TH

THE RIVER OF LIFE.

HERE is a pure and peaceful wave,
That rolls around the throne of love,

Whose waters gladden as they lave

The peaceful fhores above.

While ftreams which on that tide depend, Steal from those heavenly fhores away, And on this desert world descend,

O'er weary lands to stray;

The pilgrim, faint, and nigh to fink
Beneath his load of earthly woe,
Refreshed befide their verdant brink,
Rejoices in their flow.

There, O my soul, do thou repair,
And hover o'er the hallowed spring,
To drink the crystal wave, and there
To lave thy wearied wing.

There droop that wing, when far it flies
From human care, and toil, and ftrife,
And feed by those ftill ftreams that rise
Beneath the tree of life.

It may be that the waft of love

Some leaves on that pure tide has driven,
Which, paffing from the fhores above,

Have floated down from heaven.

So fhall thy wounds and woes be healed
By the bleft virtue that they bring;
So thy parched lips fhall be unsealed,

Thy Saviour's praise to fing.

TRUE GAIN.

SOUL AND BODY.

OOR soul, the centre of my finful earth,

POOR

Foiled by those rebel powers that thee array, Why doft thou pine within, and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so coftly gay ? Why so large coft, having so fhort a lease, Doft thou upon thy fading manfion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's lofs, And let that pine to aggravate thy store! Buy terms divine in selling hours of drofs ! Within be fed, without be rich no more!

So fhalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men, And, death once dead, there's no more dying then.

Shakspeare.

SOMETIME, O Lord! at least in show,

A thankful heart we do profefs,

When Thou such bleffings doft beftow,
As outward riches, health, or peace;
But for that means which may conduce
Our souls to their true bliss to raise,
We make not very frequent use
Of thankful words, or hymns of praise.

O God! forgive this crying fin,
More wise, more thankful, let us grow,
To mend this fault let us begin,
And grace obtain more grace to fhow.
For corn, and wine, and oil's increase,
A body sound, a witty brain,
A free estate, an outward peace,
Without this bleffing were in vain.

George Wither.

TRAVELS AT HOME.

FT have I wished a traveller to be:

OF

Mine eyes did even itch the fights to see
That I had heard and read of. Oft I have
Been greedy of occafion, as the grave,
That never says enough; yet ftill was croffed
When opportunities had promised moft.

At laft I said, What mean'ft thou, wandering elf
To ftraggle thus? go, travel first thyself.
Thy little world can fhew thee wonders great :
The greater may have more, but not more neat
And curious pieces. Search, and thou shalt find
Enough to talk of. If thou wilt, thy mind
Europe supplies, and Afia thy will,

And Afric thine affections. And if ftill
Thou lift to travel further, put thy senses

For both the Indies. Make no more pretences
Of new discoveries, whilst yet thine own
And neareft little world is ftill unknown.

Away, then, with thy quadrants, compaffes,
Globes, tables, cards, and maps, and minute glaffes!
Lay by thy journals and thy diaries!

Close up thy annals and thy histories!

Study thyself, and read what thou haft writ

In thine own book, thy conscience! Is it fit