Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
"Tis the Divinity that stirs within us ;

"Tis Heav'n itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleasing dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untry'd being,

[pass! Through what new scenes and changes must we The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a Pow'r 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-this must end 'em.
Thus am I doubly arm'd. 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, secur'd 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 war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
Addison.

THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL IMPLIED FROM
ITS MOTION.

THE Soul which, in this earthly mould,
The spirit of God doth secretly infuse,
Because at first she doth the earth behold,
And only this material world she views.
At first her mother-earth she holdeth dear,
And doth embrace the world and worldly things:
She flies close by the world and hovers here,
And mounts not up with her celestial wings.
Yet under heav'n she cannot light on aught
That with her heavenly nature doth agree;
She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought,
She cannot in this world contented be.
For who did ever yet, in honour, wealth,

Or pleasure of the sense contentment find?
Who ever ceas'd to wish, when he had health?
Or having wisdom, was not vex'd in mind?
With this desire, she hath a native might
To find out every truth, if she had time;
Th' innumerable effects to sort aright,

And by degree from cause to cause to climb.
But since our life so fast away doth slide,
As doth a hungry eagle through the wind,
Or as a ship transported with the tide,

Which in their passage leave no print behind; Of which swift little time so much we spend, While some few things we through the sense do That our short race of life is at an end, [strain,

Ere we the principle of skill attain.

Sir J. Davies.

THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL INFERRED FROM ITS DISSIMILARITY TO THE BODY.

THAT mind and body often sympathize
Is plain; such is this union Nature ties:
But then as often too they disagree;
Which proves the soul's superior progeny.
Sometimes the body in full strength we find,
Whilst various ills debilitate the mind;

At others, whilst the mind its force retains,
The body sinks with sickness and with pains:
Now did one common fate their beings end,
Alike they'd sicken, and alike they'd mend.
But sure experience, on the slightest view,
Shows us that the reverse of this is true;
For when the body oft expiring lies,

Its limbs quite senseless, and half clos'd its eyes,
The mind new force and eloquence acquires,
And with prophetic voice the dying lips inspires.
Of like materials were they both compos'd,
How comes it, that the mind, when sleep has clos'd
Each avenue of sense, expatiates wide,
Her liberty restor'd, her bonds unty'd?
And, like some bird who from its prison flies,
Claps her exulting wings, and mounts the skies.
If to conceive how any thing can be
From shape abstracted and locality
Is hard; what think you of the Deity?
His being not the least relation bears,
As far as to the human mind appears,
To shape, or size, similitude, or place,
Cloth'd in no form, and bounded by no space.
Such then is God, a Spirit pure, refin'd

From all material dross, and such the human mind:

For in what part of essence can we see
More certain marks of immortality?

Ev'n from this dark confinement, with delight,
She looks abroad, and prunes herself for flight;
Like an unwilling inmate longs to roam

From this dull earth, and seek her native home. Soame Jenyns.

LIFE NOT WORTH ENJOYING, WITHOUT THE HOPE
OF IMMORTALITY.

THE mind contemplative finds nothing here
On earth, that's worthy of a wish or fear:
He, whose sublime pursuit is God and truth,
Burns, like some absent and impatient youth,
To join the object of his warm desires,

Thence to sequester'd shades and streams retires,
And there delights his passion to rehearse
In wisdom's sacred voice, or in harmonious verse.
To me most happy therefore he appears,
Who having once, unmov'd by hopes or fears,
Survey'd this sun, earth, ocean, clouds, and flame,
Well satisfied returns from whence he came.
Is life a hundred years, or e'er so few,
'Tis repetition all, and nothing new;

A fair, where thousands meet, but none can stay;
An inn, where travellers bait, then post away;
A sea, where man perpetually is tost,

Now plung'd in business, now in trifles lost;
Who leaves it first, the peaceful port first gain.
Hold then! no further launch into the main ;
Contract your sails; life nothing can bestow
By long continuance, but continued wo;

The wretched privilege daily to deplore
The fun'rals of our friends, who go before;
Diseases, pains, anxieties, and cares,

And age surrounded by a thousand snares.
Could I a firm persuasion once attain
That after death no being would remain ;
To those dark shades I'd willingly descend,
Where all must sleep, this drama at an end :
Nor life accept, although renew'd by fate
Ev'n from its earliest, and its happiest state.
Might I from Fortune's bounteous hand receive
Each boon, each blessing in her power to give,
Genius and science, morals and good sense,
Unenvied honours, wit, and eloquence,

A numerous offspring to the world well known,
Both for paternal virtues and their own;
Ev'n at this mighty price I'd not be bound
To tread the same dull circle round and round;
The soul requires enjoyments more sublime,
By space unbounded, undestroy'd by time.
Soame Jenyns.

Be patient yet, my Soul, thou hast not long
To groan beneath accumulated wrong:
Soon, very soon, I trust, the galling yoke
That clogs thee now, for ever shall be broke.
It comes, thy freedom comes; from grief arise;
Prepare, exulting, for thy native skies :
Soon, very soon, this world's unholy dreams,
Its poor possessors, and their trifling schemes

* Written in sickness.