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MAN.

ADAM'S DESCRIPTION OF HIS FIRST FEELINGS.

For man to tell how human life hegan
Is hard; for who himself heginning knew 1

As new-wak'd from soundest sleep
Soft on the flowery herh I found me laid
In halmy sweat, which with his heams the

ran Soon dried, and on the reeking moisture fed: Straight toward Heav'n my wond'ring eyes

I turn'd, And gaz'd awhile the ample sky, till rais'd By quick instinctive motion up I sprung, As thitherward endeavouring, and upright Stood on my feet; ahout me round I saw Hill, dale, and shady woods, and sunny

plains, And liquid lapse of murm'rlng streams; hy

these Creatures that liv'd and mov'd, or walk'd

or flew, Birds on the hranches warhling; all things

smil'd, With fragrance, and with joy my heart o'er

flow'd; Myself I then perus'd, and limh hy limh Survey'd, and sometimes went and sometimes ran With supple joints, as lively vigour led; But who I was, or where, or from what cause,

Knew not; to speak I tried, and forthwith

spake; My tongue oheyed, and readily could name Whate'er I saw. Thou Sun, said I, fair light, And thou enlighten'd Earth, so fresh and gay, Ye hills, and dales, ye rivers, woods, and

plains, And yethat live and move, fair creatures tell, Tell, if ye saw, how came I thus, how here 1 Not of myself; hy some great Maker then, In goodness and in power pre-eminent: Tell me, how may I know him, how adore From whom I have, that thus I move and

live, And feel that I am happier than I know? While thus I call'd, and stray'd, I knew not

whither, From where I firstdrew air, and first heheld This happy light, when answer none return 'd, On a green shady hank profuse of flowers, Pensive I sat me down: there gentle Sleep First found me, and with soft oppression

seiz'd My drowsed sense, untrouhled, tho' I thought I then was passing to my former state Insensihle, and forthwith to dissolve: When suddenly stood at my head a Dream, Whose inward apparition gently mov'd My fancy to helieve I yet had heing, And liv'd: one came, me thought, of shape

divine, And said, thy mansion wants thee, Adam, rise.

ADAM AND EVE IN PARADISE.

Two of far nohler shape, erect and tall,
Godlike erect! with native honour clad
la naked majesty, seem'd lords of all:
And worthy seem'd; for in their looks di-
vine
The image of their glorious Maker shone,
Truth, wisdom, sanctitude, severe and pure;
Severe, hut in true filial freedom plac'd,
Whence true authority in men: though hoth
Not equal, as their sex not equal seem'd:
For contemplation he, and valour form'd;
For softness she, and sweet attractive grace;
He, for God only; she for God in him.
His fair large front, and eye suhlime de-

clar'd
Ahsolute rule; and hyacinthine locks
Round from his parted forelock manly hung
Clust'ring, hut not heneath his shoulders

hroad; She as a veil, down to the slender waist Her nnadorned golden tresses wore Dishevel'd; hut in graceful ringlets wav'd, As the vine curls her tendrils, which imply'd Suhjection, hut requir'd with gentle sway; And hy her yielded, hy him hest receiv'd.

ADAM'S DESCRIPTION OF EVE,

MILTON.

She was adorn'd With what all Earth or Heaven could hestow To make her amiahle: on she came, Led hy her Heav'nly Maker, though unseen, And gnided hy his voice. * * * • * • • »

Grace was in all her steps, Heav'n in her

eye, In every gesture dignity and love.

THE FIRST TRANSGRESSION.

MILTON.

Say what cause Moved our first Parents in their happy

state, Favour'd of Heav'n so highly to fall oflf

From their Creator, and transgress his will For one restraint, lords of the world hesides f Who first sedue'd them to that foul revolt 1 Th' Infernal Serpent; he it was,whose guile, Stirr'd up with envy and revenge, deceWM The Mother of Mankind:— Her hand in evil

hour Forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck'd, she

ate: Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her

s,'at Sighing thro* all her works, gave signs of wo, That all was lost. • • * •

She gave to Adam that enticing fruit With liheral hand: He scrupled not to eat Against his hetter knowledge, not deceiv'd. Earth tremhled from her entrails, as again In pangs, and Nature gave a second groan, Sky low'rd, and muttering thunder, some

drops Wept at completing of the mortal sin Original. >

CHARACTER OF ADAM.

