printers. 

1815. 



2>itmt of fiDonnecttcut, ##. 

BE IT REMEMBERED : That on the thirtieth day of Deeera- 
^ er > i* 1 the thirty-ninth year of the Independence of the United 
states of America, LYD1A HUNTLEY, of the said District, hath 
deposited in this office, the title of a Book, the right whereof she 
claims as Authoress in the words following, to wit : 

" Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse. By Lydia Huntley." 
In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled " An 
act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts 
and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times 
therein mentioned." 

HENRY W. EDWARDS, Clerk 

ofthe District of Connecticut. 
A true copy of Record examined and sealed by me, 

HENRY W. EDWARDS, Clerk 
of the Diftrict of Connecticut. 



? 
T?3 

. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 



A FEW of the productions now brought he- 
fore the puhlic were intended for the use of a 
School ; hut the greater part arose from the im 
pulse of the moment, at intervals of relaxation 
from such domestic employments, as the circum 
stances of the writer, and her parents, rendered 
indispensable. Most of them were written when 
she was ^very young, and, with the exception of 
two or three short pieces, the whole, before she 
had attained the age of twenty-three years. 



ENGLISH 



INTRODUCTION. 



A DAMP and dewy wreath that grew 

Upon the breast of Spring, 
A harp whose tones are faint and few, 

With trembling hand I bring. 

The clang of war, the trumpet's roar., 

May drown the feeble note, 
And down to Lethe' 's silent shore, 

The scattered wreath may float. 

But He, who taught the flowers to spring 
From waste neglected ground, 

And gave the silent harp a siring 
Of wild and nameless sound ; 

*l 



VI INTRODUCTION. 

Commands my spirit not to trust 

Her happiness with these : 
A bloom that moulders back to dust, 

A. music soon to cease. 

But seek those flowers unstained by time, 

To constant virtue given, 
And for that harp of tone sublime, 

Wliich seraphs wake in Heaven. 



CONTENTS. 



A. Page. 

ADDRESS to the Deity, - 54 

Anniversary of the death of a venerable 

friend, - 35 
Address to the New Month, - - -47 

Adieu, - 121 

Anniversary of the death of the Rev. Mr. 

Hooker, - 133. 
A Thought, 134 
Address from a young Pupil to her com 
panions, - 151 
Application of the Roman Precept, - 225 
Autumnal Scene, 242 

\ B * 

Birth Day, - 146 

Birth day of a young Lady who had recent 
ly lost her Mother, 219 

C. 

Contemplation, - 3 

Conflagration at Washington, - 31 

Characters of Others, - - 66 

Composition, - 79 

Courage of Cesar, - 129 

Cares of Earth, 149 



viii CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Careless Heart, - 199 

Confidence of Alexander, - 203 

Creation, - - 239 

Convention, 246 

D. 

Death of an Invalid, - 13 
Dove, - 14 
Death of Mr. Washburn, - 49 
Desertion of the Muse, - - 109 
Deserted Garden, - 107 
Destruction of the Inquisition, - 43 
Deception, - - 137 
Departure of Mrs. Nott with the Missiona 
ries, - - 140 
Dedication for a Book of Poetical Extracts, 143 
Detached Thoughts, - ... 157 

E. 

Election, .... 27 

Excuse, - - 113 

Evening Thought, - - 123 

Evening, . 131 

Equanimity of Zeno, - - - 131 

Evils of Haste, - - - 134 

Exclamation at Midnight, - - - 142 

Emblem, - ... 03 

Evening Examination, - - 216 

Evening Reflection, - - 228 

Eclipse of the Moon, - - - 250 

Evening Prayer, 264 



CONTENTS. IX 

F. Page. 

Filial Duty, - 53 

Farewell to the Month, - - 46 
For the blank page of a new Bible, - 122 

Friendship, 141 

First of September, - 173 

First Morning of May, 226 

First Wintry Morning, 252 

G. 

God displayed in Ms Works, ... 4 

Gratitude, - 19 

Do. 95 

Giving the Bible to the Esquimaux, 9 

Government of the Passions, - 85 

H. 

Happiness, - 97 

Hearing a Bell Toll, - - 206 

Hymn, 229 

I. 

Indecision, - - - 91 
Improvement of Scipio's Boast, - - 223 

Infant, - - 255 

Invocation, - - 257 

L. 

Life, - 23 

Longest Day, - 220 

Life, 136 



X CONTENTS. 

M. Page. 

Macdonough, 29 

Malta, 39 

Memory, - 59 

Montivideo, - - 103 

Modesty, 94 

Morning Thoughts, - 118 

Morning, - ISO 

Moonlight Scene, 147 

Midnight Prayer, 206 

Moon and Star, - - - 212 

Morning Prayer, 260 

Midday Prayer, 263 

N. 

Novel Reading, 56 

O. 

Our Country, 24 

On hearing a friend sing at Midnight, - 190 
On the Character of a venerable Friend, 200 

P. 

Procrastination, - 6 

Philosopher's Reproof, 120 

Psalm CXIX. - 138 

Psalm CXIX. - 175 

Paraphrase of Amos, - 181 

Parting, - 205 

Pope, - 213 



CONTENTS. Xl 

Page. 

P arting Friend, -. - 217 

P araphrase of Cleopatra's Advice, 222 

Q. 

Queen of Night, - 128 

R. 

Richmond Theatre, 248 

Rain Bow, 235 

Rising Moon, 115 
Regard due to the feelings of others, - 126 

' Reflection, 133 

Request, 148 

Rose, 179 

Rove Forever, - 208 

Rapidity of Time, 214 

Reply of the Philosopher, 223 

Do. 224 

S. 

Storm at Midnight, 5 

Self Knowledge, 72 

Sabbath Morning, 116 

Susceptible Mind, 18 

Summer Morning, 127 

Sleeping Infant, 196 

Solitary Star, - 201 

Seclusion of Basil, - 226 

St. Clair, - 251 

T. 

Tribute, - - 1 



Xii CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Tear, 22 

To a Friend in Affliction, - 117 

To a Young Lady, - 124 

Trust in the Almighty, - 135 

Tolling of a Bell, 139 

To a Friend on the first day of the Year, 140 

Transient Joy, - 144 
To a Friend whose correspondence had been 

interrupted, - - 193 

To an Instructor, - 209 

Twilight, - 215 

To a Friend with Geraniums, 215 
To a Friend on the 24th anniversary of her 

Marriage, - 234 

Thoughts on Childhood, - 236 

To a Friend, - - 241 

V. 

Vain Pursuits, - 125 

Vanity, 137 

Vanity of Life, ... 204 

Victory, 231 

Vicissitudes of Nature, - - 258 

W. 

Weeping may endure for a Night, 154 

Y. 

Youth, 99 

Young Friend Sleeping. - - - 221 



MORAL PIECES. 



A TRIBUTE. 



THERE rose a plant from shades obscure, 

Of weak and feeble stem, 
Its shrinking leaves were closely curPd, 

And pale its infant gem. 

And yet, a benefactress kind 

The lonely stranger ey'd 
And lov'd, and watch'd the humble plant, 

Which few had lov'd beside. 

She hid it from the chilling storms, 

For storms its bloom opprcst, 
And when the wintry blast arose, 

She warm'd it in her breast. 



With glance of tearful joy, she viewed 

Its promts' d verdure rise ; 
And oft its drooping buds she rais'd, 

To point them to the skies. 

But as she cherish'd it, a hand 

Remov'd her hence away ; 
And sick'ning on her lowly tomb 

The broken flow'ret lay. 

It rose to seek the ray serene, 

The star of mercy threw ; 
It rose on life's eventful scene. 

To feel and tremble too. 

Yet some have fenc'd it from the blast, 

And from the wintry air, 
And deign'd tho' undeserv'd their smile, 

To shelter it with care. 

Yes they have chcer'd it : they have sought 

To see its branches grow ; 
And have not scorn'd it, though its stalk 

AVas unadorn'd and low. 

And if the fragrance of the skies 

Should to its buds be given, 
That fragrance shall to these arise, 

To virtue, and to heaven. 



CONTEMPLATION. 



OFT, when the morning draws her dewy veil, 
Or twilight slumbers on the shrouded dale, 
Or moon beams tremble thro* the whisp* ring trees,, 
Or flout on clouds before the western breeze, 
Or evening, in her starry mantle bright, 
Precedes the slow majestic train of night ; 
In that still hour the mind excursive roves, 
A heavenly voice the listening spirit moves. 
Then light wing'd forms appear with brow serene, 
And tempt the soul from this terrestrial scene. 
Her pow'rs no more can present objects move, 
And cold is earthly care, and earthly love ; 
Memory hangs pausing o'er the unstain'd page, 
The prostrate passions all renounce their rage, 
Fear shrinks no more, and* wrath forgets to frown, 
And fluttering fancy shuts her pinions down ; 
The roving thoughts restrain their wild pursuit, 
Ev'n crested vanity sits meek and mute, 
And sceptred reason, bowing on her throne, 
Yields to a Pow'r acknowledged, though unknown, 
The world allures but clouds her glories blot j 
The world may call ; the spirit hears her not. 
A still, small voice arrests th* expanding soul, 
The full, strong tides of inspiration roll, 



A viewless harp responds soft tones arise, 
And quick within an answering harp replies 5 
!No more the vague and wild ideas float, 
Charm'd into order by that blended note ; 
But waking genius strives, with fondest care, 
To woo the magic music from the air , 
The strong, unmeasured minstrelsey to bind, 
In harmony by mortal pow'rs confm'd. 



GOD DISPLAYED IN HIS WORKS. 



WHO gave thee clothes to shield thy shrinking 

form ? 

