How flew the moments! How did time expire
How quick the clock-bell warned me to retire!
Bid me withdraw, and quit the gladd'ning dome,
And hie in silence to my stated home.

Frequent, where once I trained my little school,
In nightly dreams I rule, or seem to rule,
Censure a whisper, or a laugh reprove,

And try their honor, or their shame to move;
Tell them of comets, with their fright'ning blaze;
Trace their mistakes, or emulation raise,

Point out the faults of Alexander's scheme,

Inspect a letter, or review a theme,

Or mend a pen, or hear a class recite,

Or lecture misses, that they all may write. [i. e. letters.] Sometimes, invited to a social ring,

I hear them prattle, or I hear them sing;

Or sit and muse in thoughtfulness profound,

In sullen silence, while the dance moves round.

These once were real scenes-alas, they're fled !
With what celerity the moments sped!

These once were real scenes. No more they'll rise,
But when kind Morpheus seals my weary eyes.

Thus through the world, from scene to scene we run,
Our pleasures ending ere they're well begun;
And when we strive some fancied bliss to gain,
Th' expected transport sickens into pain.
The rose and lily, that in spring so gay,
Pour their sweet fragrance on the lap of May,
Must shortly wither, and their charms decay.
Thus does fond man a few swift moments bloom,
Then sinks forgotten to the mould'ring tomb!
The beauteous nymph, whose unaffected smile
May hush our sorrows, or our woes beguile;
Whose soul is softness; and whose sense-fraught eyes
May shame the stars, that cheer Hesperian skies;
Whom every grace and every charm adorn ;
Who seems an angel in a female form;
May, instantaneous, lose her vital breath,
Pierced from the quiver of relentless death.
But should the despot spare the fatal blow,
Till fourscore years in quick succession flow,
Yet, long ere she this period attain,

Her days are sorrow, and her nights are pain.
Care after care heaps wrinkles on her face;
Charm after charm forsakes her form apace;
Old age advances to augment her sighs,
Bows down her body, and bedims her eyes;
Till, quite bereft of every friend and stay,
She sinks unsolaced from the face of day.

FRAMINGHAM.

What then is life, that we should wish to live?
And what are charms, that do not time survive?
What all the joys, to this dark world confined,
And what the pleasures that pollute the mind?
- Perhaps a moment, or perhaps an age,
May intervene, before we quit the stage;
Perhaps ten thousand, or a single day,
Before we leave these tenements of clay.
A few more times our heaving lungs may swell,
Our throbbing hearts a few more pulses tell;
A few more times the clock bell's faithful tone
May tell vain mortals that an hour is gone;
A few more times our table may be spread,
To nourish nature with our daily bread;
A few more times the sun may ope the day,
And smiling Luna pour her evening ray;
A few more tides may wash the cozy shore,
And screaming owlets distant dirges pour;
A few more times the day we style the Lord's,
May call attention to the preacher's words;
A few more funerals may bedew our eyes,
A few more wonders fill us with surprise;
A few more whims may set our souls on fire;
A few more insults swell our breasts with ire;

49

The above is thus abruptly closed, because the remainder is lost. This may serve as a specimen of his poetic compositions. Others might be presented, at different periods, of perhaps higher merit, but most of them either present nothing directly to the purpose of his history, or contain personal allusions, which it is needless to obtrude on the reader's notice. He did not, however, attempt so much in the way of poetry as some might expect from so ardent a lover of the genuine productions of the etherial

art.

About this period, I find among his papers an excellent prayer, filling two sheets, and evidently composed to aid him in his preparations to lead in the public devotions of a religious assembly. I mention the fact for the purpose of remarking on the probable effect of such an exercise on what was considered as his eminent "gift in prayer." I recollect once hearing him urge the importance of studying propriety, adaptedness, and variety of expression, in public prayers; and that the frequent exercise of writing prayers, was admirably fitted to the attainment of this end in young ministers and others who may be called to lead in the devotions of God's people. The object was not to

write a single prayer or two, and commit them to memory. This would rather promote a dull formality, which is one of the chief things to be avoided by the exercise. The individual should write many prayers, from time to time, but commit none of them to memory. In this way he will acquire a propriety and copiousness of utterance on the great and more general topics of prayer. He should also make the very act of writing, a devotional exercise in itself. In so doing, he will avoid the greatest objection to the thing, that of making so solemn a business the work of the mere intellect, instead of the heart. So done, it may and it will be a delightful season of devotion; an hour spent in praying with the heart and with the understanding also.'-To what extent my brother followed this practice, I know not, as the manuscript before me is the only proof I have that he ever did it, though I have long known what he thought of the utility of the exercise.

