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The original of them we may suppose to be this. God being pleased to admit the holy patriarchs into conference with him, the devil endeavoured to do the same ; and, to retain men in their obedience to him, he pretended to make discoveries of secrel things. Again, when God was pleased to work miracles for the confirmation of the crutin, the devil in like manner, directed those who were familiar with him how to invoke his help, for the performance of such strange things, as might confirm the world their error,

There are two ways, wherein we may imagine it in the devil's power to be assistant to such persons, as pretend to work miracles. First, by rising false images and appearances of things; which may be done, either by, affecting the brain, or confusing the optic nerves, or altering the medium, which is between us and the object. Secondly, he may be supposed able to assist magicians, by making use of the laws of patare, in producing effects, which are not above the natural power of things; though they certainly exceed what man can do. Thus, to transport a body, with inconceivable rapidity, from one place to another; to bring together different productions of nature, which, separately, have no visible effect, but when united, work wonders to make images meve, walk, speak, and the like; these may come within the compass of the devil's power, because not transcending the laws of nature: though we cannot discern by what means they are efiected.

There is a farther supposition of some learned men; that, under the divine permissio!), wicked spirits have a power to work real miracles, of which ibey perceive some intimations given in scripture. See Deut. xiii. 1. Matt. xxiv. 24. 2 Thess. ii. 9.




From these black regions, these infernal plains,
Where God's just wrath in dreadful triumph reigns ;
To thee, accursed! these doleful lines I write,
Lost as I am, and plunged in endless night.
Thus will I vent my unrelenting rage,
And pour my curses on the blacken'd page :
And, while iny woe-born numbers grating roll,
Give a full loose to all my fiend-like soul;
Think not, detested wretch, t'escape thy doom ;
Hell moves to ineet thee; hell thy destin'd home.

While yet from these distracting torments free,
I liv'd a stranger to myself, and thee;

Thy guileful arts allur'd me first astray,
And turn'd my steps from virtue's flow'ry way :
Taught me through labyrinths of sin to run,
And form’d my heart a picture of thy own.
Snard by thy wiles, impassion'd by thy song,
With heedless haste, I inadly préss'd along;
A threatening God, with blasphemies, denied,
His precepts slighted, and his power defied.
To thee, Lorenzo, all these pangs I owe,
And tears of blood, that must forever flow.
In an ill moment snatch'd from earth away,
A guilty exile from the realms of day.

Ye powers ! seize him, send your lightnings forth ;
And instant sweep him shrieking from the earth;
lo tbese blue flames immerse his blacken'd soul,
Where I may see him writhe, and hear him bowl:
This comfort on my tortur'd soul bestow :
Ilis cries shall somewhat mitigate my woe.

Didst thou not teach me once to scorn these chains, And laugh at “ bell's imaginary pains ?” O could I but one dismal glance impart, And pour a flaming torrent to thy heart! My fellow-ghosts your awful doom declare, And howl, in horrid poles, the pains ye bear; Unfold your anguish, all your tortures tell, And paint a dreadful picture of this hell.

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But, why would my infernal pen reveal
What my impenitent companions feel?
Let me my own sad destiny relate,
And thou, Lorenzo, tremble at my fate!
Amid distracting tortures, racks and chains,
Încessant bowlings, and eternal pains;
With grim despair, I make my dark abode,
Beneath the terrors of an angry God;
Whose flaming shafts transfix my trembling soul,
While lightnings blaze around, and thunders roll.
To everlasting darkness here confin'd,
A thousand sad reflections haunt my mind;
And vex my self-torinented spirit more
Than all the racks on this detested shore.
Here groupes of hideous demons round me wait,
Sport with my paags, and ridicule my fate.
Now full before my sick'oing sight they place
The record of my sins, and my disgrace:
Now, offered mercies to my mind recall,
And tell me, how I madly scorn'd them all.
Then pierce my bosom with a fiery dart,
Or, with sharp talons tear my bleeding heart;
Mock my tormented soul, with anguish wrung,
" And toss my infamy from tongue to tongue;"
While stung with the insufferable wound,
Furious I rave, and bite the burning ground.

Still to imbitter all the woes I feel,
And aggravate the cruel pains of hell ;

Far from my gloomy cavern I beheld
Heav'ns glorious frontiers, bright with burnish'd gold.
Where, God, in grandeur, all bis pomp displays,
And high-born seraphs swell the song of praise.