Who gave thee shelter from the wintry storm ? 
Who gave the senseless beasts to be thy food ? 
Spread for thy use the pure and limpid flood ? 
Gave the quick ear to hear, the mind to know, 
The eye to sparkle, and the blood to flow ? 
Who gave the day of health the night of rest, 
Joy at thy call, and comfort in thy breast ? 
Who deals with kindest care thy chequer' d lot I 
Whose arm sustains thee tho' thoa see'st it not ? 



Whose watchful eye observes thy secret ways t 
Who writes the record of thy fleeting days ? 

Ask of the stream that rolls in torrents hy ; 
Ask of the stars that light the darken'd sky ; 
Or of the fields array'd in garments fair $ 
Or of the birds that warble on the air ; 
Or of the mountain lilies wet w ith dew ; 
Or of the brutes, and they will tell thee who. 
Then lift thine eye to that unsullied throne, 
And raise thy heart to Him thy God alone. 



THE STORM AT MIDNIGHT. 



ROVING spirit rushing blast, 
Whither dost thou speed so fast ? 
Hurling from night's ebon car, 
The spear of elemental war? 
Cams't thou from the secret cell, 
Where the prison'd whirlwinds dwell ? 
Hast thou seen the awful court, 
Where the armed thunders sport ? 
Whore the deafning tempest sings, 
Where the lightning whets its stings ? 



Didst thou there obtain thine how 

Of wild and temporary pow'r ? 

Gain the strength that wraps thy breast ? 

Win the cloud that forms thy crest ? 

Beg to wield the mighty scourge, 

To stir the main and lash the surge, 

And wake the waves whose white heads rest 

Lightly on old Ocean's breast ? 

Speed'st thou now to rouse the gale, 
That rends the white and shivering sail 2 
Speed'st thou now to break the sleep, 
Of those that ride the foaming deep ? 
To shriek like ghosts to those that roam, 
" Thou ne'er shalt view thy distant home.'* 

Then go, thou angry tempest go, 
Speed thee on thy task of woe, 
Traverse earth from pole to pole, 
Crush the form but save the soul* 



PROCRASTINATION. 

'* LIVE well to day" a spirit cries, 
To day be good to day be wise ; 



But something inward seems to tell, 
Another day will do as well. 

" Now is the time the accepted time,'-* 
Speaks audibly a page sublime ; 
Another creed is heard to say, 
Wait till a more convenient day. 

Enquir'st thou which of these is truth I 
Which to obey unwary youth ? 
Go ask of nature in thy walk. 
The rose-bud, dying on its stalk, 
The fading grass the withering tree, 
Are emblems of thy fate and thee. 
Ask of the stream or torrent hoarse, 
To linger in its wonted course ; 
Ask of the bird to stay its flight, 
Bid the pale moon prolong her light, 
And listen to their answering tone, 
*' A future day is not our own." 

And is it thine ? Oh, spurn the cheat, 
Resist the smooth the dire deceit ; 
Lest, while thou dream'st of long delay, 
Thine hour of action pass away, 
Thy prospects fade thy joys be o'er, 
Thy time of hope return no more. 

Ask of the Roman pale with fear, 
While judgment thunder' d iu his ear, 



Who to the warning friend could say 
I'll hear thee on a future day ;" 
Ask him if Time confirmed his claim, 
Or that good season ever came ? 

Go, ask of him, whom demons urge 
To leap this dark world's dizzy verge, 
Who on his thorny pillow pain'd, 
Sees no reprieve or pardon gain'd. 
Oh ! ask that dying man the price 
Of one short hour of thoughtless vice ; 
What would he pay what treasure give, 
For one brief season more to live, 
One hour to spend in anxious care, 
In duty, penitence, and prayer ! 

Ask of the grave j a voice replies 
'* No knowledge, wisdom, or device," 
Beauty, or strength possess the gloom 
Where thou shalt find thy narrvw home. 

Delay no longer ; lest thy breath 
Should quiver in the sigh of death ; 
But inward turn thy thoughtful view, 
And what thy spirit dictates do. 



THE GIVING OF THE BIBLE TO THE 
ESQUIMAUX. 



ROUND that wide bay whose waters sweep, 
With slow sad current, to the deep, 
Hoarse hillows beat the rugged shore, 
Of cold and dismal Labrador. 

There as the lonely sailor keeps 

His night-watch o'er those awful deeps, 

Sighs for his long deserted home 

And hails the slowly rising moon, 

Lo ! icy cliffs of fearful size 

Flash death before his startled eyes, 

Cleave his frail bark with thund'ring crash, 

As lightnings rend the lofty ash. 

His frantic shrieks of thrilling pain 

Rouse from their beds the helpless train., 

Who soon shall sleep nor wake again. 

Cold to the raft their limbs congeal, 

Their icy hearts forget to feel, 

Dim close their eyes in silent sleep 

On their last couch the northern deep. 

Perchance upon the flinty beach, 
Their dry, unburied bones may bleach, 



10 



Where desarts stretch in trackless snow, 
And broad lakes rise that never flow, 
And rocks of frost, with frightful ledge, 
Hang sparkling o'er the water's edge. 

There scarce the sun reluctant throws 
A faint beam o'er the polar snows ; 
But wakes to speed his glowing car, 
And shuns the icy coast from far ; 
Pale float his locks on frosted skies, 
As in the waste the torch light dies. 
There life's frail lamp with livid ray 
Burns coldly in its cell of clay, 
And lights a weak and dwindled race, 
Devoid of science, wit or grace. 
For them no spring, with gentle care, 
Paints the young bud and scents the air ; 
Nor autumn bids the loaded stem 
Scatter its fruitage fair for them. 
No storied page, or learned strife, 
Or arts that lend delight to life, 
Or lighted dome, or festive song, 
Shed lustre o'er their winter long. 
But wrapt in skins, by long pursuit 
Torn rudely, from the slaughtcr'd brute, 
Close throng'd in hidden vaults they rest, 
Within the drear earths' mouldering breast. 
Hear the wild storm above them pour, 
Or sunk in sleep forget its roar. 



11 



The long dark night, with heavy sway, 
Hangs frowning o'er their homes of clay ; 
The twilight dim the infant moon, 
The pale sad stars that break the gloom 
Glance coldly on their living tomb. 

Ah ! what can cheer that lonely spot, 
Or bind the sufferer to his lot ? 
The hand that spread those frigid skies,, 
And gave the polar star to rise, 
The hand that stretch'd that frozen plain, 
, And shcw'd to man his drear domain, 
Gave, to enhance the scanty store, 
An humble mind that ask'd no more. 

And yet a better boon than thig 

In later times he gave, 
A warning voice, a call to bliss, 

A hope beyond the grave ; 
A page whose lustre shone to bless 
The lone retreat of wretchedness. 

He reads, he weeps, his prayers arise 
To Him who hears a sinner's cries. 
Sounds soft as music seem to roll, 
Strong light is kindled in his soul, 
While deep repentance, earnest prayer, 
And grateful love are rising thnv : 
And tears stand trembling in his eye 
That for his sins, Ids Lord should die. 



Now when the storm more feebly blows, 
And cold plants creep through wasted snows. 
When summer lifts her fleeting wings, 
"With ardour to his task he springs, 
Blesses the hand that gilds the scene. 
And kindly spreads the sky serene. 

Nor wintry storms to him are drear, 
Though hoarse they thunder in his ear, 
Who in his humble cell at rest 
Feels peace divine inspire his breast ; 
And sees fair hope in roseate bloom 
Descend to share his clay built room. 

Thus to his silent grave he goes, 
And meekly sinks to long repose, 
In firm belief at last to hear 
The strong Archangel rend the sphere, 
The trump proclaim the day of doom, 
A hand break up his ice-bound tomb, 
And bear him where no pain shall come. 
No winter shroud the scene with gloom. 
No stream congeal, no tempest rise, 
No gloomy cell or darken'd skies, 
No withering plant, no flinty soil, 
Or pining want, or fruitless toil, 
No lamp emit a glimmering ray, 
No setting sun forsake th; 



16 



The heavy weight of waters prest 
The mighty monarch's mouldering breast. 
The giant chief, the sceptred hand, 
The lip that pour'd the loud command ; 
The blooming cheek the sparkling eye. 
Now shrouded in the sea-weed lie. 

But still the pensive stranger spread 
Her white wing o'er that Ocean dread, 
And oft her anxious eye she cast 
Across that dark and shoreless waste. 
For evening clad the skies in gloom, 
And warn'd her of her distant home. 
The stars that gcmm'd the brow of night 
Glanc'd coldly on her wavering flight, 
In tears, the moon with trembling gleam 
Withdrew her faint and faded beam, 
And o'er that vast and silent grave 
Was spread the dark and boundless wave. 
With beating heart, and anxious ear, 
She strove some earthly sound to hear, 
In vain no earthly sound was near. 
It seem'd the world's eternal sleep 
Had settled o'er that gloomy deep, 
Nor slightest breath her bosom cheered. 
Her own soft wings alone she heard. 

But still that fearful dove preserv'd, 
With unabating care, 



17 

The olive leaf the type of peace 
All fragrant, fresh, and fail*. 

With pain her weary wing she stretch'd 

Over the billows wide, 
And oft her panting hosom dropp'd 

Upon the hriny tide. 

The image of her ahsent mate, 

That cheer'd her as she strove with fate* 

Grew darker on her eye $ 
It seem'd as if she heard him inn u ru . 
For one who never must return, 

In broken minstrelsey. 

Yet ere her pinions ceas'd their flight, 
Or clos'd her eye in endless night, 
A hand the weary wanderer prest 
And drew her to the ark of rest. 
Oh ! welcome to thy peaceful home, 
No more o'er that wild waste to roam. 