MONTgOMERY.

With him his nohlest sons might not com-
pare
In godlike features and majestic air;
Not out of weakness rose his gradual frame,
Perfect from his Creator's hand he came;
And as in form excelling, so in mind
The sire of men transcended all mankind.
A soul was in his eye, and in his speech
A dialect of heaven, no art could reach;
For oft of old, to him the ev'ning hreeze
Had horne the voice of God among the trees,
Angels were wont their songs with his to

hlend,
And talk with him as their familiar friend.
But deep remorse for that mysterious crime
Whose dire contagion, through elapsing time
Diffus'd the curse of death heyond control,
Had wrought such self-ahasement in his soul,
That he, whose honours were approach'd hy

none, Was yet the meekest man heneath the sun. From sin, as from the serpent that hetray'd Eve's early innocence, he shrunk afraid;

Vice he rehuk'd with Bo austere a frown, He seem'd to hring an instant judgment

down; Yet while he chid, compunction's tears

would start, And yearning tenderness dissolve his heart; The guilt of all his race hecame his own, He suffer'd as if He had sinn'd alone. Within the glen to filial love endear'd, Ahroad for wisdom, truth, and justice fear'd, He walk'd so humhly in the sight of all, The vilest ne'er reproach'd him with his fall. Children were his delight;—they ran to

meet His soothing hand, and clasp'd his honour'd

feet; While 'midst their fearless sports supremely

hlest, He grew in heart a child among the rest: Yet as a parent, nought heneath the sky Touch'd him so quickly as an infant's eye; Joy from its smile of happiness he caught,— Its flash of rage sent horror through his

thought, His smitten conscience felt as fierce a pain— As if he fell from innocence again.

May'st thou know the gracious Donor; Early know, and love, and praise! Then shall real wealth and honour, Peace and pleasure crown thy days.

TO AN INFANT.

Can I hid thee, little stranger,
Welcome to a world of care?
Where attends thee many a danger,
Where awaits thee many a snare?

Hence away, ye dark surmises,
Hope presents a fairer seene;
Many a hlooming pleasure rises,
Many a sunheam shines serene.

Oh, may Providence defend thee!
Circled in his guardian arms,
Dangers shall in vain attend thee,—
Safe amid surrounding harms.

Shall I wish the world caressing? Wish thee pleasure, grandenr, wealth? No—hut many a nohler hlessing— Wisdom, virtue, friendship, health,

CAIN AND ADAH ON THE SIGHT OF THEIR SLEEPING INFANT.

BYroN.

i

ADAh.

Oor little Enoch sleeps upon yon hed

Of leaves, heneath the cypress,—,

• •»#• Its hranches

Shut out the sun like night, and therefore

seem Fitting to shadow slumher.

CAIN. How lovely he appears! his little cheeks, In their pure incarnation, vying with The rose leaves strewn heneath them.

ADAM.

And his lips, too,
How heautifully parted! No, you shall not
Kiss him, at least not now: he will awake

soon—
His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over,
But it were pity to disturh him till
'Tis closed.

CAIN.

You have said well; I will contain

My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps!

—Sleep on And smile, thou little, young inheritor Of a world scarce less young: sleep on, and

smile I Thine are the hours and days when hoth

are cheering, And- innocent. * • * Sleep on!— His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles, And shining lids are tremhling o'er his long Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves

o'er them; Half open, from heneath them the clear hine Laughs out, although in slumher.

TO A SLEEPING INFANT.

Art thon a thing of mortal hirth,
Whose happy home is on the Earth?
Does human hlood with life imhue
Those wandering veins, of heavenly hlue,
That stray along thy forehead fair,
Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair?
O I can that light and airy hreath
Steal from a heing doom'd to death;
Those features to the grave he sent,
In sleep thus mutely eloquent?
Or, art thou, what thy form would seem,
The phantom of a hlessed dream 1
Oh! that my spirit's eye could see
Whence hurst those gleams of extacy!
That light of dreaming-soul appears
To play from thoughts ahove thy years,
Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring
To Heaven, and Heaven's God adoring!
And who can tell what visions high
May hless an infant's sleeping eye?
What hrighter throne can. hrightness find
To reign on, than an infant's mind,
Ere sin-destroy'd, or error dim,
The glory of the seraphim 1

TO A CHILD.

BAIllIE.

