ALEXANDER POPE.

LEXANDER POPE, the illustrious English poet, was born at London in 1688. His parents were Roman Catholics. In boyhood, he indicated strong poetical talent. Of a feeble constitution, and somewhat deformed in person, he chose the literary profession. His numerous poetical writings, which rapidly attracted public notice, acquired him the means of independence. His poetical translation of Homer has not been surpassed in felicity of diction. As an English satirist, he stands alone. His whole works have been edited more frequently than those of any other British writer, with the exception of Shakspeare. Pope died at his villa, Twickenham, in 1744.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying--
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper; angels say,
'Sister spirit, come away!'
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears
Heaven opens on my eyes-my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory!
O Death! where is thy sting!

WILLIAM COWPER.

SILLIAM COWPER was born in 1731, at Berkhamstead, Herts. His father was rector of the parish. Through family influence he secured the appointment of clerk in the House of Lords; but a nervous weakness, followed by a period of mental aberration, prevented his entering on the duties. As a relief to his habitual melancholy, he was induced to write verses, and the result has been his attaining an honoured place among British poets. In 1794 he obtained a literary pension from the crown. His death took place in April 1800. Of Cowper it has been frequently remarked, that he has not written a single line which, on his death-bed, he could have wished to expunge; yet to the close of life, he was oppressed by a deep spiritual despondency.

PROVIDENCE.

GOD moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sov'reign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for his grace :
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding ev'ry hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain :

God is his own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.

HUMAN FRAILTY.

WEAK and irresolute is man ;

The purpose of to-day,

Woven with pains into his plan,

To-morrow rends away.

The bow well bent, and smart the spring,
Vice seems already slain ;

But passion rudely snaps the string,
And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent,
Finds out his weaker part;
Virtue engages his assent,

But pleasure wins his heart.

'Tis here the folly of the wise,
Through all his art we view;
And, while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true.

Bound on a voyage of awful length,
And dangers little known;
A stranger to superior strength,
Man vainly trusts his own.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail,
To reach the distant coast,

The breath of heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost.

THE ENCHANTMENT DISSOLVED.

BLINDED in youth by Satan's arts,
The world, to our unpractised hearts
A flattering prospect shews;
Our fancy forms a thousand schemes
Of gay delights, and golden dreams,
And undisturbed repose.

So, in the desert's dreary waste,
By magic power produced in haste
(As ancient fables say),

Castles, and groves, and music sweet,
The senses of the traveller meet,
And stop him in his way.

But while he listens with surprise,
The charm dissolves, the vision dies-
'Twas but enchanted ground;
Thus, if the Lord our spirit touch,
The world which promised us so much,
A wilderness is found.

At first we start, and feel distressed,
Convinced we never can have rest
In such a wretched place;

But He, whose mercy breaks the charm,
Reveals his own almighty arm,

And bids us seek His face.

Then we begin to live indeed,

When from our sin and bondage freed,

By this beloved friend;
We follow him from day to day,
Assured of grace through all the way,
And glory at the end.

NEW-YEAR'S HYMN.

He lives, who lives to God alone,
And all are dead beside;
For other source than God is none,
Whence life can be supplied.

To live to God is to requite

His love as best we may;

To make His precepts our delight,
His promises our stay.