O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain's head.
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies;
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light."

ANON.

EVENING THOUGHTS ON DEATH.

From Bowring's Matins and Vespers."

THE good man dies-it grieves us :

Why should the good man die ?

He dies-but, dying leaves us

A lasting legacy.

And this becomes our comforter;

And sweeter is the thought

Of him who is departed,

Than all that death has left :

No longer broken-hearted,

Deem that thou art bereft ;

For O! the good man's memory

Is sweeter far than aught.

No sorrows now disturb him,

No disappointment there;
No worldly pride to curb him
In his sublime career;
Heaven's azure arch is over him,
Earth's tranquil breast beneath.
The stars are brightly glowing,
The breezes play around,

The flowers are sweetly blowing,
The dew is on the ground,

And emerald mosses cover him:-
How beautiful is death!

His life a summer's even,

Whose sun of light, though set

Amidst the clouds of heaven,

Leaves streams of brightness yet;

And thus he sinks victoriously

Into his ocean throne:

Then darkness gathers round him

'Tis but a night :-again

He bursts the chains that bound him;

He rises from the main,

And marches heavenward gloriously,

In splendours of his own.

Yon gems so sweetly sparkling
On heaven's cerulean deep,
What time the twilight darkling
Bring's Nature's hours of sleep,
Are perhaps the bright receptacles
Of disembodied souls:
Of souls that, long desiring
Some more than mortal joy,
Burst in their proud aspiring,
And fix themselves on high;
And on this earth look tenderly,
That low beneath them rolls.

Yes! in those orbs of glory
Methinks I see the ray
Which wisdom's sages hoary
Have scatter'd o'er my way,
With brighter wisdom perfected,
All strength-all purity.
In yonder gentle star-light
I see the holy tear,

Glistening in fair though far light,
Which once consol'd me here-
Till I was left in wretchedness,
And none to weep with me.

Roll on, fair worlds! and over
Earth's vale your torches blend :--
In each my thoughts discover
Smiles of some cherish'd friend,
Whose melancholy pilgrimage
Wearies the heart no more.

0
yes ! I hear their voices,
O yes! their forms I see;
And then my soul rejoices,
And, raptured, seems to be
Their momentary visitant;
But soon the dream is o'er.

I'll build a fane elysian
Among those towers divine,
And there in hallow'd vision,
When gloomy thoughts are mine,
Will soar in gloomy ecstacy-
There shall my joys be stored;
And there my soul reposing
On contemplation's breast,
When earthly scenes are closing,
Shall find a place of rest,
And leave this lowly solitude
Forgotten-undeplored.

LETTER

FROM

DR JOHNSON TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

MY LORD,

February, 1755.

I HAVE been lately informed by the proprietor of the WORLD, that two papers in which my Dictionary is recommended to the publick, were written by your Lordship. To be so distinguished, is an honour, which, being very little accustomed to favours from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge. When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your Lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address; and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre ;—that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending; but I found my attendance so little encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to coptinue it. When I had once addressed your Lordship in publick, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing, which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all that I could; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little.

Seven years, my Lord, have now passed, since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron before.

The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and found him a native of the rocks.

Is not a patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind: but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the publick should consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence has enabled me to do for myself.

Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been long wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted myself with so much exultation, my Lord, your Lordship's most humble, most obedient servant, SAM. JOHNSON.

THE

CABINET;

OR

THE SELECTED BEAUTIES OF

LITERATURE.

PART III.

CONTAINING

TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

STANZAS. POLYCARPA SALABARRIETA. DREAMS.
PEACE AND WAR.

ELEGY. THE VOICE OF SPRING. A TRUE STORY.
A TALE OF TRUE LOVE.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

CANZONETTO. UNFORESEEN PLEASURES. TEMPLETON.
A POET'S EPITAPH.

REMEMBRANCE. THE PAINS OF SLEEP. MORTALITY.

The Stout Gentleman.

THE LAST HOURS OF SIR WALTER RAWLEIGH.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
STANZAS. SONNET. LEONORA.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

We have still to apologize for the non-insertion of many valuable pieces; but we trust our correspondents will have a little patience. The tale by Napoleon Bonaparte will certainly appear in our next number.

Each weekly Number of the CABINET contains Sixteen Pages, closely and beautifully printed on Crown Octavo; and its object being to select and combine all the scattered excellence of our Literature, every Number contains an interesting Tale, and other Pieces in PROSE and VERSE, of decided merit.

A Title and general Index will be given with the last Number of each volume, when the titles of the different Parts may be cancelled.