"When from this cell of pain and woe, 
Like that weak dove my soul shall go, 
And trembling still her flight shall urge, 
Along this dark world's doubtful verge 
O'er the cold flood, and foaming surge, 
Then may the shrinking stranger spy 
A pierc'd hand stretching from the sky, 
3 



18 



Then hear a voice in accents blest, 
" Return return unto thy rest," 
Long prison'd in a wayward clime, 
Long wounded with the thorns of time ; 
Long chill'd by the wild storms that pour 
Around that dark, deceitful shore, 
Enter where thorns shall wound and tempest}* 
rage no more. 



THE SUSCEPTIBLE MIND. 



HAST thou seen the Mimosa within its soft cell, 

All shrinking and suffering stand, 
And draw in its tendrils, and fold its young leaves, 

From the touch of the tenderest hand ? 

Hast thou seen the young Aspen that trembles 
and sighs, 

On the breath of the lingering wind ? 
Oh ! Ihese are but emblems, imperfect and faint* 

Of the shrinking and sensitive mind. 



19 



GRATITUDE. 



USES WRITTEN OS PLANTING SLIPS OP GERANIUM AND CON 
STANCY NEAR THE CRAVE OF A VENERABLE FRIKJ1). 



LITTLE plant of slender form, 
Fair, and shrinking from the storm, 
Lift thou here thine infant head, 
Bloom in this uncultur'd bed. 
Thou, of firmer spirit too, 
Stronger texture, deeper hue, 
Dreading not the winds that cast 
Cold snows o'er the frozen waste, 
Rise, and shield it from the blast. 

Shrink not from the awful shade 
Where the bones of men are laid ; 
Short like thine their transient date, 
Keen has been the scythe of fate. 
Forth like plants in glory drest 
They came upon the green earth's breast, 
Sent forth their roots to reach the stream, 
Their buds to meet the rising beam, 
They drank the morning's balmy breath, 
And sunk at eve in withering death. 



Rest here, meek plants, for few intrude 

To trouble this deep solitude ; 

But should the giddy footstep tread 

Upon the ashes of the dead, 

Still let the hand of rashness spare 

These little plants of love to tear, 

Since fond affection with a tear, 

Has plac'd them for an offering here. 

Adorn the grave of her who sleeps 

Unconscious, while remembrance weeps, 

Though ever, ever did she feel, 

And mourn those pangs she could not heal. 

Sev'n times the sun with swift career, 
Has mark'd the circle of the year, 
Since first she prest her lowly bier ; 
And sev'n times, sorrowing have I come, 
Alone, and wandering through the gloom, 
To pour my lays upon her tomb : 
And I have sigh'd to see her bed 
With brambles, and with thorns o'erspread, 

For surely round her place of rest, 
I should not let the coarse weed twine, 

Who so the couch of pain has blest, 

The path of want so freely drest, 

And scatter'd such perfumes on mine. 

It is not meet that she should be 

Fogotten or unblest by me. 



*1 



Ye plants, that in your hallow'd beds, 
Like strangers, lift your trembling heads, 
Drink the pure dew that evening sheds, 
And meet the morning's earliest ray, 
And catch the sun-beams as they play ; 
And when your buds are moist with rain, 
Oh shed those drops in tears again ; 
And if the blast that sweeps the heath, 
Too rudely o'er your leaves should breathe, 
Then sigh for her ; and when you bloom 
Scatter your fragrance on her tomb. 

But should you, smit with terror, cast 

Your infant foliage on the blast, 

Or faint beneath the vertic heat, 

Or shrink when wintry tempests beat, 

There is a plant of constant bloom, 

And it shall deck this lowly tomb, 

Not blanch'd with frost, or drown'd with rain. 

Or by the breath of winter slain ; 

Or by the sweeping gale annoy'd, 

Or by the giddy hand destroyed, 

But every morn its buds renew'd, 

Are by the drops of evening dew'd 

This is the plant of Gratitude. 



THE TEAR. 

-4 
WHEN gentle pity imoves the breast, 

And claims for others' woes the sigh, 
Or mild commiseration leads 

To kinder deeds of charity, 
Or the quick, feeling heart laments 

The woes of those it holds most dear, 
How graceful on the cheek is seen, 

The pure and sympathetic tear. * 

* 
Or when the page of life is dark, 

And fled is every earthly trust, 
When no kind comforter is near, 

And the sad soul is in the dust, 
Or when the bursting heart laments 

O'er lost affection's silent bier ; 
At once to mark and sooth the grief 

There flows the sorrow-starting tear. 

There is indeed a grief that scorns 

The channel of a watery eye, 
But then it breaks the thread of life, 

Or heats the brain to agony. 
And Oh ! preserve the friends I love, 

From feeling such a pang severe, 
And give them in their hour of woe 

The secret solace of a tear, , 



23 

.... 
Among the boasted joys of youth, 

Fair friendship's form has met my view, 
And fondly I retun'd her smile, 

And still believ'd her promise true : 
Yet I have felt, but ask me not, 

What thus has chang'd my prospect drew, 
And what has taught me so to prize 

The treasure of a silent tear. X. 



LIFE. 



LIFE is like a painted dream, 
Like the rapid summer stream, 
Like the flashing meteor's ray, 
Like the shortest winter's day, 
Like the fitful breeze that sighs, 
Like the wavering flame that dies, 
Darting dazzling on the eye, 
Fading in Eternity. 



'**** 

OUR COUNTRY. 



REF1ECTIONS ON THE MOUSING OF THE ANJflTKHSAHT OF 01DB 

IMIEPLNDKIfCK, JVLT 4, 1814. 

HENCE ye rude sounds, that wake me from my 

sleep, 

And fright away my dreams, peaceful and pure. 
I shudder at the cannon's deafning roar, 
The martial echo, and the shout of joy 
Where joy is not. For say can joy be there 
Where honour and the blissful time of peace 
Are parted names ? And you, ye peaceful bells, 
That call the meek soul to the house of prayer, 
Why with your hallow'd voices will ye swell 
This morning tumult ? Oh, that ye would leave 
Me to my slumbers ; better 'twere to dream 
Of weariness and woe, to scale the cliff 
Snow crown'd and dizzy, see the foe approach, 
And when you spring to motion find the limbs 
Stiff and the tongue enchain'd ; or dare the flood 
Upon some broken bridge Ah ! better far 
To suffer for an hour, and rise in peace, 
Than to muse waking on disastrous war 
And glory lost. To wake, alas, and think 
That honour once was ours, and find it not, 
Is but to wake to pain To see the wounds 



Our bleeding country bears, and then to find 
No balm in Gilead no physician there, 
Is more than torture. Hence ! away, ye sounds 
Of revelry and mirth; your tones are harsh, 
Your melody discordant ; for the heart 
Responds not to them. Ye, that joy so much, 
Look to the heights of Quecnston ; see the plains 
Where bleach the bones of valour ; hear the voice 
Of treachery false-hearted ; hear the tones 
Of jarring counsels ; hear the widow's wail ! 
Look where the troubled skies are red, with light 
Of flaming villages and meteors wild 
Glare o'er the darken'd concave ! 

"Who are these, 

That from their cold and humid beds arise ? 
The chiefs of other days. They fought, they bled, 
When war was righteous, and they slept in peace. 
Dark on their brows, a frown indignant sits, 
And hollow voices on the midnight blast 
Tell of disgrace and death. But do you say 
These are the visions of a fearful mind ? 
And you are still for war ? Then sound the charge, 
Urge on the combat bid the battle rage 
The victim bleed the lonely orphan mourn. 
If deeds like these delight you, take your fill, 
And shout, and triumph, in the groans of pain. 
Since war you love, then arm you for the fight, 
Bind on the shield, and grasp the sword, and throw 



A stronger fence around the endanger'd home 
Of those you love. And since for war you call, 
Prepare for war ; and train your infant sons 
To deeds of daring ; let no voice of peace 
Or mercy reach them, lest it enervate 
Souls given to war ; but let the tale of blood 
Sooth them to slumber, and the trumpet's clang 
Break up their cradle dream. Since war you will, 
Then arm you for the deeds and woes of war ; 
Stand firm and stedfast ; for your Country looks 
That those who urge her on so mad a course, 
Should not desert her in her day of need. 

But let the Christian place a stronger trust 
7'* Him the God of Might, who sits serene 
Ruling the tumults of this jarring world, 
And marking for himself the righteous soul, 
Who, whether prison'd in a cell of pain, 
Or driven to fields of blood, or tost on waves 
Dark and tempestuous, at length shall rise 
With rapture to that calm and pure abode, 
Where war, and woe, and error cannot come. 



ELECTION. 



0S THE MEETING OF THE FREEME.V TO ELECT THEIIl REPRT.- 
SENTATIVES, SEPT. 19tll, 1814. 



I SEEM to hear a distant voice 
Thus feebly and imploring say, 

*' My sonssupporters of my laws, 
Arouse ye at my call to day. w 

Is this my Country ? She whose tone 
Was once so strong, so bold, so just $ 

Now like a captive sad and lone, 
Why sighs she faintly from the dust ? 

Ask not : I cannot answer why ; 

Turn from me, I would seek to mourn 
But cast not thine indignant eye 

On yonder banner stain'd and torn. 

Its hue was once like mountain snows, 
Which no rude foot had ever prest ; 

And like the azure tint that glows, 
When summer suns the skies invest. 



faded, dark, and foul with stains, 
Defac'd with blood, and soil'd with clay, 
A remnant round the staff remains, 
Oh ! save it, ere -'tis rent away. 

And ask not why that sword is dyed 

In carnage reeking to the hilt ? 
The stains are dark that mark its side, 

But redden witli the hue of guilt, 

Yet Oh ! the land where saints have pray'd^ 

And holy men, and heroes trod, 
Though for a season dark with shade, 

Is not forsaken of its God. 

I trust some beam of hope will rise, 
To cheer this dim and troubled spot ; 

Some star of mercy light the skies, 
Though now its lustre glimmers not. 

