The Guards plac'd for the Chain's and Fleet's defence,
Long since were fled on many a feign'd pretence.
Daniel had there adventur'd, Man of might,
Sweet Painter! draw his Picture while I write.
Paint him of person tall, and big of Bone,
Large Limbs like Ox, not to be killed but shown;
Scarce can burnt Iv'ry feign a hair so black,
Or Face so red, thine Oker and thy Lack,
Mix a vain terror in his Martial look,
And all those lines by which men are mistook;
But when by shame constrain'd to go on Board,
He heard how the wild Cannon nearer roar'd,
And saw himself confin'd like Sheep in Pen,
Daniel then thought he was in Lions' Den:
But when the frightful Fire-Ships he saw,
Pregnant with Sulphur nearer to him draw,
Captain, Lieutenant, Ensign, all make haste,
E'er in the fiery Furnace they be cast;
Three Children tall unsing'd, away they row:
Like Shadrack, Mesheck and Abednego.
Each doleful day still with fresh loss returns,
The Loyal London now a third time burns,
And the true Royal Oak, and Royal James,
Ally'd in Fate, increase with theirs her flames.
Of all our Navy none should now survive,
But that the Ships themselves were taught to dive;
And the kind River in its Creek them hides,
Fraughting their pierced Keels with Ouzy sides;
Up to the Bridge contagious Terror struck,
The Tow'r itself with the near danger shook;
And were not Ruyter's Man with ravage cloy'd,
Ev'n London's ashes had been then destroy'd;
Officious fear, however to prevent

Our loss, does so much more our loss augment.
The Dutch had robb'd those Jewels of the Crown,
Our Merchant-men, lest they should burn, we drown:
So when the Fire did not enough devour,

The Houses were demolish'd near the Tow'r.
Those Ships that yearly from their teaming hole
Unloaded here the Birth of either Pole,

Fir from the North, and Silver from the West,
From the South Perfumes, Spices from the East;
From Gambo Gold, and from the Ganges Jems,
Take a short Voyage underneath the Thames:
Once a deep River, now with Timber floor'd,
And shrunk, less Navigable, to a Ford.

Now nothing more at Chatham 's left to burn,
The Holland Squadron leisurely returns;
And spight of Ruperts and of Albemarles,
To Ruyter's Triumph led the Captive Charles.
The pleasing sight he often does prolong,
Her Mast erect, tough Cordage, Timber strong,
Her moving shape, all these he doth survey,
And all admires, but most his easy Prey.
The Seamen search her all within, without,
Viewing her strength they yet their Conquest doubt;
Then with rude shouts secure, the Air they vex,
With gamsom joy insulting on her Decks;
Such the fear'd Hebrew Captive, blinded, shorn,
Was led about in sport, the publick scorn.
Black day accurst! on thee let no man hale
Out of the Port, or dare to hoyse a Sail,
Or row a Boat in thy unlucky hour,
Thee, the Years' Monster, let thy Dam devour;
And constant time to keep his course yet right,
Fill up thy space with a redoubled Night.
When aged Thames was bound with Fetters base,
And Medway chaste ravisht before his face,
And their dear Off-spring murder'd in their sight,
Thou and thy fellows held'st the odious light.
Sad chance since first that happy Pair was wed,
When all the Rivers grac'd their Nuptial bed,
And Father Neptune promis'd to resign.
His Empire old to their Immortal line;
Now with vain grief their vainer hopes they rue,
Themselves dishonour'd, and the Gods untrue;
And to each other helpless couple mourn,
As the sad Tortoise for the Sea does groan:
But most they for their darling Charles complain,
And were it burnt, yet less would be their pain.
To see that fatal pledge of Sea command,
Now in the Ravisher de Ruyter's hand;

The Thames roar'd, swooning Medway turned her tyde,
And were they mortal, both for grief had dy'd.
The Court in Fathering yet it self doth please,
And female Steward there rules the four Seas,
But fate does still accumulate our woes,
And Richmond her commands, as Ruyter those.
After this loss, to relish discontent,
Some one must be accus'd by punishment;
All our Miscarriages on Pett must fall,
His name alone seems fit to answer all

Whose counsel first did this mad War beget?
Who all Commands sold through the Navy? Pett.
Who would not follow when the Dutch were beat?
Who treated out the Time at Bergen? Pett.
Who the Dutch Fleet with storms disabled met?
And rifling Prizes them neglected? Pett.
Who with false News prevented the Gazette?
The Fleet divided, writ for Rupert? Pett.
Who all our Seamen cheated of their debt,
And all our Prizes who did swallow? Pett.
Who did advise no Navy out to Set?

