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Oh ! if there be, on this earthly sphere,

A boon, an offering heaven holds dear,

Tis the last libation liberty draws

From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!

Moore.

Nature, in zeal for human amity, Denies or damps an undivided joy. Joy is an import; Joy is an exchange; Joy flies monopolists, it calls for two : Rich fruit! heav'n planted ! never pluck'd by one.

Young.

It must be so—Plato, thou reason's! well!

Else whence this pleasing hop^, this fond desire,

This longing after immortality ?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,

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 untried being,

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!

The wide, th' unbounded prospect, lies before me;

But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.

Here will 1 hold. If there's a power above us,

(And that there is all nature crie