Then if one plant of peace be left, 
One stream that still with freedom runs. 

One branch not yet of bloom bereft, 
Oh, save it for your infant sons. 

Like diamond bo the shield you wear, 
Which no rash stain of blood shall dim ; 

Lift to your God the eye of prayer, 
And firmly fix your trust in Him. 



ON THE CHARACTER OF COMMODORE 
MACDONOUGH. 



THE scene of death is past ; the cannon's roar 
Dies in faint echoes on the distant wave. 
The Christian and the hero stands alone 
Encircled hy the slain. No flush of joy, 
Or ray of triumph gilds his thoughtful brow ; 
For though his heart ascends in grateful praise 
To Him who heard his prayer, it sighs with pain,, 
Lamenting o'er the woe his hand has wrought. 
That bosom, which amidst the battle's rage, 
Was calm and tranquil, feels the life-blood creep 
Chill through its channels, and that manly cheek 
Which kept its hue unblanch'd, when shrieks of 

death 

And agony arose, is pale, and sad, 
And wet with bitter tears for brethren lost. 
To them he turns his eye, but meets no glance 
Of answering friendship. On the deck they slecn 
Pale, ghastly, silent : while the purple stream 
Flows slowly ebbing, from their bosoms cold. 
One short hour since, he saw them full of life, 
And strength, and courage ; now the northern 

blast 

Sighs as it passes o'er them whispering Iow 3 
Behold the end of man !" 
*4 



X or yet for friends alone, the victor sigf is. 
The noble heart may mourn a fallen foe, 
And do no wrong to honour ; may revere 
His virtues, and lament, that cruel fate 
Bade those to meet so stern, who would have joyM 
To join in friendship's pure and sacred bands. 

He fought not for the vain applause of man, 
To light the flame of war in distant lands, 
Or carry fire, and sword, and woe, and death, 
Among the innocent ; but nerv'd his arm, 
And steel'd his ardent heart, to meet the sword 
Brawn on his native land, and urg'd to blood, 
By provocation strange, and the blind wrath 
Of erring man. He saw a martial host 
Pres, with invading step, her vallies green, 
Pour o'er her placid lakes the storm of war ; 
Saw her smooth waters darkened with the shade 
Of crowding fleets ; he saw the smoke arise 
In heavy volumes, from those splendid domes, 
Where legislation held her awful sway. 
He felt her sad disgrace, and heard a voice, 
Deep tonM and piercing, call the brave to arms < 
His was the heart to answer, and he rose, 
With confidence in heaven, and soul prepared. 
He stood the shock, and from the furnace flame 
C ame forth like gold. And if this scene of woe 
Is still to last, may many heroes rise, 
Thus bright with rays, whose source is from 
within, 



.H 



And clad in virtue's arms. 

The tempered sword, long bath'd in blood, may 

break ; 

The shield may be destroyed ; tbe well aim'd dart 
Err in its course ; the warrior's eye grow dim ; 
But the firm soul, whose trust is plac'd above, 
Shrinks not ; tho' loud that last, dread trump 

should sound, 

Whose warning voice shall rend the solid 
And give her glory to the whelming flame. 



THE CONFLAGRATION AT WASHINGTON. 



W T HAT sounds are these, that on the hollow blast 
Of startled midnight reach the listening ear ? 
They seem like shouts of conquest, join'd with 

shrieks 

Of mad despair, and the confusion wild 
Of those that fear or fly. And see the flames 
In spiry columns burst thro' wreaths of smoke 
Rcdd'uing the brow of night. O scene of woe ! 
That pile superb, whose lofty dome arose 



With pomp and pride, aspiring to the skies, 

Whose spacious halls once shone, with all that art 

Or wealth could give, to dazzle and adorn, 

A blazing pyramid of fire is seen. 

Now its last ray illumes the glowing heavens, 

Darts, sickens, and expires. What ruthless hand 

Could spread the flames of vengeance, thus to blast, 

Destroy, and desolate. Embers conceal'd 

Of hatred and disunion, cherished long 

By treachery's secret breath, and madly fiVd 

By the wild torch of rashness, sprung to life. 

Eternal Justice saw, and was incens'd ; 
And suffer* d them to rage ; and lo ! the flame 
Has caught our fairest domes ; it burns it spreads, 
And who shall quench it? Or with pow'rless strain, 
Or hand so weak as mine, shall dare to paint 
The horrors of that scene ? The costly pile 
Sinking in sheets of fire, and clouds of smoke ; 
The haste of flight, the agony of fear ; 
Pale apprehension, shuddering regret, 
And misery, and tears ? Ah ! who shall bear 
These shameful tidings, to our distant foes, 
Nor shrink with anguish at his Country's wound* 
Who, to the nations of the earth, shall tell 
Her infamy, who once with noble front 
Rank'd high among them ? Who of all her sons 
Can bear to gaze upon her eye, and say, 
" Thy beauty is destroy'd, thy strength is slain,?' 
And when in future days, with downcast eyes, 



Around these blacken'd walls they lingering stray, 
And trace the mouldering ruins, and exclaim, 
With pausing wonder, " Tell us, why was this I" 
The burning blush will dye the hearer's cheek, 
Grief chain the tongue ! Then let oblivion's veil 
In deepest folds forever shroud the scene ! 
Snatch the recording pen, from him who seeks 
To make memorial of his country's shame ; 
From her stain'd annals rend the page unblest ; 
Break off th' unfinished lay ; bid memory sleep, 
Or hide her tablet from a future age. 

Yet Oh ! my Country ! Who can hide thy loss ? 
Forget thy wounds, or mitigate thy woe ? 
Around is darkness, and within is pain ; 
Then let us look above ! There is a ray 
That gleams from thence, an angel voice that cries,,, 
" Lift up the eye of faith ; there yet remains 
" Hope for the righteous ; for the weary, rest ; 
" For the oppressor, vengeance." Still there 

reigns 

A Judge Supreme, whom nothing can elude. 
And though his step is sometimes on the deeps, 
Shrouded in darkness, all his ways are peace, 
Are wisdom, truth, and mercy. Tho J his throne 
Is canopied with clouds, yet the meek eye, 
Now drown' d in tears, and dim with mists of time* 
Shall see, at last, its base was ever fixM 
On righteousness, and everlasting love. 



ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 



1) THOU, whose words the mighty storms obey, 
The whirlwinds ravage, or the whirlwinds stay, 
At w r hose dread call the thunder springs to birth. 
The strong winds rack the firm and solid earth, 
And lightnings glare, and ocean foams with ire, 
And snow-clad rocks burst forth with flames of 

fire; 

Yet whose least breath can hush the jarring strife. 
And wake the severed atoms into life, 
Send hark proud ocean from the trembling land, 
And curb his power with a frail bound of sand, 
Hush the wild whirlwind bid the thunder cease, 
And comfort nature with the smile of peace ; 
Canst thou, who vast eternity dost span ; 
Not change the heart, and turn the ways of man ? 

As the soft stream forsakes its winding course, 
Yet ever speeds to its appointed source, 
So canst thou mould his powers, and bend his will, 
And fit him for thy sovereign purpose still ; 
In thce I trust in this firm hope rejoice, 
Lift upward to thy throne my grateful voice. 
Bend to my prayers thy needed strength im 
part, 



35 



Awake my slumbering powers, confirm my heart, 
Renew my laith restore my wonted rest, 
And teach me what thy will decrees is best ; 
On this firm rock, Oh, let my feet be staid, 
Until they tread that lone vale dark with shade, 
'Till my faint heart shall feel its latest pain, 
And throb no more, in this cold breast again, 
'Till dying life to life eternal tend, 
Hope spring to joy, and faith in vision end. 



ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH 
OF A VENERABLE FRIEND. 



PAST was the day, and all its varied scenes 
Had sunk to rest. Now came the twilight grey 
With weary step , and then the queen of night, 
With graceful motion, and with brow serene, 
Smil'd on the eye. But soon her faded cheek 
All pale and alter'd sunk behind the cloud : 
Thence rising slowly, with a sickly look 
And glance averted, fled with hasty step 
y fo hide her head among the shades of night. 



Now all is gloom and darkness. Emblem Jit 
Of human joys, that dazzle on the sight, 
Then fade, and vanish, and are seen no more* 

And yet, in such a silent hour as this, 

So calm and placid, the full soul delights 

To dwell on what is past, or most of all 

To hold sweet converse with some absent friend 

Belov'd, departed, and beheld no more. 

To such a friend my pensive spirit flies, 

It seeks her in the tomb. Worn with the cares 

Of this hard life, and weary with the weight 

Of more than fourscore years, her head reclines 

Upon the couch, which nature has prepar'd 

For all her sons. White were her scattered locks 

With the cold snows of age, and deep her brow 

Was furrow'd with the heavy touch of care, 

Before these eyes had open'd on the light. 

But yet no boasted grace, or symmetry 

Of form or feature, not the bloom of youth, 

Or blaze of beauty, ever could awake 

Within my soul that pure and hallow'd joy 

So often felt when gazing on that eye 

Now clos'd in death. Nor could the boasted 

pomp 

Of eloquence, which seizes on the brain 
Of mad enthusiasm, emulate the theme 
So often flowing from those aged lips, 



To point the way to heaven. O guide belov'd, 

And venerated and rcver'd in life ! 

But tliou art not ; and many a year has past 

Since I beheld thee, though my heart retains, 

No dearer image ; when that heart has sunk 

Beneath the sorrows of this w T ayw r ard clime, 

Pierc'd with its thorns, and sick'ning at its snares, 

Then has thy spirit, in the placid light 

Of memory, scem'd to rise, and whisper peace $ 

Or in the doubtful visions of the night 

Mild gleaming, bid the mourner not to droop. 

'Twas ever thus ; for ah ! thou wert a friend 

When first the journey of my life began, 

And to thy last and agonizing gasp 

That friendship fail'd not. Thou didst love to 

sooth, 

And dry the causeless tear of infancy, 
That dimnvd an eye just waking on the light ; 
And thou would'st join amid the sports and mirth 
Of giddy childhood, bending low to hear 
The long recital of those joys, and pains, 
That s\vell or sink the little fluttering heart. 
Small were the woes which then would force the 

sigh 

From the rent bosom, for the strength was small 
Civ'n to support them. When with heedless step 
I first began to tread the flowery maze 
Spread for the foot of youth, how kind the voice. 
That warn'd of snares, and dangers, unperceiv 'd, 
5 



38 



That taught to shun the heaten track of vice, 
And love the path of duty, love the way 
Of meekness and of mercy, not to prize 
That loud applause which captivates the ear 
And cheats the heart ; hut seek to follow Him, 
Whose pure and spotless words will lead the soul 
To better mansions, and a better life. 

These were thy words, O meek and lowly saint ! 
"But thou art taken from me thou art gone 
Far from my sight, and never must my ear 
Receive the music of thy voice again. 

Much I could mourn that thou art absent now, 
For much I need thy counsel and thy love, 
And oft I find my wayw r ard footsteps stray 
From the blest boundary of that narrow path 
Leading to life. But yet an higher pow'r, 
A nobler principle, forbids to mourn 
That thou art taken from me, since my loss- 
Is thine eternal gain : for so I trust 
That in the realm of joy thou art at rest. 
Oh, may I meet thee in the cloudless light 
Of that bright world, which no unhallow'd eye 
Or mortal passion ever shall pollute. 

Were we assur'd this glory would be ours, 
How should we bless the hour of our release, 
Which seals the lips in silence, dims the eye, 



39 



And lays the pale cheek in the dust of death ; 
Unbinds the spirit struggling to be free, 
And points it homeward to its Father, God. 



MALTA. 



FAR Eastward, where the sea, with thundering 

tides, 

Sicilian shores from Afric's soil divides ; 
Not far from where high Etna flames w ith dread, 
A little Island rears its rocky head. 
Its broken cliffs allure the freshening gales, 
And flowers and fruitage clothe the verdant 

vales ; 

Mild breathes the air, as if to wake delight, 
And orange groves to soft repose invite, 
But still the rocky coast, with firmness proud, 
Repels the dashing surge, and billows loud. 

Phenician lords first gave its natives law, 
'Till Greece with mightier sway aw^ak'd their 
awe, 



46 



Though scarce the shallow soil and scant domain 
Could tempt the avarice of the haughty train. 

Then Carthaginian darts in wrath were hurl'd, 
'Till Rome's proud sceptre nodded o'er the world ; 
And rising from her throne she hound with car* 
This little gem to grace her flowing hair. 

But soon her regal arm was hent and hroke, 
And changing pow'rs enforc'd a changing yoke, 
Rough on her temples fell the Gothic rod, 
And Norman lords in stern dominion trod, 
Till o'er her head an host w as seen to wield 
The knightly sword, and shake the trophied shield. 
AVhen later times with wondering eye beheld 
High crested valour guard her tented field ; 
While the trumps clanging sound, and thunder 
ing shocks 

Of warlike weapons, rent her vaulted rocks, 
And round her walls the Turkish crescent gleam'd, 
And Turkish blood in ceaseless torrents stream'd, 
And sunk w ith shame the faint besieging band 
Fled few, and feeble, to their native land. 

Once o'er these foaming floods and billows hoar, 
The tempest's wing a lonely vessel bore ; 
The mountain waves in awful fury rose, 
And cleaving gulphs the secret deeps disclose, 
The lightning's pointed shafts like darts were 
driven. 



41 



And thunders rent the darken'd vault of heaven ; 
Loud shrick'd the wild winds from their view 

less path, 

And lash'd the restless surge to foaming wrath. 
'Till with a maniac force, the raging blast 
The shatter'd vessel 'mid the breakers cast. 

Sad, weary, faint, the unprotected train 
Trust their last fortunes to the faithless main ; 
Raise their weak heads above the billows* foam, 
And pine with anguish for their distant home. 

The natives, watching from their sea girt isle, 
Saw the spent sufferers at their feeble toil, 
Held their bright torch above the surge's roar, 
Lent their kind hand to aid them to the shore, 
Gave a glad shelter from the driving wind, 
And with warm welcome cheer' d the sinking mind. 

As round the blaze their sea-beat forms they 

drew, 

Forth from the flame a hissing viper flew, 
Quick to a guardless hand, his venom'd dart 
Shot that keen poison, which corrodes the heart : 
Utter'd the astonish'd natives as they view'd, 
This wretched man is stained with guiltless 

blood, 
"And though he scap'd the doom the seas might 



Yet righteous vengeance suffers not to live." 
*5 



4-2 



With stern and altered gaze they sadly wait, 
The fearful purpose of expected fate ; 
But when they saw the wound with venom fraught, 
No change no horror in their guest had wrought, 
"A God ! a God !" their mingled voices cried, 
And thoughts of reverence thro' their spirits glide. 

Ah simple train ! ye knew not that ye saw 
A friend of Him who vanquished nature's law, 
Who in his bright ascent still paus'd to say, 
"No deadly foe shall bar my servants' way ; 
" On scorpions they shall tread, and feel no pain, 
" The sharp envenom'd dart shall strike in vain." 

"Ye knew not that ye saw the man whose woes 
By him were felt as joys, who deadliest foes 
Undaunted met ; who " counted losses gain $" 
Who neither danger fear'd nor shrunk from pain ; 
Whom no reproach, or scourge, or threatened 

doom, 

Or present woes, or vision'd ills to come, 
Or heighth, or depth, or peril, flame, or sword, 
Could sever from the love and service of his Lord. 

To you was giv'n with pitying love to impart 
Those courteous deeds that win the stranger's 

heart, 

And though more spacious lands, perchance, dis 
play 



43 



A soil more rich, a titled train more gay, 
Yet, lonely Isle, thy praise is on a page 
That passes down to time's remotest age. 

And in thy soil made soft by genial rain, 
An unseen hand has sown a wondrous grain, 
In later times,* by guardian spirits nurst, 
Tho' weak it springs, its verdure faint at first, 
Yet deep and wide the growing root shall spread. 
And high the cherish'd plant shall real' its head, 
'Till on its boughs the birds of heaven shall rest, 
And wounded nations in its fruit be blest. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF THE INQUISI 
TION AT GO A. 



IN distant ages, which the rolling stream 
Of time has wasted like a baseless dream, 
\Vhile o'er the earth the clouds of darkness hung, 

* Referring to the lute distribution of the Scriptures in that 
Island. 



44 



Forth from the deep abyss a monster sprung, 
At first a weak and withered wand he bore, 
The mask of sanctity his features wore, 
A holy zeal he prais'd, menacing loud, 
And to the holy church his head he bow'd, 
Arm'd with her thunders, as her champion rose, 
Though leagu'd in secret with her mortal foes, 
And dark resolves, and deeds of fiendish spite 
Lurk'd in his hollow bosom from the light ; 
Deep draughts of blood in secret cells would drain, 
His ear, like music lov'd the groan of pain, 
Forth to the rack the tortur'd form he led, 
And the fierce flames with guiltless victims fed, 
With bolts, and bars, his wretched prey confin'd, 
And claim'd dominion o'er the free-born mind. 

His lofty dome rose frowning on the shore, 
Dark as his sins, and secret as his pow'r ; 
When midnight wrapt the world in Stygian shade. 
The first accursed stone was hewn, and laid, 
And in the cavern'd cells with malice fraught, 
Base cruelty and superstition wrought. 

Mistaken zeal the pondrous arches rear'd, 
Paus'd o'er her work, and as she saw it fear'd, 
And close-veil'd mystery, with finger slow, 
Plac'd on the massy gates, the seal of woe. 
High on the dome, her audit terror kept, 
And in the cavern'd cells pale misery wept, 
And prison'd virtue toil'd with ceaseless care. 



To feed the wasting lamp of dim despair, 
And helpless innocence, with fainting breath, 
Fell weak and tortur'd in the arms of death. 

Long, his dire arm the humhled nations sway'd, 
And sceptred kings a fearful homage paid ; 
Harsh on the neck, the yoke of bondage prest tf 
The helt of iron bound the throbbing breast, 
The smitten spirit sunk to rise no more, 
And nature trembled at the load she bore. 

But while the monster, with infernal sport, 
Held the dark revels of his blood-stain'd court, 
A heavenl y ray with quick effulgence stream'd 
Through those drear cells where light had never 

beam'd $ 

He heard the bursting bars, the captives free, 
The breaking chain, the shout of liberty, 
Saw thro' his grate a form of heavenly birth, 
Light with soft step upon the grateful earth ; 
In frantic rage his blood-shot eyes he roll'd, 
His inward pangs his changing features told ; 
His champions fled, his guards forsook their 

place, 

His mighty temple trembled to its base, 
Its cleaving arch received the sweeping blast, 
Its mouldering columns fell in ruin vast, 
Loud ycll'd the fiend, with hopeless fury fir'd, 
And as his fabric sunk, his pow'r expir'd. 



46 



Hoarse moving thunders roar'd a mighty knell, 
The glad earth shouted as the prison fell, 
The pow'rs infernal shriek'd in hollow moan, 
And their grim monarch trembled on his throne. 



A FAREWELL TO THE MONTH. 



FAREWELL ! Farewell ! no rolling sim 
To me shall e'er thy light restore, 

And cheerfully thou go'st to seek 
Thy many sisters gone hefore. 

