SMOLLET.

O listen from thy calm abode,
And hither wave thy magic rod!
Extend thy silent soothing sway,
And charm the canker Care away.
Whether thou lov'st to glide along,
Attended by an airy throng
Of gentle dreams and smiles of joy,
Such as adorn the wanton boy;
Or to the monarch's fancy bring
Delights that better suit a king;
The glittering host, the groaning plain,
The clang of arms, and victor's train.
Or, should a milder vision please,
Present the happy scenes of peace;
Plump Autumn, blushing all around,
Rich Industry with toil embrown'd,
Content, with brow serenely gay,
And genial Art's refulgent ray.
Come, downy Sleep, thy balmy opiates ply;
Come bind thy fillets round this aching brow;
Let thy soft hand repress the rising sigh,
And bid the starting tear forget to flow.
No more let mem'ry pleasures past reveal;
Bid busy fancy's airy buildings fall;
The past, the present, future, all conceal-
Cast thy mysterious veil around them all.
Srike all my senses with thy magic wand;
Assuage the sorrow which thou canst not heal;
Bid weary nature rest in slumbers bland,
And let my throbbing heart forbear to feel.
Refresh'd, renew'd by thy enliv'ning pow'r,
I ask not, hope not, ever-during rest;
But courage to support the adverse hour,
The adverse hour by sovereign mercy blest!
Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to death, gently thyself dispose
On this afflicted wight; fall like a cloud
In gentle showers, give nothing that is loud,
Or painful to his slumbers; ease is sweet,
When soothing dreams the wearied fancy cheat:
And, as fair purling streams, thou son of night,
In softest, sweetest, murmurs of delight,
Pass by his troubled senses, sing his pains,
Like hollow murmuring winds, or silver rains,
Unto thyself; gently, oh! gently glide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride.

TIXALL'S POETRY.

The following beautiful Latin epigram on Sleep, has been generally attributed to T. Warton: the reader will be amused with the original, and with the various ingenious translations given below:

IN SOMNUM.

Somne levis! quanquam certissima mortis imago,
Consortem capio te tamen esse tori:

Alma quies, optata, veni! nam sic, sine vitâ
Vivere, quam suave est! sic, sine morte, mori.

TRANSLATIONS.

Come sleep, death's image, to thy arms I fly,
Thus without life to live, thus without death to die.

O sleep profound! though near allied

To death's still state, which we must dread,
Yet thou art welcome, as a bride,

To be the partner of my bed.

Embrac'd by thee, soft, gentle rest!
In fond oblivion let me lie;

For lifeless thus to live, how blest!
Thus without death, how sweet to die!

ANON.

REV. MR. COLE.

Come, gentle sleep, attend thy vot'ry's pray'r,
And, though death's image, to my couch repair.
How sweet thus lifeless, yet with life to lie!
Thus without dying, oh! how sweet to die!

DR WOLCOTT.

Though death's strong likeness in thy form we trace,
Come, sleep! and fold me in thy soft embrace;
Come, gentle sleep! that sweetest blessing give,
To die thus living, and thus dead to live

Come, gentle sleep! to thee I sing,
Thou balm of human woes!

Soft rest! oh! wave thy downy wing,
And lull me to repose.

What, though the true resemblance thine,

The shadows of the dead,

For thee I wish, for thee 1 pine,

To share my humble bed.

How sweet to draw the vital breath,

Yet thus from life to fly;

And thus, without a real death,
How sweet with thee to die!

ANON.

MRS. BRADFORD.

Emblem of death! come, soothing, balmy sleep!
Friend of my pillow! o'er my eyelids creep:
Soft let me slumber, gently breathing sigh,
Live without life, and, without dying, die.

MRS. MEYLER.

Sleep! though death thou dost resemble,
Still I court thy shadowy aid;
Fear nor hope shall make me tremble,
In thy lap oblivious laid.

Then, while on my pillow lying,
Envied bliss, oh! let me share;
Death, without the pangs of dying,
Life, without the load of care.

