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sophical, but an eminently moral and religious one, has, from this view of his subject, deduced the most instructive lesson:

Behold, fond Man!

See here thy pictured life; pass some few years,
Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength,
Thy sober Autumn fading into age,

And pale concluding Winter comes at last,
And shuts the scene. Ah! whither now are fled
Those dreams of greatness, those unsolid hopes
Of happiness, those longings after fame,
Those restless cares, those busy bustling days,
Those gay-spent festive nights, those veering thoughts,
Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life?
All now are vanished! Virtue sole survives,
Immortal never-failing friend of man,
His guide to happiness on high.

The melancholy poet of the Night too, adducing the revolutions of Nature as evidences of the immortality of man, exhibits the following beautiful and instructive picture of the seasons:

Look Nature through, 'tis revolution all;
All change, no death. Day follows night, and night
The dying day. Stars rise, and set, and rise.
Earth takes th' example: see, the Summer gay
With her green chaplet and ambrosial flowers,
Droops into pallid Autumn. Winter gray,
Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm,
Blows Autumn and his golden fruits away,
Then melts into the Spring. Soft Spring, with breath
Favonian, from warm chambers of the south,
Recals the first. All, to reflourish, fades;
As in a wheel, all sinks, to reascend:
Emblem of man, who passes, not expires..

No. XIX.

ON SLEEP.

Somnus avaris,

Inserpit curis, pronusque per aëra nutat,
Grata laboratæ referens oblivia vitæ.

STATIUS.

Sleep steals away
The wild desires of men, and toils of day,
And brings, descending through the silent air,
A sweet forgetfulness of human care.

POPE,

MANKIND, without having recourse to extraordinary events, must acknowledge the wisdom and omnipotence of God, in a variety of instances which, to an inattentive observer, seem of small importance. The most common occurrences, the daily revolutions in nature and in our own bodies, are alone sufficient to enforce the strongest conviction that the world was created by an infinitely wise, powerful, and benevolent Being, who never ceases to govern and superintend the whole. Of the infinite variety of wonders of which He is the author, one alone shall be the subject of my present discussion; and, although it occurs every day, it does not the less merit to be observed, and to be the object of admiration.

If every day did not produce fresh instances of the ingratitude of mankind, we might, perhaps, be at a loss to know, why so liberal and impartial a bene factor as Sleep, should meet with so few historians or panegyrists. Writers, in general, are so totally absorbed by the business of the day, as never to turn their attention to that power, whose officious hand so seasonably suspends the burden of life; and with out whose interposition man would not be able to

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endure the fatigue of the most beneficial labour, or the struggles of the most successful opposition.

The poets, however, among all those that enjoy the blessings of sleep, seem to be exempted from this censure. How much Statius considered the evils of life as assuaged and softened by the balm of slumber, we may discover by the pathetic invocation which he poured forth in his waking nights. Virgil and Milton call Sleep the gift of Heaven. Ovid has deified Sleep, and having given a beautiful description of his house, makes Iris, the messenger of Juno, thus address him:

Somne, quies rerum, placidissime Somne Deorum, &c.

O sacred Rest,

LIB. XI.

Sweet pleasing Sleep, of all the powers the best!
O peace of mind, repairer of decay,
Whose balms renew the limbs to labours of the day,
Care shuns thy soft approach, and sullen flies away!

DRYDEN.

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Statius has likewise given a description of the House of Sleep; but Ariosto has not merely improved, but surpassed them both. Ovid, in particular, says there is no porter at the door; Custos in limine nullus. But Ariosto has greatly enriched the picture, by placing Oblivion and Silence as centinels before it.

Sotto la nera selva una capace

E spaziosa grotta entra nel sasso:
Di cui la fronte l'ed ra seguace
Tutta aggirando va con storto passo.
In questo albergo il grave Sonno giace;
L' Ozio da un canto corpulento, e grasso;
Da l'altro la Pigrizia in terra siedę;
Che non può andare, e mal reggersi in piede.

Lo smemorato Oblio stà sù la porta;
Non lascia entrar, non riconosce alcuno,
Non ascolta in basciata, nè riporta,
E parimente tien cacciato ogn' uno.

Il Silenzio va intorno, e fa la scorta;
Ha le scarpe di feltro, e'l mantel bruno;
Ed à quanti n'incontra di lontano,

Che non debban venir, cenna con mano.

My readers will be pleased, perhaps, with some more poetical eulogies of Sleep :

O sweet refreshing Sleep! thou balmy cure

Of sickness and of pain!

How has thy gentle power at length relieved me!
O soft oblivion of surrounding ills,

How grateful to th' afflicted are thy charms!

EURIP. BY HUGHES.

Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleeve of Care,
The death of each day's life, sore Labour's bath, :
Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast!

SHAKSPEARE.

Thou silent power, whose welcome sway

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Charms every anxious thought away;

:

In whose divine oblivion drowned,
Sore Pain and weary Toil grow mild,

Love is with kinder looks beguiled,

And Grief forgets her fondly cherished wound;
O whither hast thou flown, indulgent god?
God of kind shadows and of healing dews,
Whom dost thou touch with thy Lethæan rod?
Around whose temples now thy opiate airs diffuse?

AKENSIDE.

Haste, haste, sweet stranger! From the peasant's cot,
The ship-boy's hammock, or the soldier's straw,
Whence Sorrow never chased thee; with thee bring
Not hideous visions, as of late; but draughts
Delicious of well-tasted, cordial rest;
Man's rich restorative; his balmy bath,
That supples, lubricates, and keeps in play
The various movements of this nice machine,

Which asks such frequent periods of repair.

YOUNG.

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And Casa, in one of his sonnets, with the usual Italian assemblage of epithets, has this apostrophe:

O Sonno, O della quieta, umida, ombrosa
Notte, placido figlio!

O Sleep, sweet son of the peaceful, humid, umbrageous night!

In a word, to conclude, these instances of homage in the poets to 'the downy god,' Cowley, among the other felicities of his darling solitude, has not forgotten to number the privilege of sleeping without disturbance; and, among the gifts of Nature, he assigns a rank to the poppy, 'which is scattered (says he) over the fields of corn, that all the needs of man may be easily satisfied, and that bread and sleep may be found together'.'

How wonderful is it that a thinking being, who, in every diurnal revolution, experiences the sweet and invigorating refreshment of sleep, should never once reflect on his situation in those moments of temporary insensibility; or, at least, that he should never consider it as one of the most remarkable effects of the Divine Goodness! We have no ideas of any thing extraordinary, when sleep spreads its soft and benevolent influence over us. We are content to imagine, that this machine, our body, is

He wildly errs who thinks I yield
Precedence in the well-clothed field

Tho' mixed with wheat I grow;
Indulgent Ceres knew my worth,
And, to adorn the teeming earth,
She bade the POFPY blow.

Nor vainly gay the sight to please,
But blest with power mankind to ease,
The Goddess saw me rise :
'Thrive with the life-supporting grain,'
She cried, the solace of the swain,
'The cordial of his eyes.

Seize happy mortal, seize the good;
My hand supplies, thy sleep and food,
And makes thee truly blest:
With plenteous meals enjoy the day,
In slumbers pass the night away,

And leave to fate the rest,'

Adventurer, No, 39.

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