I would, that all unstain'd and fair. 
The register that thou dost bear 
Of me might be ; but yet adieu, 
And if I sigh, still be thou true. 
For thou to Heaven's assembled host, 
Must utter what of me thou know'st. 

Nay cast not back that look of pain, 
And echo not my sighs again ! 



Thou gav'st me time much good to do, 
And health and privileges too, 
And if I fail'd, still blameless thou. 

Thou brought'st me comfort from above, 
Sweet peace, and fond paternal love, 
No night of pain, or day of noise, 
But gentle, intellectual joys. 

I hang upon thy parting glance, 

And bind thy memory to my heart j 
Thy little life to me was sweet, 
. Was sweet as friendship so depart. 



ADDRESS TO A NEW MONTH. 



SUNDAY, NOTKMBEB 1st, 1812. 



HAIL, stranger ! thou art welcome ! for I know 
Thou cam'st to guide me on my way, and haste 
My journey to my home. Thro* paths unknown 



48 



Dark with the sahle of uncertainty, 
Thou point'st me, and I follow undismayed ; 
For all thy course is mark'd and rul'd by Him 
AYho cannot err. Oh ! that his pow'r might make 
Me active every hour, patient and kind, 
Grateful and cheerful, seeking to do good, 
Forgetting all the things that lay behind, 
And pressing firmly onward in the path 
Of duty and of peace. O stranger fair ! 
"Who com'st to aid me on this little stage 
Of life's uncertain road, thy smile is soft, 
And thy first deed is kind ; for first thou shew'st 
To me the brow of morn, gilded and bright, 
And as I gaze thou whisper'st in my ear 
That it is holy : so thou guid'st my steps 
To God's own temple, where the gathering crowds 
Resort to seek his face and chant his praise. 



49 



LINES, 



On the death of the Rev. Mr. WASHBVRV, of Far- 
mington, Connecticut, during a storm at midnight* 
while on his passage to South-Carolina, for the 
benefit of his health, accompunied by his wife. 



THE southern gale awoke, its breath was mild, 
The hoary face of mighty ocean smil'd ; 
Silent he lay, and o'er his breast did move 
A little bark that much he scem'd to love ; 
He lent it favouring winds of steady force, 
And bade the zephyrs waft it on its course ; 
So on its trackless way, it mov'd sublime, 
To bear the sick man to a softer clime. 
Then night came on ; the humid vapours rose ? 
And scarce a gale would fan the dead repose; 
It seem'd as if the cradled storms did rest, 
As infants dream upon the mothers breast. 

But when deep midnight claim'd his drear do 
main, 

And darkly prest the sick man's couch of pain, 
6 



50 



The prison'd winds to fearful combat leap, 

And rouse the wrathful spirit of the deep, 

The impatient storms arose their sleep was 

past, 

The thunder roar'd a hoarse and dreadful hlast, 
The troubled bark was tost upon the wave, 
The cleaving billows shew'd a ready grave, 
The lightnings blaz'd insufferably bright, 
Forth rode a spirit on the wing of night ; 
An unseen hand was there, whose strong con 
trol, 

Required in that dread hour the sick man's soul, 
It struggled and was gone ! to hear no more 
The whirlwinds sweeping, and the torrents roar, 
The rending skies, the loud and troubled deep, 
The agonizing friend, that w ak'd to weep ; 
No more to shrink before the tempest's breath, 
No more to linger in the pangs of death ; 
No more ! no more ! it saw a purer sphere, 
Nor surging sea nor vexing storms were there ; 
Before his eye a spotless region spread, 
Where darkness rested not or doubt or dread, 
And sickness sigh'd not there, and mortal iDs 
were fled. 
- 






THE following productions were ad 
dressed by the author to a number of young 
Ladies placed under her care y and are here 
introduced in the form of Essays. 



ESSAYS. 



FILIAL DUTY. 



AS a child, your first duty is obedience to your 
parents ; an obedience comprehending love, sub 
mission, and reverence. To this simple point are 
all your duties now confined ; but as you advance 
in life they will become more difficult and vari 
ed. Beware therefore of considering it of small 
importance how you conduct yourselves towards 
these parents. You are like a traveller entering 
upon an unexplored country, and these are your 
guides. As your judgment is not matured they 
must also be your counsellors. You are subject 
to afflictions and they will always be your com 
forters. Do not imagine that you are capable of 
directing yourselves, but laying aside all feel- 
*6 



54 



ings of obstinacy and self conceit, submit your 
selves to their instructions, admonitions, and re 
straints. Be not however satisfied with sub 
mission only, for gratitude has more extensive, 
claims. Reflect upon the nature of your obli 
gations to those who have borne cheerfully with 
all the cares, anxieties, and labours, arising from 
your state of infancy and youth. They have 
protected you when helpless, instructed you when 
ignorant, loved you amidst all your errors, and 
will continue to love you even to the close of their 
existence. Favours like these you have never 
received from any other created being, therefore 
next to your father in heaven, you are bound to 
love and reverence your parents. Be dutiful 
and affectionate, studying their wishes in all you 
do. A different course of conduct will afflict 
those to whom you are bound by every tie of na 
ture and gratitude, and lower you in your own 
opinion. You would not surely wound those 
whose kindness to you has been such as you at 
present cannot realize, or in future ever repay ; 
or fail in the first duty of your life, forcing hope 
to sigh at the promise of your future years. 

Those who have been eminent for piety and 
true w'isdom, have invariably performed the re 
quisitions of this most interesting connection. If 
you are anxious for their fame, be careful not to 



55 



neglect this part of their example. Our holy 
Saviour, when he reasoned with the Jewish doc 
tors, and astonished them by his wisdom, obey 
ed the commands of his mother and was subject 
to his parents. It seems almost unnecessary to 
make use of arguments to enforce a duty which 
the light of nature teaches, and which even among 
savage nations is often scrupulously performed. 
And yet experience is daily proving, that it is 
not enough to know the path we are to tread, \ve 
need constantly to be reminded that we are in 
danger of deviating from it. Let us listen to the 
voice of Him who cannot err, proclaiming to us 
who are children, " Honour thy father and moth 
er." Yet because the human heart is hard, and 
the ear dull, unless softened and roused by some 
sentiment of self interest, the same voice adds, 
with unspeakable condescension, "that thy days 
may be long upon the land which the Lord thy 
God giveth thee." Let this encouragement, held 
out to us by infinite goodness, stimulate the ex 
ertions of those who have begun well, and reform 
the practice of those still in error. Whenever 
we are disposed to stifle the warning voice of du 
ty, or turn a deaf ear to that of Him who speak- 
eth from above, let it be remembered that at a 
future day, this folly will be found to "bite as 
the serpent, and stinej as the adder." 



56 



NOVEL READING. 



READING is not only a pleasant recreation, 
but, under proper regulations, the best employ 
ment for our leisure hours. It becomes either 
salutary, or pernicious, according to the choice 
we make of our books, and the time we devote to 
them. It is possible to be dissipated even in 
reading good books ; this however is so seldom 
the case with those of our age, that it is hardly 
an evil to be guarded against. But there is a 
kind of dissipation to which most young people 
are prone, extremely injurious in a variety of 
ways. That is the reading of novels, without limit 
as to number, or discretion in the choice. This 
is not only a waste of time which can never be 
recalled, but has the worst possible effects upon 
the mind, by unfitting it for every other kind of 
intellectual enjoyment. Youth is the season for 
the acquisition of knowledge, but whoever is 
much devoted to a love of works of fiction, will 
find it impossible to pursue, with any effect, such 
a course of study, as will enlighten her under 
standing, strengthen her mind, or amend her 
heart. On the contrary she will find her mind en 
ervated, her wishes uncertain and contradictory, 



57 



her temper capricious and whimsical, and her 
views of life so incorrect and extravagant, that 
in the world where it must still be her fate to live, 
she sees nothing hut what is offensive, because 
it is unlike the visionary world she has formed in 
her own imagination. It is not from the reading 
of such works that we can expect to acquire that 
firmness of character, which is necessary for 
those, who hope to support, with dignity and sub 
mission, the sorrows, pains, and infirmities, to 
which we are all exposed. The precepts found 
in them are not generally those of wisdom, pa 
tience, or sobriety. They are much more apt to 
excite vanity, and prompt a desire to imitate 
some unnatural or inconsistent character. It 
must be acknowledged that these are not the 
characteristics of all novels 5 there are some, 
where feeling and fancy are made the vehicles of 
an excellent moral lesson, where at the same 
time that they warm the imagination, they mend 
the heart, and place the motives for great and 
good actions, in so strong a point of view, with 
out extravagant, or unreasonable embellish 
ment, as hardly to fail of leaving a good impres 
sion. But works of this description bear a small 
proportion to those which are tinctured with folly 
and vanity, whose characters, though dazzling, 
and placed in various attractive attitudes, are ut 
terly unfit for imitation, and the admiration of 



58 



which can only lead to mischief. Their principal 
attractions consist of endowments which imply 
no real merit, and they are usually under the in 
fluence of one single passion, wrought to such a 
pitch of extravagance, as in real life would he 
completely ridiculous. Reading of this kind is 
too apt to inspire an excessive love of admiration, 
and desire to possess personal heauty ; and gives 
us such false notions of the world in which we 
are to perform our part, that the most respecta 
ble occupations, or duties of domestic life, become 
irksome and tedious. 

