As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink
Had given their stain to the wave they drink,
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through,
Have named the stream from its own fair hue.
Yet pure
its waters, its shallows are bright
With colored pebbles and sparkles of light,
And clear the depths where the eddies play,
And dimples deepen and whirl away;
And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot
The swifter current that mines its root;
Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill,
The quivering glimmer of sun and rill,

With a sudden flash, on the eye is thrown,
Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone.
O, loveliest there the spring-days come,
With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum;
The flowers of summer are fairest there,
And freshest the breath of the summer air,
And the swimmer comes, in the season of heat,
To bathe in those waters so pure and sweet.
Yet fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide,
Beautiful stream! by the village side,
But windest away from haunts of men,
To silent valley and shaded glen.

And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill,
Around thee are lonely, lovely, and still.
Lonely-save when, by thy rippling tides,
From thicket to thicket the angler glides;
Or the simpler comes, with basket and book,
For herbs of power on thy banks to look :
Or haply some idle dreamer like me,

To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee.
Still save the chirp of birds, that feed

On the river cherry and seedy reed;

And thy own wild music, gushing out
With mellow murmur, or fairy shout,
From dawn to the blush of another day,
Like traveler singing along his way.
That fairy music I never hear,

Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,
And mark them winding away from sight,
Darkened with shade, or flashing with light,
While o'er thee the vine to its thicket clings,
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings;
But I wish that fate had left me free
To wander these quiet haunts with thee,
Till the eating cares of earth should depart,
And the peace of the scene pass into my heart;
And I envy thy stream as it glides along
Through its beautiful banks, in a trance of song.
Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men,
And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen,
And mingle among the jostling crowd,

Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud;

I sometimes come to this quiet place,

To breathe the air that ruffles thy face,
And gaze upon thee in silent dream;
For, in thy lonely and lovely stream,

An image of that calm life appears,
That won my heart in my greener years.

LESSON XXXV.

The Mutual Relation between Sleep and Night.- Paley.

THE relation of sleep to night appears to have been expressly intended by our benevolent Creator. Two points are manifest first, that the animal frame

requires sleep;

secondly, that night brings with it a silence, and a cessation of activity, which allow of sleep being taken without interruption, and without loss. Animal existence is made up of action and slumber; nature has provided a season for each. An animal which stood not in need of rest, would always live in day-light. An animal which, though made for action, and delighting in action, must have its strength repaired by sleep, meets, by its constitution, the returns of day and night. In the human species, for instance, were the bustle, the labor, the motion of life, upheld by the constant presence of light, sleep could not be enjoyed without being disturbed by noise, and without expense of that time, which the eagerness of private interest would not contentedly resign. It is happy, therefore, for this part of the creation, I mean that it is conformable to the frame and wants of their constitution, that nature, by the very disposition of her elements, has commanded, as it were, and imposed upon them, at moderate intervals, a general intermission of their toils, their occupations, and their pursuits.

But it is not for man, either solely or principally, that night is made. Inferior, but less perverted natures, taste its solace, and expect its return, with greater exactness and advantage than he does. I have often observed, and never observed but to admire, the satisfaction, no less than the regularity, with which the greatest part of the irrational world yield to this soft necessity, this grateful vicissitude; how comfortably the birds of the air, for example, address themselves to the repose of the evening; with what alertness they resume the activity of the day.

Nor does it disturb our argument to confess, that certain species of animals are in motion during the night, and at rest in the day. With respect even to them, it is still true, that there is a change of condition in the animal, and an external change corresponding with it. There is still the relation, though inverted. The fact is, that the repose of other ani

mals sets these at liberty, and invites them to their food or their sport.

If the relation of sleep to night, and in some instances, its converse, be real, we cannot reflect without amazement upon the extent, to which it carries us. Day and night are things close to us; the change applies immediately to our sensations; of all the phenomena of nature, it is the most obvious, and the most familiar to our experience: but, in its cause, it belongs to the great motions which are passing in the heavens. Whilst the earth glides round her axle, she ministers to the alternate necessities of the animals dwelling upon her surface, at the same time that she obeys the influence of those attractions, which regulate the order of many thousand worlds. The relation therefore of sleep to night, is the relation of the inhabitants of the earth to the rotation of their globe: probably it is more; it is a relation to the system, of which that globe is a part; and, still further, to the congregation of systems, of which theirs is only one. If this account be true, it connects the meanest individual with the universe itself; a chicken roosting upon its perch, with the spheres revolving in the firmament.

LESSON XXXVI.

Social Worship agreeable to the best Impulses of our Nature MRS. BARBAuld.

SENTIMENTS of admiration, love and joy, swell the bosom. with emotions, which seek for fellowship and communication. The flame indeed may be kindled by silent musing; but when kindled it must infallibly spread. The devout heart, penetrated with large and affecting views of the immensity of the works of God, the harmony of his laws, and the extent of his beneficence, bursts into loud and vocal expressions of praise and adoration; and from a full and overflowing sensibility

seeks to expand itself to the utmost limits of creation. The mind is forcibly carried out of itself, and, embracing the whole circle of animated existence, calls on all above, around, below, to help to bear the burden of its gratitude. Joy is too brilliant a thing to be confined within our own bosoms; it burnishes all nature, and, with its vivid coloring, gives a kind of factitious life to objects without sense or motion.

There cannot be a more striking proof of the social tendency of these feelings, than the strong propensity we have to suppose auditors when there are none. When men are wanting, we address the animal creation; and rather than have none to partake of our feelings, we find sentiment in the music of birds, the hum of insects, and the low of kine; nay, we call on rocks and streams and forests to witness and share our emotions. Hence the royal shepherd, sojourning in caves and solitary wastes, calls on the hills to rejoice, and the floods to clap their hands: and the lonely poet, wandering in the deep recesses of uncultivated nature, finds a temple in every solemn grove, and swells his chorus of praise with the winds that bow tne lofty cedars. And can he, who, not satisfied with the wide range of animated existence, calls for the sympathy of the inanimate creation, refuse to worship with his fellow-men? Can he who bids "Nature attend," forget to "join every living soul" in the universal hymn? Shall we suppose companions in the stillness of deserts, and shall we overlook them amongst friends and townsmen? It cannot be! Social worship, for the devout heart, is not more a duty than it is a real want.

LESSON XXXVII.

In the Relative Value of Good Sense and Beauty, in the Female Sex. - LITERARY GAZETTE.

NOTWITHSTANDING the lessons of moralists, and the declamations of philosophers, it cannot be denied that all mankind