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Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire,
Softens the high, and rears the abject mind;
Each other gift which God on man bestows,
Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay,
In happy triumph shall for ever live,
And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive As through the artist's intervening glass,
Our eye observes the distant planets pass,
A little we discover, but allow
That more remains unseen than art can show;
So whilst our mind its knowledge would improve
(Its feeble eye intent on things above),
High as we may we lift our reason up,
By Faith directed, and confirmed by Hope;
Dawnings of beams and promises of day.
Heaven's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight, Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light. But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispelled, The Sun shall soon be face to face beheld,
In all his robes, with all his glory on,
Then constant Faith and holy Hope shall die,
Whilst thou, more happy power, fair Charity,
Shalt stand before the host of heaven confest,
ROBERT BLAIR, eldest son of the Rev. David Blair, one of the ministers of Edinburgh, and chaplain to the king, was born about the year 1699. Having completed his education at the University of Edinburgh, he spent some time in continental travel, and after his return was ordained to the parish of Athelstaneford, in East Lothian, January 5th, 1731. He died of a fever, February 4th, 1746, and was succeeded in his incumbency by Home, the author of the tragedy of "Douglas."
Blair was a man of general and elegant attainments, "of sincere piety, and very assiduous in discharging the duties of his clerical function. As a preacher he was serious and warm, and discovered the imagination of the coet." To this verdict of his biographer, Dr. Anderson, it may be added, that as a poet he discovered the fervour
and directness of the preacher. His well-known poem in blank verse, called "The Grave," is "remarkable," says Craik," for its masculine vigour of thought and expression, and for the imaginative solemnity with which it invests the most familiar truths; and it has always been one of our most popular religious poems."
"O GRAVE! WHERE IS THY VICTORY ?"
But know that thou must render up thy dead,
Till the great promised day of restitution;
Then must thy doors fly open and reveal
The mines, that lay long forming under ground,
That twice has stood the torture of the fire,
The Son of God, thee foiled. Him in thy power
By proof so strong that the most slow assenting
Not for himself alone procures admission,
And a ne'er-setting sun? Fools that we are!
And smiled so sweet of late. Thrice welcome, Death! That after many a painful bleeding step
Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe
On the long wished-for shore. Prodigious change;
ISAAC WATTS, eldest of the nine chidren of a father of both his names, who kept a boarding-school of considerable repute at Southampton, was born in that town in July, 1674. Being a strict Nonconformist, and the son of parents who had suffered severely for the same religious opinions, he declined the offer made by some gentlemen of his native town to defray his expenses at one of the universities. In 1690 he repaired to London, to prosecute his education in the academy of Mr. Rowe, and in 1696 accepted the situation of tutor in the family of Sir John Hartopp. In 1702 he assumed the pastorate of a dissenting congregation in London, the duties of which his feeble health-and it was said of him by Whitefield, that for years together he might be said rather to gasp than to live-compelled him to relinquish. He went, in 1712, to reside with Sir Thomas Abney, and prolonged what was intended for a week's stay to a period of thirtysix years. This visit, in the thirtieth year of its duration, Lady Abney, to the credit of all parties, handsomely declared to have been the shortest her family ever received. Dr. Watts died at the house of the hospitable knight, November 25th, 1748.
In his blameless character, Dr. Johnson, in such a case likely to be cynical, could find no fault except his