We must not expect to realize the scenes with 
which we are so much delighted. This world is 
a state of trial, we must therefore expect pain ; it 
is a state of probation and calls for the exercise 
of virtue ; of imperfection, and we must look be 
yond it for purity and felicity. The knowledge 
of our own hearts is essential to respectability 
and happiness ; the permitting ourselves to in 
dulge in the visionary scenes of romance is un 
favourable to self knowledge, and commmonly 
perfects us in nothing but giddiness and self con" 
ceit. If we have occasional recourse to works 
of fancy for amusement, let us do it but rarely, 
and select those works with care. At this season 
of our lives, there is no time to be lost in the ac 
quirement of knowledge $ a future opportunity 



59 



may never be within our power, we should there- 
lore bend our attention to such productions as will, 
while they convey useful knowledge, strengthen 
the mind, and mend the heart. And above all, 
let us prize that volume, which points the way to 
truth, and which speaks of mansions reserved 
for the faithful " incorruptible, undefilcd, and 
that cannot fade away." 



MEMORY. 



MEMORY is that retentive power of the 
mind, by which it preserves the ideas and im 
pressions it has received. It is of great import 
ance in all the various employments and pro 
fessions of mankind, and may be easily weakened 
by neglect, or strengthened at pleasure. It is 
more under our control than the powers of 
perception, fancy, or imagination, and ought 
therefore to be cultivated, to counteract the 
inequality which these must otherwise occasion ; 



since their possessors would have a great variety 
of original and brilliant ideas, even without ex 
ternal advantages, industry, or unusual degrees 
of application. It is so much in the power of 
all, to fix firmly in their minds what they have 
once admitted there, that some moral philoso 
phers have asserted that memory is only a 
habit of Jixed attention ; and that though we 
cannot always acquire what we wish, we may 
always rememher what we please. This theory 
is supported by instances of persons who have 
received from nature a very weak memory, yet 
by study and application have strengthened it to 
every useful and laudahle purpose. Without this 
faculty, knowledge loses its value ; education 
becomes ineffectual, and it is impossible to excel 
in any literary department. 

Careful study, and constant practice, are ne 
cessary to mature it where it exists, and to 
acquire it where it does not ; and ideas are thus 
arranged, consolidated, and treasured in the se 
cret recesses of the mind, to be brought forth 
fof future use, ornament, or delight. That ready 
recollection by which the knowledge possessed 
is brought into immediate exercise, as momen 
tary exigences may require, is a different de 
partment of memory ; more complicated, and 
less easily acquired. This requires judgment to 



select wisely from the store-house of the mind, 
and promptness to apply what is selected, at the 
moment when it will produce the best effect. 

As the want of this is most deeply realized in 
society, so it is most easily acquired by free and 
rational conversation. Were the importance of 
this qualification sufficiently considered, it would 
more frequently turn the unprofitable channel of 
discourse, and introduce subjects which might at 
once draw forth, and enrich the latent treasures 
of the mind. The first act of the memory com 
pares, compounds, and secures a stock of ideas , 
the other selects from that stock whatever may 
entertain, convince, or instruct others. But if 
this latter exercise of memory is peculiarly use 
ful to those who associate much with the world, 
its most pleasing office is to lead the mind 
through the cells which she has stored, or the 
gardens which she has planted, that it may col 
lect sweetness, or study wisdom, or refresh it 
self after the cares and perplexities of life. 

Memory is also a criterion of moral taste ; 
For the mind will cherish those ideas that are 
most congenial to it ; and if those which fre 
quently recur leave the deepest impressions, it 
follows that what is most congenial to the taste, 
we remember best. Thus we often meet with 



one who remembers, accurately and with cast, 
historical facts, ancient or modern ; another, 
dates and eras ; a third, revolutions and con 
spiracies. There are some who have stored their 
memories with biographical sketches and moral 
essays, or the various departments of narrative 
and poetry ; while others are wholly absorbed 
in the passing events of the day, the variations 
of the political atmosphere, the fluctuations of 
society, pieces cf scandal, fashions, manners and 
amusements ; unconscious that they are holding 
up to an attentive observor, a mirror of their 
own intellectual habits, and a key to unlock the 
secret cabinet of the mind. 

Memory is also valuable as a source of intel 
lectual delight. When affliction has embittered 
the present, or age cast its shade over the future, 
it presents in the past, a picture at once consola 
tory and alluring. Thus we find the aged inva 
riably attached to the days that are gone, more 
ihan to those that are passing, or to come ; even 
recollected pain loses its anguish, and the traces 
of memory though broken and imperfect are de 
lightful to the eye that has grown dim to the illu 
sions of hope. But to us, my young friends, who 
have never felt affliction to disgust us with life, 
or age to paralize the ardour of fancy, still to us 
memory opens a full source of pleasure. 



63 



Between the disputed pleasures of memory and 
anticipation, I do not hesitate to give a derided 
preference to the first. One presents a vivid pic 
ture of the future ; the other a faithful tran 
script of the past. The brilliancy of the first at 
tracts for a time, hut reason perceives it to be 
drawn by the mutable pencil of fancy, that the 
curtain of futurity rests upon it, and involves it 
in darkness. She looks on the tablet of memory ; 
its traces are less glaring, but more perfect ; they 
dazzle less, but are not fictitious. One charms 
us while we arc under the sway of fancy, the 
other while we arc controlled by reason ; and we 
are taught to feel those to be the highest pleasures, 
which are tasted by a mind rational and serene. 
On this part of the subject, I will borrow the bean- 
t if ul expressions of a poet : 

" Lighter than air, hope's summer visions fly, 

" If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky, 

" If but a beam of sober reason play, 

" Lo, fancy's fairy frost-work melts a\vay. 

" But can the wile of art, the grasp of power, 

" Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour ? 

" These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, 

" Pour round her path a stream of living light, 

" And gild those pure and perfect realms of rust, 

" Where virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest." 

To you, my young friends, \vho are acquiring 
an education, I cannot express the peculiar worth 
and importance of memory. Of what use will it 



04 



Jbe, to listen to, or repeat sentiments however 
good, if they pass away as soon as they are re 
peated ? Of what advantage will it be that you 
acquire knowledge with facility, if the mind neg 
lects to retain it ? If you are sometimes excuse- 
able for not learning with ease, you can never be 
so, for forgetting what you have learned, since 
that depends upon your own choice, and not 
on the peculiar construction of the mind. Make 
use of every expedient, therefore, to strength 
en this important faculty. Give an undivi 
ded attention to what you wish to learn, and 
be not satisfied with once repeating a lesson^ 
but meditate upon its contents until they are 
firmly engraven on your mind. Accustom your 
selves always to render an account of what you 
read, either to yourself, or to some other person. 
Every night examine what you have learned dur 
ing the day ; compare it with what you have 
previously acquired, and he not soon wearied 
with this exercise, for if you really wish to 
strengthen your memories, you will consider no 
exertion too laborious. Despise not to receive a 
lesson of wisdom even from inferior creatures. 
Does the ant when she has carefully collected 
her load, forget to deposit it in her granary ? Of 
what advantage is it to the bee, that she selects 
the most fragrant flowers, that she is skilful in 
extracting their essence, that she bears a larger 
load than her companions, if when she reaches 



65 



her cell she neglects to store her sweetness : 
You are now collecting stores of intellectual 
sweetness for the approaching winter of lift', 
it may be a winter darkened with depression, in 
firmity, or sorrow. If you will then wish for 
internal resources, when the streams of external 
enjoyment have become embittered ; if you will 
then need an asylum to retreat to, when the tem 
pest of trouble is beating without, prepare now 
those resources, and furnish that asylum. Con 
quer now that folly and levity which will in 
scribe the tablet of remembrance, with traces not 
grateful to the calm eye of retrospection. Guard 
against associations of ideas which you would 
blush to pronounce, lest the pure sources of re 
collection should become polluted ; and think no 
exertion too great to strengthen a talent which 
can cheer the da} s of depression and decline. 

But do we not sometimes hear of the pains of 
memory ? How can a faculty like this become 
painful to its possessor? Is it because it reminds 
us of past losses and disappointments ? No ! these 
the hand of time disarms of their anguish, and to 
the submissive mind they are converted into 
blessings. Is it the recollection of injuries or un- 
kindness ? No ! these the Christian will repay 
with forgiveness and gentleness, and thus extract 
good out of evil. Is it then the remembrance of 
departed friends, who cherished and guided us, 
*7 



in the patiis of rectitude and piety I We believe 
these have gone to a better country, and the hope 
of meeting them there, and the memory of their 
virtues, console the heart of the mourner. What 
then can excite the pains of memory ; if it is- 
neither loss, or disappointment, unkindness, in 
jury, or the death of beloved friends ? It is the 
recollection of time mispent, and of duty forsak 
en ! These awaken the pang of memory, and turn 
the eye with terror from the past. 

Guard faithfully, my dear young friends, these" 
avenues of regret, and in every situation and cir 
cumstance of life you will be happy. Neither 
age, sorrow, or disappointment can destroy your 
peace of mind, if you are supported by the con 
sciousness of having performed your duty.. 



ON A JUST ESTIMATION OF THE CHARAC 
TER OF OTHERS. 



HABITUATED as we are to the varied in 
tercourse of society, it is impossible to remain 
long in the world* without forming some csti- 



mate of the characters that surround us. To 
wards some we feel attracted, by others repelled ; 
some, while we scarcely know why, awaken our 
esteem ; and others, without sufficient reason, may 
be thought of with aversion and mentioned with 
disgust. The quality of our taste, the predom 
inance of our feelings, or even the casualty of 
circumstance, may produce associations of ideas, 
confirmed by habit into predilection or enmity. 
To search for the cause of these vary ing opinions, 
to examine the foundation of these attachments and 
prejudices, and to reduce them all to the rule of 
equity is the office of the judgment, that most im 
portant effort of the reasoning powers. In form 
ing our estimate of mankind we are too apt to be 
influenced by the distinctions which we perceive 
among them ; and to view with a great degree of 
deference the wealthy, the powerful, and the hon 
ourable. But the distinctions in society, which 
are wisely appointed by Providence for the ulti 
mate good of the whole, are no criteria of indi 
vidual merit. The vicious, the unprincipled, and 
the cruel, often arrive at the summit of power, 
and are seen wielding the sceptre of dominion, 
and clad in the robe of royalty ; while the virtu 
ous pass through life in obscurity, unheeded and 
perhaps unknown. Wealth, honour, and power 
are often acquired by injustice, preserved with 
pain, and lost in a moment ; so that at once fluctua 
ting and inconclusive, they can give no character 



68 



of their possessors, and furnish no solid basis for 
the judgment to rest upon. 