And who the Forts left unprepared? Pett.
Who to supply with Powder did forget

Languard, Sheerness, Gravesend and Upnor? Pett.
Who all our Ships exposed in Chattham Nett?
Who should it be but the Fanatick Pett?

Pett, the Sea-architect in making Ships,

Was the first cause of all these Naval slips.
Had he not built, none of these faults had been;
If no Creation, there had been no sin;

But his great Crime, one Boat away he sent,
That lost our Fleet, and did our flight prevent.

JEAN BAPTISTE MASSILLON.

MASSILLON, JEAN BAPTISTE, a noted French pulpit orator; born at Hyères, June 24, 1663; died at Clermont, September 18, 1742. From the very outset he gave promise of distinction, but his retiring disposition led him to shrink from appearing in public; and he seems to have thought of assuming the vow of silence in a Trappist monastery. The Superior-General of the Oratory recalled him to the Congregation, first in Lyons, and afterward in Paris, where he soon became celebrated by his ecclesiastical Conferences. In 1699 he was called to the Church of the Oratory, in Paris, and preached the Advent Sermons before Louis XIV., at Versailles. His Lenten Sermons, the "Grand Carême," as they are called,— delivered in 1701, were greatly admired by the King, who invited him again in 1704. "Le Petit Carême," a course of ten sermons preached in the Lenten season of 1718, is the most celebrated of Massillon's works. Besides constantly preaching during the intervals between these courses of sermons, he delivered several funeral orations, notably that on Prince Conti, in 1709, and that on Louis XIV., in 1715. In 1717 Massillon was named Bishop of Clermont; but he was not consecrated until 1719. His last public funeral oration was that on the Duchess of Orleans, in 1723. His remaining years were occupied in the duties of his diocese.

GENERAL SOCIETY.

WHAT is the world for the worldlings themselves who love it, who seem intoxicated with its pleasures, and who are not able to step from it? The world?-It is an everlasting servitude, where no one lives for himself, and where to be blest one must be able to kiss one's fetters and love one's slavery. The world? -It is a daily round of events which awaken in succession, in the hearts of its partisans, the most violent and the most gloomy passions, cruel hatreds, hateful perplexities, bitter fears, devouring jealousies, overwhelming griefs. The world? It is a terri tory under a curse, where even its pleasures carry with them their thorns and their bitternesses; its sport tires by its furies

and its caprices; its conversations annoy by the oppositions of its moods and the contrariety of its sentiments; its passions and criminal attachments have their disgusts, their derangements, their unpleasant brawls; its shows, hardly finding more in the spectators than souls grossly dissolute, and incapable of being awakened but by the most monstrous excesses of debauchery, become stale, while moving only those delicate passions which only show crime in the distance, and dress out traps for innoThe world, in fine, is a place where hope, regarded as a passion so sweet, renders everybody unhappy; where those who have nothing to hope for, think themselves still more miserable; where all that pleases, pleases never for long; and where ennui is almost the sweetest destiny and the most supportable that one can expect in it.

This, my brethren, is the world: and it is not the obscure world, which knows neither the great pleasures nor the charms of prosperity, of favor, and of wealth, it is the world at its best; it is the world of the court; it is you yourselves who hear me, my brethren.

This is the world; and it is not, in this aspect, one of those paintings from imagination of which the resemblance is nowhere to be found. I am painting the world only after your own hearts; that is, such as you know it and always feel it yourselves to be. There, notwithstanding, is the place where all sinners are seeking their felicity. There is their country. It is there that they wish they could eternize themselves. This is the world which they prefer to the eternal joys and to all the promises of faith.

THE PRODIGAL SON.

THE vice the deadly consequences of which I am to-day undertaking to expose this vice so universally spread abroad on the earth, and which is desolating with such fury the heritage of Jesus; this vice of which the Christian religion had purged the world, and which to-day has prevailed on religion itself - is marked by certain peculiar characteristics, all which I find in the story of the wanderings of the Prodigal Son.

There is never a vice which more separates the sinner from God; there is never a vice which, after it has separated him from God, leaves him less resource for returning to Him; there is never a vice which renders the sinner more insupportable to himself; finally, there is not one which renders him more con