glorious firmament of Heaven. His imagination in the boldness of its flight, may visit unseen worlds, numerous as particles of floating dust, until wearied in its boundless course, it may at last rest in silent awe before the throne of Him who created them.

Were we

Oh! cold indeed must be the feelings of that man who can contemplate all these objects without emotion. But the ordinary term of human life would neither be sufficient to learn nor to relate in detail, all the interesting works of creation. able to attempt a narration of them, the decrepitude of age might steal over us, and still our task would be but commenced. The dull, cold ear of death would at last remain insensible to the voice that might be addressed to it, in continued utterance of the exhaustless descriptions. But the pleasing hope may animate us, that gathered from time to eternity and joining with the worshipping host of Heaven, it may constitute a part of our happiness, as all seeing, celestial spirits, to rejoice in beholding clearly and comprehensibly, and not as now "through a glass darkly," with the feeble vision of montal eyes, the interminable display of the wondrous works of our great Creator.

211

PETTIQUAMSCOTT.*

BY EMMA ROBINSON.

WHAT e'er can warm the imagination,
Please the eye, or charm the ear;
In enchanting variation,

Bounteous nature lavished here.

Pious awe and sweet composure
This sequestered gloom inspires,
And from this secure enclosure
Every ruder thought retires.

Here the waters idly sporting,
Fondly woo the grassy shore;
And more calm recesses courting,
Shun the ocean's stormy war.

Here, more tranquil joys pursuing,
Pettiquamscott steals away;

Oft his peaceful course reviewing,
Winds along with sweet delay.

Moss-grown rocks their heads erecting,
Heighten still the pleasing gloom;

And their circling flowers protecting,

Bid them unmolested bloom.

Near Point Judith.

1785.

Here the birds the sunbeams flying,
Nature's inspiration sing;

Echo to their voice replying,

Makes the neighboring valleys ring.

This fair spot with partial pleasure,
Pettiquamscott's arms entwine;
Leaves with pain his favorite treasure,
Parting feels regret like mine.

Soon again thy waves returning,
Shall embrace this peaceful shore;
Fate my fondest wishes spurning

Bids me different scenes explore.

Follow still thy sweet employment

Wave ye woods, ye oceans roar;
You shall give sublime enjoyment,
When your Emma is no more.

THE CULTIVATION OF TASTE.

BY THE REV. WILLIAM HAGUE.

THE importance of cultivating a correct taste for natural and moral beauty has often been inculcated by the novelist and philosopher, the preacher and the poet. Its effects prove its worth. It expands the mind and refines the heart, it alleviates the ills

of life, and multiplies its joys, it soothes the agitations of the troubled bosom and throws a genial sunlight around the calm and placid spirit; it constantly opens new and pleasing paths of pursuit, leads to new springs of happiness, and diffuses its own fresh charm around the whole creation. He who has cultivated as he may, his natural susceptibility of deriving delight from the beautiful in nature or the sublime in morals, the lights of science or the charms of art, has within himself a source of high enjoyment, which delivers him from the thraldom of gross appetite, the corrosion of petty cares, and the many irritations which arise amid the hurry and tumult of life. The more delicate his taste becomes, the more nice is he in his discrimination of character, the more keenly alive to the pleasures of friendship, the more susceptible of the soft and tender emotions, the more delighted with tranquil scenes, the more disposed to calm reflection. He has a zest for joys of which others do not dream, and even the character of his sorrows is peculiar, for they are changed into an agreeable melancholy which soothes the heart that feels its weight, and has a natural affinity for all that is exalted in genius, or tender in sympathy, or commanding in moral greatness, or glowing in fancy. Such an one, though familiar

with the world in which the worldling lives, yet lives himself in a world which we may call his own. He sees glories around him to which others are blind. He hears a music, which others do not hear. He feels a rapture which is real, but which he can not communicate, and in which only kindred minds can sympathize. Not that the elements of his nature differ from those others, only they are differently developed. The boor who gazes at night upon the vaulted firmament, sees nothing there but "twinkling lamps to light him home." The man of cultivated taste sees worlds on worlds, an "infinite amaze," a scene of wondrous order and magnificence, proclaiming the Creator's presence and making known that he is Love; the moon walking in her brightness,

And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth,

While all the stars around her burn,
And all the planets in their turn
Confirm the tidings as they roll

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

But while the importance of cultivating good taste may be conceded in general terms, the question may arise, what is good taste? Is there any thing fixed in its character? Are there any established principles by which it is governed? Is there any