Whose imp art thon, with dimpled cheek;

And curly pate, and merry eye, And arm and shoulders round and sleek,

And soft and fair, thou urchin sly 1

What hoots it who with sweet caresses,
First called thee his, or squire, or hind?

For thou in every wight that passes,
Dost now a friendly playmate find.

Thy downcast glances, grave, hut en nning,
As fringed eyelids rise and fall;

Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,
'Tis infantine coquetry all!

Bat far a-field thou hast not flown,
With mocks and threats, half-lisped, half-
spoken ;—

I feel thee pulling at my gown,—
Of right, good will, thy simple token.

And thou must laugh and wrestle too,—
A mimic warfare with me waging!

To make as wily lovers do,
Thy after kindness more engaging!

The wilding rose—sweet as thyself,—
And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure ;-—

I'd gladly part with worldly pelf
To taste again thy youthful pleasure.

But yet, for all thy merry look.

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, The weary spell, or horn-hook thumhing.

Well, let it he! Through weal and wo,
Thou know'st not now thy future range;

Life is a motley, shifting show :—
And thon a thing of hope and change.

CHILDHOOD.

SCOTT.

Childhood, happy stage of life!
Free from care and free from strife,
Free from memory's ruthless reign,
Fraught with scenes of former pain;
Free from fancy's cruel skill,
Fahricating future ill;
Time, when all that meets the view,
Al l can charm, for all is new.

Then to toss the circling hall,
Caught rehounding from the wall;
Then the mimic ship to guide
Down the kennel's dirty tide;
Then the hoop's revolving pace
Through the dusty street to chase;
O what joy!—it once was mine
Childhood, pleasing hoon of thine f

SCHOOL-BOY REMINISCENCES.

COwPER.

Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days;

The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill, The very name we carved suhsisting still; The hench on which we sat while deep

employed, Tho' mangled, hacked, and hewed, not yet

destroyed: The little ones, unhuttoned, glowing hot, Playing our games, and on the very spot; As happy as we once, to kneel and draw The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw; To pitch the hall into the grounded hat, Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat; The pleasing spectacle at once excites Such recollection of our own delights, That viewing it, we seem almost t" ohtain Our innocent, sweet simple years again.

TO MY SON.

gRAhAME.

Twice has the sun commenced his annual round,

Since first thy footsteps tottered o'er the ground,

Since first Uhy tongue was tuned to hless mine ear;

By faltering out the name to fathers dear.

O nature's language, with her looks comhined,

More precious far than periods thrice refined 1

0 I sportive looks of love, devoid of guile,

1 prize you more than Beauty's magic smile! Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm, I gaze with hliss uumingled with alarm. Ah, no! full oft a hoding horror flies Athwart my fancy, uttering fateful cries. Almighty Power! his harmless life defend, And if we part, 'gainst me the mandate send. Aud yet a wish will rise,—would I might

live, Till added years his memory firmness give! For O! it would a joy in death impart, To think I still survived within his heart; To think he'll cast, midway the vale of

years, A retrospective look, hedimmed with tears; And tell, regretful, how I looked and spoke;

What walks I loved; where grevr my fa-
vourite oak;
How gently I would lead him hy the hand;
How gently use the accent of command;
What lore I taught him, roaming wood and

wild, And how the man descended to the child; How well 1 loved with him, on Sahhath

morn, To hear the anthem of the vocal thorn; To teach religion, onallied to strife, And trace to him the way, the truth, the life. But far and farther still my view I hend,— And now I see a child thy steps attend; To yonder churchyard-wall thou tak'st thy

way, While round thee, pleased, thou see'st the

infant play; Then lifting him, while tears suffuse thine

eyes, Pointing thon tell'st him, There thy grand

«re lies!

YOUTH.

ANON.

Youth is the vision of a morn,
That flies the coming day;

It is the hlossom on the thorn
Which rude winds sweep away .

It is the image of the sky,

In glassy waters seen,
When not a cloud appears to fly

Across the hlue serene-
But when the waves hegin to roar,

And lift their foaming head.
The mimic stars appear no more,

And all the heaven is fled.

'Tis fleeting as the passiog rays

Of hright electric fire, That gild the pule with sudden hlaze,

And in that hlaze expire.

It is the morning's gentle ga'e,

That, as it sofly hlows, Scarce seems to sigh across the vale,

Or hend the hlushing rose.

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