The golden palaces, the splendid seats,
The flow'ry mansions, and these soft retreats,
The rosy shades, and sweet delicious streams,
Would disappear like transitory dreams.

Angels themselves their brightest hopes recline
On nothing more unchangeable than mine.
Am I deceiv'd? what can their charter be?
Fair seraphim may be deceiv'd like me;
If Goodness and Veracity divine

Can fail, their heav'n's an airy dream like mine.
But, oh! I dare the glorious venture make,
And lay my soul and future life at stake;
Be earth, be heaven, at desp'rate hazard lost,
If here my faith should prove an empty boast!
Whate'er your arts, ye pow'rs of hell suggest,
The truth of God undaunted I attest:
Produce your annals with insulting rage,

Bring out your records, show the dreadful page,
One instance where th' Almighty broke his word,
Since first the race of men his name ador'd;
In gloomy characters point out the hour,
Exert your malice, summon all your pow'r;
With rites infernal all your pomp display,
And mark with horror the tremenduous day;
Confus'd, you search your dreadful rolls in vain,
Th' eternal honour shines without a stain,
Unblemish'd shines in men and angels' view;
Just are thy ways, thou King of Saints, and true!

1 inclosed this letter, my dear brother, to show you with what equality of mind the generous youth behaves himself in this distress. I beg you would hasten your return to England, in compassion to Your unhappy friend and sister,

LEMIRA.

LETTER XIV.

To HERMINIUS.

I HAVE just reason to fear my essay on this noble subject will not answer your expectations; with whatever fluency I could express myself when inspired by mortal beauty, the pomp of language fails me.

Here the boldest figures lose their emphasis, and grow insipid on this superior theme.

DIVINE LOVE.

FOR thee, fond Love, my darling theme,

My lute has oft been strung;
Thy pow'r, by ev'ry answ'ring stream,
In gentle notes I sung:
Laurinda taught my Muse her art,

And fill'd with tender fires my heart:

She taught me how to paint thy beauteous face,
Thy charming form, and ev'ry moving grace.

But who shall guide the darling strain,
CELESTIAL LOVE! that aims at thee,
Thou fairest offspring of the Deity?
I call the pow'rs of Harmony in vain,
In vain the softest accents I employ;

The brightest metaphors in vain I chuse,
With all the melting language lovers use,
To tell their pain, or speak their rising joy.
All the heights of pure desire,
Holy love, and heav'nly fire,

At once my panting breast iuspire:
Such ardour smiling martyrs know,
When, defying ev'ry foe,

In triumph on to death they go.

Tell me, thou, for whom I prove
All the fierce extremes of Love,
How thy charms, so far retir'd

From mortal sense, have all my bosom fir'd:
Greatness and fame, beauty and harmony,
Are all but empty names, compar'd to thee:
Be thou but mine,

The whole creation I at once resign.

Vanish thou earth, and ev'ry gaudy scene
Of hill and dale, or grove, or flow'ry field,
When by the Spring adorn'd with cheerful green :
Vanish, whate'er delights thou else canst yield.
Thou Sun, be dark; and let eternal night
Conceal thy vital splendour from my sight.
Thou Moon, and ev'ry gay ethereal fire,
Burn out your golden store;

I shall be bless'd when all your lights expire,
And earth, and sea, and skies, shall be no more!

Place me where infernal Night

And endless Horror reign;
Where, banish'd far from hope and light,

Unhappy ghosts complain :

Ev'n there, one gentle smile of thine

Th' eternal gloom would chace;

Immortal day would on me shine,
And pleasure fill the place.

Should Heav'n surround me with full tides of joy,
And open all its glories to my sight,

One frown of thine would all that heav'n destroy, And wither my delight;

One frown of thine th' immortal groves would blast,
And darkness o'er the blissful regions cast.

You that sing in happy bow'rs,
And in unmingled pleasures pass the hours,

That know the height of heav'nly bliss, Come, play me some soft air of Paradise ; Gently strike your sweetest strings, And touch my soul on all its tender springs, While, rising on the Music's downy wings, I'll bid at once mortality adieu,

And love and paint the sacred flame like you.

But, my dear Herminius, the present performance will convince you that I have not yet learned the strains of immortality; and perhaps you will not think it necessary for me to make an apology for not being an angel: however, If I can contribute to your entertainment as a mere mortal, you may command

Your most humble servant,

EVANDER.

LETTER XV.

To ALONZO.

You have spent so many happy hours at the Earl of's fine seat in the country that it is unnecessary to describe those beautiful scenes with which you are so well acquainted: here I have passed a great part of the summer season in a manner suited to my contemplative humour. Having no taste for country diversions, or any kind of Tural sports, my pleasures were confined to the

charming shades and gardens with which the house is surrounded.

Here I enjoyed an unmolested tranquillity, till a fit of curosity led me to make an excursion into the wide campaign that opened before me from the borders of the park.

If I begin with the rosy dawn, you will pardon my romantic style in relating the surprising adventure but, without telling a lie, the morning was yet dusky, the balmy dew and fragrant gales perfumed the air with their untainted sweets; while, with thoughts free as the airy songsters that warble on the branches, I wandered from rising hills to winding vales, through flowery lawns to leafy woods, till I found myself under the shade of a venerable row of elms; which put me in mind of Sir Roger de Coverley's rookery; the aged trees. shot their heads so high, that, to one who passed under them, the crows and rooks which rested on their tops seemed to be cawing in another region. I was delighted with the noise, while, with the Spectator, I considered it as a kind of natural prayer to that Being who supplies the wants of his whole creation. My thoughts were inspired with a pleasing gratitude to the beneficent Father of the universe, till the sequel of my devotion was interrupted by the sight of a beautiful girl, about four or five years old, sitting on the grass, with a basket of flowers on her lap, which she was stick