That were a grief I could not bear, Didst thou not hear and answer pray'r; But a pray'r-hearing, answ'ring God, Supports me under ev' ry load. Fair is the lot that's cast for me; Poor tho' I am, despis'd, forgot, RETIREMENT. FAR from the world, O Lord, I flee, The calm retreat, the silent shade, There if thy Spirit touch the soul, Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love, There like the nightingale she pours Her solitary lays; Nor asks a witness of her song, Nor thirsts for human praise. Author and Guardian of my life, What thanks I owe thee, and what love, PROVIDENCE. GOD moves in a mysterious way Deep in unfathomable mines He treasures up his bright designs, Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, His purposes will ripen fast, The bud may have a bitter taste, Blind unbelief is sure to err, RICHARD CUMBERLAND. BORN 1732-DIED 1811. CUMBERLAND is chiefly celebrated as a dramatic writer. His poem of "Calvary" has been esteemed probably be. yond its merits. FROM CALVARY. "ON us and on our children be his blood!" Of all the righteous shed upon the earth, With foot proscrib'd ye dare to tread, ye die ; JAMES BEATTIE. JAMES BEATTIE, the author of the Minstrel, and the strenuous advocate of Christianity, was born at Laurencekirk, Kincardineshire. He lost his father, who was a small farmer, at a very early age; but struggled manfully through all the evils of poverty, and procured for himself a learned education. He was chosen one of the masters of the grammar school of Aberdeen, and afterwards appointed professor of moral philosophy in Marischal College. Beattie obtained a pension from his late majesty, as a gracious acknowledgment of the utility of his writings to religion and public morals. The mental illness of his wife, and the death of his two sons, both young men of high promise, threw Dr Beattie into a state of despondency which overclouded the evening of his life. He was a prudent, pious, and highly estimable person,one whose life reflected lustre on his genius. THE HERMIT. AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove; When nought, but the torrent, is heard on the hill, And nought, but the nightingale's song in the grove : 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, "Ah! why thus abandon'd to darkness and wo, Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn; O sooth him, whose pleasures like thine pass away: Full quickly they pass-but they never return. |