stores,

bleak mountains smile.

CATO'S SOLILOQU Y.

IT must be so - Plato, thou reason'st well!

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,

This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,

Of falling into nought? why shrinks the soul

Back on herself, and startles at destruction?

'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter,

And intimates eternity to man. Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!

Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and

changes must we pass? The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me;

But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.

Here will I hold. If there's a power above us

And that there is, all nature cries aloud

Through all her works- he must delight in virtue;

And that which he delights in must be happy.

But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar.

I'm weary of conjectures. must end them.

This

[Laying his hand on his sword.]

Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life,

My bane and antidote, are both before me:.

This in a moment brings me to an end;

But this informs me I shall never die.

The soul, secured in her existence, smiles

At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself

Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;

But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,

Unhurt amidst the wars of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.

What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?

This lethargy that creeps through all my senses?

Nature oppressed, and harassed out with care,

Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favor her,

That my awakened soul may take her flight,

Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life,

An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear

Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of them; Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die.

ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY.

COME then, tell me, sage divine,
Is it an offence to own
That our bosoms e'er incline

Toward immortal Glory's throne?

For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure.
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,
So can fancy's dream rejoice,
So conciliate reason's choice,
As one approving word of her impar
tial voice.

Her form remains. The balmy walks of May

There breathe perennial sweets: the trembling chord

Resounds forever in the abstracted ear,

Melodious; and the virgin's radiant eye,

Superior to disease, to grief, and time, Shines with unbating lustre. Thus at length

Endowed with all that nature can bestow,

The child of fancy oft in silence bends

O'er these mixed treasures of his pregnant breast

With conscious pride. From them he oft resolves

To frame he knows not what excelling things,

And win he knows not what sublime reward

Of praise and wonder. By degrees the mind

Feels her young nerves dilate: the plastic powers

Labor for action: blind emotions heave

His bosom; and with loveliest frenzy caught,

From earth to heaven he rolls his daring eye,

From heaven to earth. Anon ten thousand shapes,

Like spectres trooping to the wizard's call,

Flit swift before him. From the

womb of earth,

From ocean's bed they come: the eternal heavens

Disclose their splendors, and th dark abyss

Pours out her births unknown With fixed gaze

He marks the rising phantoms. Now compares

Their different forms; now blends them, now divides; Enlarges and extenuates by turns; Opposes, ranges in fantastic bands, And infinitely varies. Hither now, Now thither fluctuates his inconstant aim,

An object ascertained: while thus informed,

The various objects of his mimic skill,

The consonance of sounds, the featured rock,

The shadowy picture, and impassioned verse, Beyond their proper powers attract the soul

By that expressive semblance, while in sight

Of nature's great original we scan The lively child of art; while line by line,

And feature after feature, we refer To that divine exemplar whence it stole

Those animating charms. Thus beauty's palm

Betwixt them wavering hangs: applauding love

Doubts where to choose; and mortal man aspires

To tempt creative praise.

Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,

His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the Spring

Distils her dews, and from the silken gem

Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the hand

Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch

With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.

Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;

And

still new beauties meet his lonely walk,

And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze

Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes

The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain

From all the tenants of the warbling shade

Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake

Fresh pleasure unreproved. Nor thence partakes

Fresh pleasure only: for th' attentive mind,

By this harmonious action on her

powers,