the performance of those conditions on which, he was told, his future welfare depended; but, in so doing, he had an opposition to encounter wholly unexpected, and for which he was even at a loss to account. By thus devoting his chief attention to his chief interests, he excited the surprise, the contempt, and even the enmity of most of the inhabitants of the city; and they rarely mentioned him but with a term of reproach, which has been variously rendered in all the modern languages.

Nothing could equal the stranger's surprise at this circumstance; as well as that of his fellow citizens appearing, generally, so extremely indifferent as they did to their own interests. That they should have so

little prudence and forethought as to provide only for their necessities and pleasures for that short part of their existence in which they were to remain in this planet, he could consider only as the effect of disordered intellect; so that he even returned their incivilities to himself, with affectionate expostulation, accompanied by lively emotions of compassion and amazement.

If ever he was tempted for a moment to violate any of the conditions of his future happiness, he bewailed his own madness with agonizing emotions: and to all the invitations he received from others to do any thing inconsistent with his real interests, he had but one answer,---"Oh," he would say, "I am to die---I am to die."

The Honourable Mr. Spencer's elegant poetical dialogue between How d'ye do and Good bye, probably suggested the beautiful stanzas entitled,

NOW AND THEN.

In distant days of wild romance,

Of magic mist and fable;

When stones could argue, trees advance,

And brutes to talk were able;

When shrubs and flowers were said to preach,

And manage all the parts of speech:

'Twas then, no doubt, if 'twas at all,
(But doubts we need not mention,)

That THEN and Now, two adverbs small,
Engaged in sharp contention;

But how they made each other hear,
Tradition doth not make appear.

THEN was a sprite of subtile frame,
With rainbow tints invested;
On clouds of dazzling light she came,
And stars her forehead crested;
Her sparkling eye of azure hue,

Seem'd borrow'd from the distant blue,

NOW rested on the solid earth,
And sober was her vesture;
She seldom either grief or mirth
Express'd by word or gesture;
Composed, sedate, and firm she stood,
And look'd industrious, calm, and good.

THEN, sang a wild fantastic song,
Light as the gale she flies on :
Still stretching, as she sail'd along,

Towards the fair horizon;

Where clouds of radiance, fringed with gold,

O'er hills of emerald beauty roll'd.

Now, rarely rais'd her sober eye

To view that golden distance;

Nor let one idle minute fly

In hope of THEN's assistance;

But still, with busy hands, she stood,
Intent on doing present good.

She ate the sweet but homely fare

That passing moments brought her;
While THEN, expecting dainties rare,
Despised such bread and water:
And waited for the fruits and flowers
Of future, still receding hours.

Now, venturing once to ask her why,
She answer'd with invective;

44 ATHENEUM VOL. 2. 2d series.

And pointed, as she made reply,
Towards that long perspective
Of years to come, in distant blue,
Wherein she meant to live and do.

"Alas," says she, "how hard your toil,
With undiverted sadness:

Behold yon land of wine and oil,---
Those sunny hills of gladness;
Those joys I wait with eager brow,"
"And so you always will," said Now.

"That fairy land, that looks so real,
Recedes as you pursue it ;
Thus while you wait for times ideal,
I take my work and do it;

Intent to form, when time is gone,
A pleasant past to look upon."

"Ah, well," said THEN, "I envy not
Your dull fatiguing labours;

Aspiring to a brighter lot,

With thousands of my neighbours,
Soon as I reach that golden bill;"---
"But that," says Now, "you never will.”

"And e'en suppose you should," said she,
"(Though mortal ne'er attain'd it,)---
Your nature you must change with me
The moment you had gained it:
Since hope fulfill'd, (you must allow,)

Turns Now to THEN, and THEN to Now."

We must not indulge in further citations; and yet, there is one poem which, equally on account of the theme, and the manner in which it is treated, we cannot pass over. It is the tender and touching effusion of a congenial spirit on visiting the garden and summer-house of Cowper.

On VISITING COWPER'S GARDEN, and SUMMER HOUSE at OLNEY.

Are these the trees ?---Is this the place?
These roses, did they bloom for him?
Trod he these walks with thoughtful pace?
Pass'd he amid these borders trim!

Is this the bower ?---a humble shed

Methinks it seems for such a guest ?
Why rise not columns, dome-bespread,
By art's elaborate fingers drest?

Art waits on wealth ;---there let her roam---
Her fabrics rear, her temples gild:
But Genius, when he seeks a home,
Must send for Nature's self to build.

This quiet garden's humble bound,
This homely roof, this rustic fane,
With playful tendrils twining round,
And woodbines peeping at the pane :---

That tranquil, tender sky of blue,
Where clouds of golden radiance skim,
Those ranging trees of varied hue---
These were the sights that solaced him.

We stept within :---at once on each
A feeling steals, so undefined;
In vain we seek to give it speech---
'Tis silent homage paid to Mind.

They tell us here he thought and wrote,
On this low seat---reclining thus;

Ye garden breezes, as ye float,

Why bear ye no such thoughts to us ?

Perhaps the balmy air was fraught
With breath of heaven ;---or did he toil
In precious mines of sparkling thought
Conceal'd beneath the curious soil?

Did zephyrs bear on golden wings
Rich treasures from the honied dew?
Or are there here celestial springs
Of living waters whence he drew?

And here he suffer'd !---this recess,
Where even Nature fail'd to cheer,
Has witness'd oft his deep distress,
And precious drops have fallen here!

Here are no richly sculptured urns
The consecrated dust to cover;

But Nature smiles and weeps, by turns,

In memory of her fondest lover.

THE COMPLAINT OF THE DYING YEAR.
AN ALLEGORY. BY JANE TAYLOR.

Reclining on a couch of fallen leaves, wrapped in fleecy mantle, with withered limbs, hoarse voice, and snowy beard, appears a venerable old man. His pulse heats feebly, his breath becomes shorter; he exhibits every mark of approaching dissolution.

This is old Eighteen Hundred and Seventeen; and as every class of readers must remember him a young man, as rosy and blithesome as themselves, they will, perhaps, feel interested in hearing some of his dying expressions, with a few particulars of his past life. His existence is still likely to be prolonged a few days by the presence of his daughter December, the last and sole survivor of his twelve fair children; but it is thought the father and daughter will expire together. The following are some of the expressions which have been taken down as they fell from his dying lips:

--

"I am," said he, "the son of old father Time, and the last of a numerous progeny ; for he has had no less than five thousand eight hundred and seventeen of us; but it has ever been his fate to see one child expire before another was born. It is the opinion of some, that his own constitution is beginning to break up, and that, when he has given birth to a hundred or two more of us, his family will be complete, and then he himself will be no more.'

Here the Old Year called for his account book, and turned over the pages with a sorrowful eye. He has kept, it appears, an accurate account of the moments, minutes, hours, and months which he has issued, and subjoined, in some places, memorandums of the uses to which they have been applied, and of the losses he has sustained. These particulars it would be tedious to detail, and perhaps the recollection of the reader may furnish them as well or better; but we must notice one circumstance; upon turning to a certain page in nis accounts, the old man was much affected, and the tears streamed down his furrowed cheeks as he examined it. This was the register of the forty-eight Sundays which he had issued and which, of all the wealth he had to dispose of, has been, it appears, the most scandalousty wasted. "These," said he, "were my most precious gifts. I had but fifty-two of them

to bestow. Alas! how lightly have they been esteemed!" Here, upon referring back to certain old memorandums, he found a long list of vows and resolutions, which had a particular reference to these fifty-two Sundays. This with a mingled emotion of grief and anger, he tore into a hundred pieces, and threw them on the embers, by which he was endeavouring to warm his shivering limbs.

"I feel, however," said he, "more pity than indignation towards these offenders, since they were far greater enemies to themselves than to me. But there are a few outrageous ones, by whom I have been defrauded of so much of my substance, that it is difficult to think of them with patience, particularly that notorious thief Procrastination, of whom every body has heard, and who is well known to have wronged my venerable father of much of his property. There are also three noted ruffians, Sleep, Sloth, and Pleasure, from whom I have suffered much; besides a certain busy-body called Dress, who, under pretence of making the most of me, and taking great care of me, steals away more of my gifts than any two of them.