\Ve, who are young, are also too much inclined 
to form a sudden and favourable opinion from a 
prepossessing appearance ; but beauty of form, 
and regularity of feature, those external gifts of 
nature, imply so little merit in the wearer, that 
by nourishing vanity they frequently prevent the 
acquirement of knowledge and real excellence ; 
and a pleasing and graceful deportment, though 
deservedly an object of admiration, is often assu 
med to conceal depraved motives, and a malicious 
heart. If we, who have seen little of the world, 
have never been convinced of this by our own ob 
servation, the pages of history will enlighten us, 
and even the part that we have lately read togeth 
er, furnishes repeated testimony. Richard the 
II. of England, under a graceful and dignified de 
meanour, concealed a frivolous mind, and a capri 
cious, tyrannical temper ; and Edward the IV. 
whose manners were so prepossessing, that he 
was acknowledged to be the handsomest and 
most accomplished man of his time, habituated 
himself to every vice which can flow from pride, 
licentiousness, or cruelty. You will doubtless 
recollect from scripture history, that Absalom, 
whose hands were defiled with a brother's blood, 
and whose base arts drove an affectionate father 
from his throne, and from his dwelling, by his af- 



9 



lability and insinuation "stole the hearts of the 
men of Israel." If those who possess real good- 
ROSS are sometimes too neglectful of its exterior 
graces, those who are conscious of radical defects 
usually study and practise, with the greatest suc 
cess, the innumerable arts of insinuation. The 
exterior graces, therefore, which attract and daz 
zle the eye, imply no internal excellence, and offer 
no solid foundation for esteem or confidence. Nei 
ther from the talents of others, are we to estimate 
their real worth in the scale of existence. The 
knowledge of what is good, does not always lead 
to the practice of it ; and the power of doing w r ell 
is sometimes neglected or perverted. Those 
whom brilliancy of genius or solidity of learning 
might have qualified to instruct and to bless man 
kind, have sometimes exerted them only to conceal 
or to gild the deformity of vice ; to put darkness 
instead of light ; to untwist the strongest bands of 
society ; to undermine the foundations of virtue, 
and to wrest from their fellow men the hopes of 
immortality. 

The records of ambition and infidelity are dark 
ened with such examples. Their steps have been 
marked with the tears of the oppressed, the mis 
eries of the deluded, and the blood of many vic 
tims. They have passed through life as terrors 
to the living, and sunk among the dead while none 
lamented them. Others, whom nature had endow- 



ed with no uncommon qualifications, have so di 
rected their powers to the attainment and advance 
ment of good, and so virtuously fulfilled "the 
plain intent of life," as to be considered blessings 
in society, ornaments to their own age, and ben 
efactors to posterity. Moderate abilities, habit 
ually exerted on the side of virtue, often gain the 
highest esteem and veneration ; while great tal 
ents perverted, enhance the future misery of the 
possessor and give melancholy proof of the de 
pravity of man. 

But perhaps you enquire, how are we to 
judge of mankind, if neither their stations iu 
society, their personal accomplishments, or men 
tal qualifications, are an allowed criterion ? Es 
timate them not by the stations they occupy, but 
the manner in -which they fill those stations ; not 
from what they appear to be, but what they 
really arc ; not from what they are qualified to 
know, but from what they are accustomed to per 
form. Esteem those who discharge the duties 
of life faithfully, though their sphere be limited, 
or their station obscure : 

" Who does the best his circumstance allows, 
" Does well, acts nobly ; angels could no more," 

Dr. YOUK. 

Let the standard of real goodness be your stand 
ard of judgment, and not those adventitious dis- 



71 



lindions which may he possessed without virtue^ 
and lost without a crime. All hcings arc cither 
good or evil, as they imitate or oppose the Great 
Author of all good ; as they obey or transgress 
those laws which are given to advance their own 
greatest happiness, and the welfare of their fel 
low creatures. The love of goodness, wherever 
implanted, will expand and display itself in the 
virtues of the heart and of the life. Wherever 
these are perceived, though in poverty, depres- 
ion, or servitude, they are the transcript of a 
Divine Original ; wherever you find them, though 
humbly clad, or despised among men, revere 
them ; they are the genuine, though imperfect 
image of Him, who is good, and who doeth good 
unto all. Genuine virtue does not proclaim its 
own excellence, does not obtrude itself upon the 
notice of others, does not seek the applause of 
men ; yet this is the standard of character, and 
the true criterion of judgment, which neither 
fluctuates, disappoints,* or deceives. 

I hope, my young friends, that you will per 
ceive the importance of justly appreciating the 
characters of those who surround you in the 
world, and who, from the duties, wants, and con 
nections of society, may have it in their power 
to influence your future enjoyment. Never suffer 
yourselves to like or dislike without sufficient 
cause $ let your attachments be sanctioned by 



reason, and your enmities mitigated by candour $ 
let not the eye of the mind be blinded by preju 
dice, deceived by a gilded surface, or dazzled 
by the tinsel and trappings of time ; but reso 
lutely bear testimony in favour of virtue, how 
ever neglected, and of goodness, however despi 
sed, till eventually the admiration of virtue in 
others, may awaken you to practise it yourselves, 
and the love of goodness here, lead you to its 
perfect reward hereafter. 



ON SELF KNOWLEDGE. 



BY those who have made critical observa 
tions on the powers and pursuits of man, it has 
been pronounced his most uncommon acquire 
ment, to become acquainted with himself. We 
may penetrate into the characters of those who 
surround us ; we may learn the habits, disposi 
tions, and language of foreign nations ; we may 
become acquainted with all the peculiarities of 
the globe that we inhabit ; the course of its riv- 



crs, the height of its mountains, and the treas 
ures that are concealed in its secret caverns ; 
we may follow science as she soars to the heav 
ens, find the places of the planets, call them by 
their names, compute their distances? magnitude, 
and periods of revolution ; yet if we span the 
whole circle of the universe, we may return and 
find mysteries in the little empire within, to per 
plex our researches, and baffle our keenest pene 
tration. We have heard much of the monitor 
within ;" but whoever attempts to trace her ac 
tions to their first spring, and her designs to their 
real source, will be convinced that she has also 
an advocate within. When this advocate per 
ceives the eye of the mind turned inward, she en 
deavours to elude its pursuit, but if she finds it 
bent on resolute search, she casts obstacles before 
it, spreads a veil over what it seeks to investi 
gate, softens errors into virtues, speaks of crimes 
as inadvertencies, and endeavours to blind the 
eye of reason the judge, and to silence the voice 
of conscience the accuser. This is the natural 
pride and vanity of the human heart ; it assumes 
as many shapes as fancy can devise ; it flies from 
reproof, and when truth is painful" loves darkness 
better than light." Her object is to keep the soul 
ignorant of itself, to deceive it into compliance, 
to flatter it into submission, till her own empire- 
is firmly established, and that bound in perpetual 
slavery. But both our duty and happiness rc- 
8 



74 



quire that this dominion should he hroken, ami 
the first step towards it is to think humbly of 
ourselves. We arc beings who have received 
much, and arc accountable for it ; placed in a 
state of trial, with a law of rectitude before us, 
to see whether we will obey, or swerve from it ; 
subject to many afflictions, liable to many errors, 
beaiing within us much which needs to be regula 
ted, reformed, or taken away, and bound to an 
eternal destination of happiness or misery. "What 
is there in this inscription to justify vanity ? Eve 
ry thing around excites us to watchfulness ; every 
thing within to humility. AVe should esteem it a 
great unhappiness to have a friend whose ueal sen 
timents were concealed from us, and whose char 
acter we could not investigate ; how much more 
uncomfortable and olangerous, to remain ignorant 
ef our own. Self knowledge is not the growth 
of an hour, or matured by a single experiment, 
but is attainable by perseverance, and amply re 
wards its toil. It is necessary to self govern 
ment ; for we must become acquainted with our 
prevailing errors, and their probable sources, 
before we can be successful in reforming them j 
we must understand the disease, before we apply 
the remedy. The mind, from a knowledge of her 
most vulnerable parts, knows better where to ap 
ply her strongest guards, how to arouse her 
slumbering energies to some difficult virtue, and 
how to quell those mutinous passions which strive 



75 



tor the mastery i till, like some wise monarch who 
has reduced his realm to submission, she at length 
wields her undisputed sceptre, and tranquilly ex 
ercises her hereditary rights. Self knowledge is 
necessary to improvement ; hence, its great im 
portance to the young, whose business it is to 
improve. She who wishes to acquire knowledge 
must be convinced that she possesses little ; and 
if she candidly observes her own deficiencies, the 
limited nature of her attainments, and the im 
perfect use she makes of those attainments, she 
will feel inclined to that humble and teachable 
disposition which is the beginning of all wisdom. 
It is the attempt of vanity to repress this convic 
tion, to make the mind contented with low r degrees 
of knowledge, to puff it up with shcwy accom 
plishments, because, like all despotic governments, 
her sway is built upon the ignorance and weak 
ness of the subject. 

Self knowledge is favourable to the virtue of 
candour. When we perceive errors and imper 
fections in others, this teaches us that we are 
chargeable with the same ourselves 5 and when 
we feel inclined to condemn some more visible 
failure, this points us within our own hearts to 
the same sources of frailty, and teaches us thai 
in the same circumstances our own conduct might 
have been equally censurable. This represses