of this sacred bard in the house of a friend for the long period of thirty-six years, has no parallel in English literary biography. 'Abney House,' says Dr. Gibbons, 'was a handsome mansion, surrounded by beautiful pleasuregrounds. Watts had apartments assigned to him, of which he enjoyed the use as freely as if he had been the master of the house. Here, without any care of his own, he had every thing which could contribute to the enjoyment of life, and favour the pursuit of his studies. Here he dwelt in a family, which, for piety, order, harmony, and every virtue, was a house of God. Here he had the privilege of a country recess, the fragrant bower, the spreading lawn, the flowery garden, and other advantages to soothe his mind and aid his restoration to health; to yield him, whenever he chose them, most grateful intervals from his laborious studies, and enable him to return to them with redoubled vigour and delight.'

The death of Sir Thomas Abney, which occurred eight years after Watts went to reside with him, made no change in these agreeable arrangements; as the same benevolent patronage was extended to him by the widow, who survived the poet a little over a year. While in this retirement he preached occasionally, but gave the most of his time to study, and in the composition of those works which have essentially contributed to immortalize his name. 'In 1728,' says Dr. Johnson, 'the universities of Edinburgh and Aberdeen, with great propriety, conferred upon him an unsolicited diploma, by which he became a doctor of divinity. Academical honours,' adds the great critic, 'would have more value if they were always bestowed with equal judgment.' This great and good man expired, without a struggle or a groan, on the twenty-fifth of November, 1748, in the seventy-fifth year of his age.

The literary character of Dr. Watts should be contemplated under the three-fold aspect of poet, philosopher, and theologian. As a poet, though he may not, in creative power or sublimity of genius, hold the first rank, yet he has attained to that which the greatest might well envy-a universal fame. He is emphatically the classic poet of the religious world, wherever the English language is spoken. His Version of the Psalms of David, his Books of Hymns, and his Divine Songs for Children have been more frequently read and committed to memory, have exerted more sacred influences, and made more lasting beneficial impressions upon the human heart, and have called forth more fervent aspirations for the joys of heaven, than the productions of all other poets of the language combined. His poems on other subjects are such as might be expected from the amusements of a man of letters, and are more or less excellent as the subject happened to be more or less favorable to invention. As a philosopher, Dr. Watts enjoys the rare felicity of always being practically useful. His Logic, or the Right Use of Reason, was used, for a long time, as a text book in the English Universities; and of his Improvement of the Mind, Dr. Johnson remarks, Few books have been perused by me with greater pleasure than this; and whoever has the care of instructing others may be charged with deficiency in his duty if this book is not recommended.' Of his theological writings Dr. Drake ob

serves, that every page displays his unaffected piety, the purity of his principles, the mildness of his disposition, and the great goodness of his heart. The style of all his works is perspicuous, correct, and frequently elegant; and happily for mankind, his labours have been translated and dispersed with a zeal that does honor to human nature; for there are few persons who have studied the writings of Dr. Watts without a wish for improvement; without an effort to become wiser or better members of society. Our selections from this author must, from the peculiar nature of his writings, necessarily be short.

SOVEREIGNTY AND DOMINION OF GOD.

Keep silence-all created things,
And wait your Maker's nod;

My soul stands trembling while she sings

The honours of her God.

Life, death, and hell, and worlds unknown,

Hang on his firm decree;

He sits on no precarious throne,

Nor borrows leave-To Be.

Chained to his throne a volume lies,
With all the fates of men;

With every angel's form and size
Drawn by th' eternal pen.

His providence unfolds the book,
And makes his counsels shine;
Each opening leaf, and every stroke,
Fulfills some deep design.

(Here he exalts neglected worms,
To sceptres and a crown;

And there, the following page he turns,
And treads the monarch down.

Not Gabriel asks the reason why,
Nor God the reason gives;
Nor dares the favourite angel pry
Between the folded leaves.)

My God, I would not long to see
My fate, with curious eyes;
What gloomy lines are writ for me,
Or what bright scenes may rise.

In thy fair book of life and grace,
O may I find my name,
Recorded in some humble place,
Beneath my Lord-the Lamb.

THE HEBREW BARD.

Softly the tuneful shepherd leads
The Hebrew flocks to flowery meads:

VOL. II.-T

He marks their path with notes divine,
While fountains spring with oil and wine.

Rivers of peace attend his song,
And draw their milky train along.
He jars; and, lo! the flints are broke,
But honey issues from the rock.

When, kindling with victorious fire,
He shakes his lance across the lyre,
The lyre resounds unknown alarms,
And sets the Thunderer in arms.

Behold the God! the Almighty King
Rides on a tempest's glorious wing:
His ensigns lighten round the sky,
And moving legions sound on high.

Ten thousand cherubs wait his course,
Chariots of fire and flaming horse:
Earth trembles; and her mountains flow,
At his approach, like melting snow.

But who those frowns of wrath can draw,
That strike heaven, earth, and hell with awe?

Red lightning from his eyelids broke;

His voice was thunder, hail, and smoke.