But while my brother was in favor of such methods for the improvement of extempore prayer, he was decidedly opposed to the use of set forms of prayer, as having a direct tendency to destroy the very life and soul of genuine devotion, as well as to prevent all appropriateness to peculiar

ccasions.

Under date of April 5, 1800, he writes to a friend as follows:

"Miss H- A has been here several days. I have spent many very agreeable hours in her company, notwithstanding my own conscious insignificancy from a sense of her superior knowledge. I find her a very different character from what I once imagined. As to her knowledge, my former idea was right; but I little dreampt of finding her possessed of so delicate a taste and a sensibility so lively. How is it, E., that my preconceived opinions of persons, have almost always been wrong? Whenever, from hearsay, I have formed a very good or a very bad opinion of any person, upon personal acquaintance it has almost invariably proved the reverse. Suffice it to say, there have been exceptions.

"Miss A.'s History has afforded me much entertainment. I think it an excellent book for a social library, and worthy the perusal of every American, male or female.

AT FRANKLIN.-AT CAMBRIDGE.

51

"I have lived here six months, with scarcely any society or social intercourse, but what I have found in the house. Comparatively speaking, I have hardly set foot in a neighbor's door all the while. Though not ambitious to form new acquaintances, I have not forgotten my old ones. Yet I do not live in a hermitage. I have as much company, perhaps, on the whole, as is for my advantage; and it is such as is very far from being disagreeable. Here I can enjoy conversation, either serious, solid, or cheerful.

"I feel more and more confirmed in my resolution not to attempt any more poetry. Some days ago, however, I wrote a few lines without thinking of my purpose, but I soon recollected myself. I have burnt some of my manufactured rhymes, and the rest, except a few that I have had the weakness to put out of my power, are in the most imminent danger of conflagration."

About the middle of the next month, we find him at Cambridge, where he went with the intention of remaining six months as resident graduate of the college. Here he pursued his studies, and, as I am informed by gentlemen then at the college, occasionally read a dissertation before the students in the chapel, as was incumbent on all the theological students. While at Cambridge, he was probably guided in his studies by Dr. Tappan, a divine essentially of the old school, and then professor of divinity in the college.

After leaving the academy at Framingham, as appears from numerous letters now before me, he kept up a correspondence, for some years, with several of his former pupils. These letters afford ample evidence of his lasting friendship to his pupils, and the pleasure he still felt in prompting and guiding the improvement of their minds. I have already made extracts from some of these letters, and shall give some more, though the proposed limits of this work will compel me to omit the greater part. I find him frequently giving liberty to the individual addressed, to show his communication to others of his former charge, as his object was that of communicating what benefit and rational pleasure he could to all of them. The following long extract will illustrate several points in his history at this period, while it may afford instruction to some on topics of serious moment,

Cambridge, Oct. 30, 1800.

I believe, N., I never before sat down to write you a letter, when I felt so undecided respecting matter to compose it. I do not plead penury of ideas. Like Elihu, the son of Barachel the Buzite, I am full of matter. I feel as though I could write the remainder of this century, and yet leave many things unwritten, which I would gladly communicate. The difficulty is to select, rather than to conceive materials. To write a volume, like my last, would greatly interfere with the discharge of many important duties. A few hasty pages are all I can consistently promise you. I could begin with myself, and give you a particular account of the occurrences which have diversified my life, since I saw you last. Many of these have been important and interesting. I hope they have left good impressions on my heart, and will have a happy influence in forming it to virtue, as well as in improving and enlarging my understanding. I could tell you how many excellent books I have read, and how many I wish to read. I could give you a particular account of the origin, progress, and termination of my correspondence with Miss E. P., whom I never saw. I could take up much time and paper in describing and characterizing my correspondents, with whom you are not acquainted. I could relate the intentions I have formed, and the plans I have laid, to visit my friends in Framingham, and probably offer a satisfactory reason for altering my mind. I could give you an account of the visit I have lately made to Newburyport, and faintly describe the emotions which I felt at viewing the grave of Eliza Whitman (Wharton) yesterday in Dan

vers.

But leaving the relation of the things above mentioned for the present, and perhaps forever, I will converse with you a while respecting the contents of a letter, which a few hours ago I had the gratification to receive—which gratification, as I instantly knew the hand-writing, was not increased, even when I saw your name at the end of three long pages. As I cannot be very particular, a few brief observations must suffice for this time.

Like yourself and many others, I once thought it much easier to reconcile our freedom with God's foreknowledge, than with his decrees. A more close examination of the matter has induced me to believe otherwise. I have not