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In midst of danger, fear, and death,

Thy goodness I'll adore,
And praise thee for thy mercies past,

And humbly hope for more.

My life, if thou preserv'st my life,

Thy sacrifice shall be;
And death, if death must be my

doom,
Shall join my soul to thee.

SOLILOQUY

ON THE

IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

ADDISON.

IT mus

be

0-Plato, thou reason'st well! Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, this inward horror Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,

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And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untry'd being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we

pass! The wide, th’unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold-If there's a Pow'r above us, (And that there is, all nature cries aloud Through all her works) He must delight in virtue; And that which He delights in must be happy.

A

PARAPHRASE

ON

PART OF THE NINETEENTH PSALM.

ADDISON.'
THE spacious firmament on high, ,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangle: heavens, a shining frame,
Their Great Original proclaim:
Th’unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.

up

Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail,
The moon takes the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the list'ning earth
Repeats the story of her birth:
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confrm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball!
What though no real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found!
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing as they shine,
“ The Hand that made us is Divine."

THE

TIVENTY-THIRD PSALM.

ADDISON.

THE LORD my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care: His

my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye;

presence shall

My noon-day walks He shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountains pant;
To fertile vales, and dewy meads,
My weary wand'ring steps He leads;
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.

Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My stedfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O LORD! art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.

Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my pains beguile;
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.

CARDINAL WOLSEY'S

LAMENTATION OF HIS FALL.

SHAKESPEARE.

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FAREWEL, a long farewel to all my greatness!
This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope: to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon himn;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a rip'ning, nips his root:
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers, in a sea of glory,
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me
Weary, and old with service, to the misery
Of a rude stream, which must fur ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:
I feel my heart new open'd. O how wretched
Is that poor man thai hangs on princes' favours!
There is, betwixt that smile which we aspire to,
That sweet regard of princes and our ruin,
More pangs and fears than war and women know;

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