ted insensibly to sentiments in the whole system of life, serenity of mind favors peace of soul. Error has no good fruits: when it is allied to moral sentiment, in an unlawful union, the strength, given us to do good, is not only dissipated in useless applications, but is directed against the true end, tormenting others and ourselves under the most honorable pretexts. The false associations of ideas, which impose, under the name of morality, imaginary duties, tend often, by inevitable consequence, to corrupt at the foundation the purity of sentiment that belongs to real duties, for frequent occasions present themselves, in which conventional and factitious precepts are at war with the rules immediately dictated by conscience. Hence, at least, arise perplexities, enfeebling the authority of conscience, if indeed conscience is not stifled by the blind and mechanical force of habit. Can filial piety, in its primitive integrity, possibly exist in the heart of the son; to whom is prescribed as often happens on the coast of Malabar the factitious duty of sacrificing his mother on the tomb of her husband? What an infinity of false consequences and unexpected errors must spring from this one error! Truth need not be feared, when in its place: and can it be out of its place? Morality does not fear profound investigation, if it is but complete; it fears superficial and frivolous views. Good sense is the friend, the guardian of virtue; protecting rectitude of intention, and calmness of heart; fortifying the soul by the plentitude of conviction. Communication with truth preserves security, confidence, constancy, resolution, and dignity of character. DAYBREAK. "The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened towards the sun-rising; the name of the chamber was Peace; where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang.' The Pilgrim's Progress. Now, brighter than the host, that, all night long, Stood watch, thou com'st to wait the morning's song. My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim; Thou bid'st me turn to God, and seek my rest in Him. "Canst thou grow sad,' thou say'st, 'as earth grows bright? And sigh, when little birds begin discourse In quick, low voices, e'er the streaming light And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to endure.' I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and wrong. And 'tis because man useth so amiss Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad; Else why should she, in such fresh hour as this, Not lift the veil, in revelation glad, From her fair face? It is that man is mad! Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine, When Nature grieves; nor deem this heart is bad. Thou look'st towards earth; but yet the heavens are thine; While I to earth am bound: When will the heavens be mine. If man would but his finer nature learn, And not in life fantastic lose the sense Of simpler things; could Nature's features stern Teach him be thoughtful; then, with soul intense, But not for this alone, the silent tear Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn, Shall see them pass. Breathe calm-my spirit's torn; That I-whom nature taught to sit with her Should leave, and go with Care, and passions fierce and wild! Be called my chamber, PEACE, when ends the day; SONNET. Ay, thou art welcome-heaven's delicious breath!- And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death. Wind of the sunny South!-O, long delay In the gay woods and in the golden air,Like to a good old age, released from care, Journeying, in long serenity, away. In such a bright late quiet, would that I Might wear out life, like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And, when my last sand twinkled in the glass, SONNET TO E. Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine As light winds, wandering through groves of bloom, 'I THOUGHT IT SLEPT.' I SAW the infant cherub-soft it lay, Decked with sweet smelling flowers. A sight so strange I bent me down to look into its eyes, But they were closed; then softly clasped its hand; My weeping mother sat, 'and gazed and looked I eager asked. She answered but with tears. He's dead! I knew not what it meant, but more TO THE EVENING WIND. SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, Nor I alone—a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse |