STANZAS.

"I am fearfully and wonderfully made."

Fond Atheist! could a giddy dance
Of atoms, lawless hurl'd,
Produce so regular, so fair,
So harmoniz'd a world?

Why not Arabia's driving sands,
The sport of ev'ry storm,

A palace here, the child of chance,-
Or there, a temple form?

Presumptuous wretch! thyself survey, Thy lesser fabric scan ;

Tell me from whence th' immortal dust,

The God, the reptile, Man?

Where wert thou, when the embryo earth

From chaos burst it's way?

When stars, exulting, sung the morn,

And hail'd the new-born day?

Or tell me whence the seedy speck,

The miniature of man,

Nurs'd in the womb, and fill'd with life,

It's primal course began?

What fingers brace the tender nerves,

The twisting fibres spin;

Who clothes in flesh the hard'ning bone, Or weaves the silken skin?

Why chanc'd the head and tender heart, Life's more immediate throne,

Where fatal ev'ry touch, to be

Immail'd in solid bone?

Where learnt the liver to digest
The silver floods of chyle,

And in it's proper vase confine
The saffron-colour'd bile?

Who taught the wand'ring tides of blood To leave the vital urn,

Visit each limb in purple streams,

And faithfully return?

How know the lungs to heave and pant;

Or how the fringed lid

To guard the fearful eye, and brush
The sully'd orb unbid?

How came the nerves to know the will The hinged limbs to wield,—

The tongue ten thousand tastes discern, Ten thousand accents build?

How delicate the mazy ear,
To image every sound!

The eye to catch the pleasing view,
Or feast on scenes around!

Who taught the sympathetic mind

Or

Another's woe to prove,

gave the heart of man to feel

Each fond entrance of love?

Avaunt conceit! and learn to know
The time's approaching near,
When each must answer for himself,
While list❜ning angels hear.

000

NOTE. The Editor believes these lines may have appeared in print before, but hopes apology is unnecessary for their insertion in a letter upon a similar subject.

LETTER VII.

EUGENIA to ALBERT.

YOUR objections are so multiplied, my dear Albert, that were it not for the appearance of defeat, which I am far from allowing, I should no further contend the point, upon which you appear as inflexible as your "little casuist." To pursue the subject, therefore: - You say, that "hope, upon which I dwell with such constant repetition, is not, cannot be, of sufficient power to determine men to the observance of morality, and to subject them to the sacrifices imposed by virtue.” But I would ask, why in this single instance, does the hope of happiness cease to be a stimulus?