"As for me, all must acknowledge that I have performed my part towards my friends and foes. I have fulfilled my utmost promise, and been more bountiful than many of my predecessors. My twelve fair children have, each in their turn, aided my exertions; and their various tastes and dispositions have all conduced to the general good. Mild February, who sprinkled the naked boughs with delicate buds, and brought her wonted offering of early flowers, was not of more essential service than that rude blustering boy, March, who, though violent in his temper, was well-intentioned and useful.--April a gentle tender-hearted girl, wept for his loss, yet cheered me with many a smile. June came crowned with roses, and sparkling in sunbeams, and laid up a store of cost

y ornaments for her luxuriant successors: But I cannot stop to enumerate the good qualities and graces of all my children. You, my poor December, dark in your complexion, and cold in your temper, greatly resemble my first-born January, with this

difference, that he was most prone to anticipation, and you to reflection.

"If there should be any, who, upon hearing my dying lamentation, may feel regret that they have not treated me more kindly, I would beg leave to hint, that it is yet in their power to make some compensation for their past conduct, by rendering me, during my few remaining days, as much service as is in their power; let them testify the sincerity of their sorrow by an immediate alteration in their behaviour. It would give me particular pleasure to see my only surviving child treated with respect : let no one slight her offerings: she has a considerable part of my property still to dispose of, which, if well employed, will turn to good account. Not to mention the rest, there is one precious Sunday yet in her gift; it would cheer my last moments to know that this had been bettor prized than the past.

"It is very likely that, at least after my decease, many may reflect upon themselves for their misconduct towards me to such I would leave it as my dying injunction, not to

waste time in unavailing regret; all their wishes and repentance will not recal me to life. I shall never, never return! I would rather earnestly recommend to their regard my youthful successor, whose appearance is shortly expected. I cannot ho e to survive long enough to introduce him; but I would fain hope that he will meet with a favourable reception; and that, in addition to the flattering honours which greeted my birth, and the fair promises which deceived my hopes, more diligent exertion and more persevering efforts may be expected. Let it be remembered, that one honest endeavour is worth ten fair promises."

Having thus spoken, the Old Year fell back on his couch, nearly exbausted, and trembling so violently as to shake the last shower of yellow leaves from bis canopy. Let us all hasten to testify our gratitude for his services, and repentance for the abuse of them, by improving the remaining days of his existence, and by remembering the solemn promises we made him in his youth.

How swiftly pass our years!
How soon their night comes on!
A train of hopes and fears,
And human life is gone!

See the fair SUMMER NOW is past;
The foliage late that clad the trees,
Stript by the equinoxial blast,

Falls, like the dewdrops on the breeze!

Cold WINTER hastens on!

Fair Nature feels his grasp;
Weeps o'er all her beauties gone,
And sighs their glory past

So, LIFE, thy Summer soon will end,
Thine Autumn too will quick decay,
And Winter come, when thou shalt bend
Within the tomb to mould away.

But Summer will return,

In all her beauties dressed!
Nature shall rejoice again,
And be by man caressed!

But, oh! Life's summer passed away,
Can never, never hope return!

Cold winter comes, with cheerless ray,

To beam upon its dreary urn!

Then may we daily seek
A mansion in the skies,
Where Summers never cease,
And glory never dies!

There an eternal SPRING sball bloom,

With joys as vast as angels' pow'rs!

And thrice ten thousand harps in tune

Shall praise the love that made it ours.

PHENOMENON ON THE DEVONSHIRE COAST.

A CIRCUMSTANCE took place

on a part of the maritime coast of this county, on Wednesday or Thursday, the 13th or 15th July (for my informant, though an intelligent seaman, could not recollect the exact day), which you will, no doubt, think deserving the attention of your philoso

phical readers, and I therefore com

municate to you the details I received of this phenomenon from the respectable person above mentioned, who seems to have observed it with peculiar ac curacy.

The weather had been fine for some days preceding this event, the winds