REV. E. CARTWRIGHT.

ANON.

ANON.

Death's truest image, sorrow's surest friend, Sleep, like a bride, upon my couch attend! For oh! what charm thy lenient pow'r applies To him, who dying lives, yet living dies! Come, death's soft image, on my pillow rest, And me, kind sleep, of care and thought divest : How sweet to die, while still retaining breath, To live, thus folded in the arms of death! The following is from the German of Herder :"Among the innumerable genii whom Jupiter had created to amuse and delight the short-timed laborious lives of men, was found also dark Sleep. To what purpose am I here, (said he, contemplating his own form,) here, among my more splendid and attractive brothers? How melancholy do I appear, in the chorus of the sports, the joys, and the wanton caprices of love! What boots it that I am desired by the unhappy, the burden of whose sufferings I take away, and whom I relieve by gentle oblivion; but as to them who never tire, who know nought of the cares of wretchedness, the circle of their delights I only interrupt.' Thou errest, (said the fatl.er of genii and men;) in thy dark form wilt thou become the beloved genius of all mankind, for dost thou not believe that joys and sports fatigue? In reality they tire sooner than care and wretchedness, and transform themselves for the satiated in bliss into the most wearisome satiety. Neither shalt thou be without delight, (he continued ;) thou shalt even oft surpass all thy brothers in them.' With these words he presented to him the silver-gray horn of pleasant dreams : Scatter out of this (said he) thy seeds of slumber, and the happy as well as unhappy shall love and wish for thee more than for all thy brothers. The hopes, the loves, and the joys which are in it, have been gathered by thy sisters, the graces,

with enchanted hand, out of our most blissful gardens. The ethereal dew which shines upon them, will animate with his own wish, every one whom thou meanest to render happy; and as the goddess of love has besprinkled them with our immortal nectar, hence the delight they give to mortals will be more graceful and delicate, than all the poor realities which the earth can afford. Out of the chorus of the most blooming sports and joys, they will gladly hasten into thy arms: poets will sing thee, and in their songs strive to imitate the enchantment of thy art: even the innocent maiden will wish for thee, and thou wilt rest on her eyes, a sweet and blissful deity.' The complaint of sleep was changed to triumphant thanks, and he was united with the most beautiful of the graces, Pasithea."

But the pleasures of Sleep are not equally enjoyed by all. In order to enjoy them, the mind should be tranquil, not ruffled by contending emotions, nor disturbed by the pangs of a guilty conscience. Shakspeare has finely contrasted the sweets of a sound sleep and the horrors of a restless night, in this soliloquy of King Henry the Fourth :

How many thousands of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour asleep! O! gentle sleep,
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

And hush'd with busy night-flies to thy slumbers,
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,

And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?
O! thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch
A watch-case, or a common larum-bell?
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast,
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge,
And, in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamours in the slippery shrouds,
That, with the hurley, death itself awakes-
Canst thou, O! partial sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,

And in the calmest and the stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,

Deny it to a king ?-then happy low lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

Horace tells us, that Sleep disdains not to dwell with the poor :

Sleep is a god too proud to waste in palaces;
And yet so humble too as not to scorn

The meanest country cottages:
His poppy grows amongst the corn.
For halcyon sleep will never build his nest
In any stormy breast:

'Tis not enough that he does find
Clouds and darkness in their mind,
Darkness but half his work will do;
'Tis not enough, he must find quiet too.

The hour in which we dispose ourselves to enjoy the sweet influence of Sleep, should be always preceded by thanksgivings to our heavenly Father. Let us not only thank him because the days happily succeed each other, but always because sleep is ordained for our comfort and refreshment. Let reflections like these be the last which take place before sleep surprises and locks up our soul in silken fetters; and when morning dissolves the charm, let love and gratitude to God be the first emotion of our heart.

CHAP. XXI.

TOWN.

Towns are nurs'ries of the arts,

In which they flourish most; where, in the beams
Of warm encouragement, and in the eye

Of public note, they reach their perfect size.