Their only labour was to kill the time;
And labour dire it is, and weary woe.

They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme; Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow. This soon too rude an exercise they find; Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw. Where hours and hours they sighing lie reclin'd, And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the wind.

Now must I mark the villany we found,
But ah! too late, as shall eftsoons be shewn.
A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground;
Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown,
Diseas'd, and loathsome, privily were thrown;
Far from the light of heaven, they languish'd there,
Unpity'd uttering many a bitter groan;

For of these wretches taken was no care :
Fierce fiends, and hags of hell, their only nurses were.

Alas! the change! from scenes of joy and rest, To this dark den, where sickness toss'd alway. Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep opprest, Stretch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay, Heaving his sides, and snored night and day; To stir him from his traunce it was not eath, And his half-open'd eyne he shut straightway: He led, I wot, the softest way to death, And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the breath.

Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound,
Soft swoln and pale, here lay the Hydropsy:
Unwieldy man; with belly monstrous round,
For ever fed with watery supply:

For still he drank, and yet he still was dry.
And moping here did Hypochondria sit,
Mother of spleen, in robes of various dye,
Who vexed was full oft with ugly fit;

And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd a wit.

A lady proud she was, of ancient blood,

Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low:
She felt, or fancy'd in her fluttering mood,
All the diseases which the spittles know,
And sought all physic which the shops bestow,
And still new leeches and new drugs would try,
Her humour ever wavering to and fro;

For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry, Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why.

Fast by her side a listless maiden pin'd,

With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings; Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind, Yet lov'd in secret all forbidden things. And here the tertian shakes his chilling wings; The sleepless gout here counts the crowing cocks, A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings; Whilst apoplexy cramm'd intemperance knocks Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox.

ISAAC WATTS.

BORN 1674.-DIED 1748.

DR. WATTS's devotional poetry was for the most part intentionally lowered to the understanding of children. If this was a sacrifice of taste, it was at least made to the best of intentions. The sense and sincerity of his prose writings, the excellent method in which he attempted to connect the study of ancient logic with common sense, and the conciliatory manner in which he allures the youthful mind to habits of study and reflection, are probably remembered with gratitude by nine men out of ten, who have had proper books put into their hands at an early period of their education. Of this description was not poor old Percival Stockdale, who in one of his lucubrations gives our author the appellation of "Mother Watts." The nickname would not be worth mentioning if it did not suggest a compassionate reflection on the difference between the useful life and labours of Dr. Watts, and the utterly useless and wasted existence of Percival Stockdale. It might have been happy for the frail intellects of that unfortunate man, if they had been braced and rectified in his youth by such works as Watts's Logic and Improvement of the Mind. The study of them might possibly have saved even him from a life of vanity, exation, and oblivion.

FEW HAPPY MATCHES.

SAY, mighty Love, and teach my song, To whom thy sweetest joys belong, And who the happy pairs

Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands,
Find blessings twisted with their bands,
To soften all their cares.

Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
That thoughtless fly into thy chains,
As custom leads the way:
If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as blest as they.

Not sordid souls of earthly mould
Who drawn by kindred charms of gold
To dull embraces move:

So two rich mountains of Peru

May rush to wealthy marriage too,
And make a world of love.

Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flames; those raging fires

The purer bliss destroy:

On Ætna's top let furies wed,

And sheets of lightning dress the bed
T'improve the burning joy.

Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting passions warms,

Can mingle hearts and hands:

Logs of green wood that quench the coals Are married just like Stoic souls,

With osiers for their bands.

Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still silent, or that still complain,
Can the dear bondage bless:
As well may heavenly concerts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,
Or none besides the bass.

Nor can the soft enchantments hold
Two jarring souls of angry mould,
The rugged and the keen:

Samson's young foxes might as well
In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell,
With firebrands tied between.

Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;

For Love abhors the sight:
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear
Rise and forbid delight.

Two kindest souls alone must meet,
'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,
And feeds their mutual loves:
Bright Venus on her rolling throne
Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,
And Cupids yoke the doves.