He spoke; the cleaving waters fled,
And stars beheld the ocean's bed:
While the great Master strikes his lyre,
You see the frighted floods retire:

In heaps the frighted billows stand,
Waiting the changes of his hand:
He leads his Israel through the sea,
And watery mountains guard their way.

Turning his hand with sovereign sweep,
He drowns all Egypt in the deep:
Then guides the tribes, a glorious band,
Through deserts to the promised land.

Here camps, with wide-embattled force,
Here gates and bulwarks stop their course;
He storms the mounds, the bulwark falls,
The harp lies strewed with ruined walls.

See his broad sword flies o'er the strings,
And mows down nations with their kings:
From every chord his bolts are hurled,
And vengeance smites the rebel world.

Lo! the great poet shifts the scene,
And shows the face of God serene.
Truth, meekness, peace, salvation, ride,
With guards of justice at his side.

THE ROSE.

How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower,

The glory of April and May!

But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.

Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field;

When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colours lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!

So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,
Though they bloom and look gay like the rose;
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain,
Time kills them as fast as he goes.

Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade;

But gain a good name by well-doing my duty;
This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.

EDWARD YOUNG, the celebrated author of the Night Thoughts, was born at Upham, Hampshire, in June, 1681. His father, then rector of the parish of Upham, and afterwards dean of Salisbury, conducted his early studies with great care, and at a suitable age sent him to Winchester school, where he remained until he became a member of the university of Oxford. He first entered, in 1703, New College, and was thence afterwards transferred to All Souls, where, being designed for the legal profession, he took his degree of bachelor of civil laws, in 1714, and his doctor's degree, in 1719.

In 1712, Young commenced public life as a courtier and poet; and one of his earliest patrons was the notorious Duke of Wharton, 'the scorn and wonder of his days,' whom he accompanied, in 1717, to Ireland. He afterwards became tutor to Lord Burleigh, but was induced by Wharton, to give up this situation, under the promise to provide for him in a more suitable and ample manner. The duke also prevailed upon Young, as a political supporter, to offer himself as a candidate for the representation of the borough of Cirencester, in parliament; and although the duke proposed to advance the liberal sum of six hundred pounds to meet the expenses attending the canvass, and actually gave his bond for that amount, still Young was defeated. He had previously written two of his tragedies, Busiris, and the Revenge, the latter of which proved eminently successful upon the stage; and it was doubtless as a dramatic writer that the patronage of Wharton was extended to him. The poet being now qualified by age, experience, and observation, wrote a satire on the Universal Passion-the Love of Fame, which is both keen and powerful, and the nearest approach that the age produced to the polished satire of Pope.

The want of success which had attended Young's career as a courtier, is supposed to have impelled him, when upwards of fifty years old, to enter

the church; soon after which he wrote a panegyric on the king, and was made one of his majesty's chaplains. In 1730, he obtained from his college the living of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire, where he was destined to pass the remainder of his days. He was anxious to obtain farther preferment, but having, in the following lines, professed a strong love of retirement, the ministry seized upon this as a pretext to keep him out of a bishopric:

Blest be that hand divine, which gently laid
My heart at rest beneath this humble shade!
The world 's a stately bark, on dangerous seas,
With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril :
Here, on a single plank, thrown safe ashore,
I hear the tumult of the distant throng,
As that of seas remote, or dying storms;
And meditate on scenes more silent still;
Pursue my theme, and fright the fear of death.
Here like a shepherd, gazing from his hut,
Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff,
Eager ambition's fiery chase I see;

I see the circling hunt of noisy men

Burst law's enclosure, leap the mounds of right,
Pursuing and pursued, each other's prey;
As Wolves for rapine; as the fox for wiles;
Till death, that mighty hunter, earths them all.
Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour?
What though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame,
Earth's highest station ends in here he lies,'

And dust to dust' concludes her noblest song.

Soon after Young had entered the ministry, he made a noble alliance by marrying the daughter of the Earl of Lichfield, widow of Colonel Lee. This proved a much happier union than the titled marriages of Dryden and Addison; for our poet passed, with his lady, ten years of uninterrupted felicity. She had, by her former husband, a son and a daughter, to both of whom Young was devotedly attached. Death, however, removed them from his solace and his care; and when the mother soon after followed, he composed, to mitigate his grief, his greatest literary performance, the 'Night Thoughts.' He was now over sixty years of age; but time had strengthened and enriched his genius, and increased even the brilliancy of his fancy. In 1761, he was made clerk of the closet, to the Princess Dowager of Wales, and died four years afterwards, in April 1765, at the advanced age of eighty-four.

Few men have ever united so much activity and worldly anxiety, with so much literary industry and genius, as Dr. Young. In youth he was gay and dissipated, and no sooner had he relinquished his career of folly than he became an indefatigable courtier. In his poetry he is a severe moralist, and ascetic divine. That, at the time of writing, he felt the emotions he describes, must necessarily be true; but they did not permanently influence his conduct. He was not weaned from the world till age had incapacitated him