I too, with them, had trod yon shining plain, Where endless joy, and peace celestial reign; Had not my youth, by thy false friendship led, Pursued thy steps ! - Perdition on thy head! Wben will the hour arrive, to wast thee o'er, And give thy spirits to this doleful shore? May thronging demons round the bed appear, And breathe their curses in thy tingling ear; Whisper the horrid secrets of thy doom. Then furious drag thee to thy loathsome bome! And, when arriv'd on this terrific plain, Thou hearst me clash my adamantine chain : Before my ghost thy frighted soul shall flee, And find no fury half so fierce as me. Swift I'll pursue thee to thy dark retreat, And tear thy heart from its unhallow'd seat ; Thrice dip it deep where flaming billows roar, And thrice P'll dash it on the glowing shore ; Then fling it blazing to the furies' scorn, Midst clouds of snifocaling suludur borne ; Whose ready bands, warne'i hy iny vengeful look, Shall fix it quiverint to some burning rock; That every passing fiend may turl his dart, And pierce it with unutterable smart : While I pursue thee through the dreary shade, And pour my keep reproaches on thy head; Blast thy sick sight, sting thee with fiercest pain, And furious dash thee with my sparkling chain. Where'er thou turn'st, my angry ghost shall tly, And haunt and curse thee througla eternity.


ONCE, on a time, a certain man was found,
That had a Pond of Water in bis ground;
A fine large Pond of Water, fresh and clear,
Enough to serve bis turn for many a year.
Yet so it was,--a strange unhappy dread
Of wanting water, seized the fellow's head:
When he was dry, he was afraid to drink
Too much at once, for fear bis pond should sink.
Perpetually tormented with this thought,
He never ventured on a hearty draught:
Still dry, still fearing to exhaust bis store,
When half refresh'd, he frugally gave o'er;
Reviving of bimself, reviv'd his fright;-
Better, quoth he, to be half choakt than quite.
Upon his pond continually intent,
In cares and pains, his anxious life he spent;
Consuming all his tine, and strength away,
To make the pond rise higher every day ;

Ile work'd and slav'd, and--Oh! how slow it alls ! “ Pour'u in by pailfulls, and took oul--by gills!"

In a wet season, he would skip about, Placios, bus buckets under every spoul; From falling showers, collecting fresh supply, Aud grudging every cloud--that passed by ; Cursin the dryness of the tiines, each bour, Althu' it rain'd as fast as it could pour. Then he would wade thro' every dirty spot, Where any little moistur^ cord be got; And when he had dune draining of a bog, Still kept himself as dirty as a hog : And cry'd, whene'er folks blam'd hirn, “ What do you mean? “ It costs a world of water, iu be clean!” If some poor neighbour crav'd to slake his thirst, “Whai-rob my pond? I'll see the regue hang'd first : “ A burving shame, these vermin of the poor “ Should creep unpunished thos about my door! “ As if I had not frogs, and toads enoo', " That suck iny pond, whatever I can do?"

The sun still found him as he rose or set, Always in quest of matters--that were wet : Betimes be rose to sweep the morning dew, And rested late to catch the evening too. With soughs, and troughs, he laboured to enrich The rising pond, from every neighbouring ditch : With souglis, and troughs, and pipes, and cuts and sluices, From growing plants he craind the very juices; Made every stick of wood upon the hedges, Of good behaviour to deposit pledges ; By some conveyance, or another, still Devis'd recruits from each declining hill: He left, in short for this beloved plunder, No stone uplurn'd--that could have water under.

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Sometimes--when forc'd to quit his aukward toil,
Ind, --sore against his will,-- to rest awhile ;
Then strait he took his book, and down lie sat
To calculate the expenses he was at;
How much he suffer'd, at a inoderate guess,
From all those ways by which the pond grew less :
For az to those by which it still grew bigger,
For them he reckond, ---Dot a single figure ;
He knew a wise old saying which majotained,
That'twas bad luck to count what one had gained.

First for myself,-my daily charges here
Cost a prodigious quantity a year;
Altho', thank heaven, I never boil my meat,
Nor am I such a sinner as to sweat.
But things are come to such a pass, indeed,
We spend ten times the water that we need ;
People are grown, with washing, cleansing, rincing,
So finical and nice, past all convinciog ;
So many proud, fantastic modes, in short,
Are introduced, that my poor pond pays for't.


Not but I could be well enough content
With what, upon my own account, is spent :
But those large articlos, from whence I reap
No kind of proñt, strike me on a heap;
What a vast deal, each moment, at a sup
This ever thirsty earth itself drinks up!
Such holes ! and gaps! alas! my pond provides
Scarce for its own unconscionable sides :-
Nay, how can one imagine it should thrive,
So many creatures as it keeps alive
That creep from every book and corner, marry
Filcbing as much as ever they can carry
Then all the birds that fly along the air
Light at iny pond, and come in for a share
Item, at every puff of wind that blows,
Away at once ;--the surface of it goes
The rest, in exhalations to the sun
One month's fair weather, and I am undone

This life he led for many a year together ;
Grew old, and grey, in watching of the weather!
Meagre as death itself, till this same death
Stopt, as the saying is, his vital breath:
For, as the old fool was carrying to his field
A heavier burden, than he well could wield,
Ile missd his fooling, or somehow he furnbled
In tumbling of it in--but in he tumbled;
Mighty desirous to get out again,
He scream'd and scrambled, but 'twas all in vain
The place was grown so very deep and wide,
Nor bottom of it could he feel, nor side,
And so, 'ith' middle of his pond-he died.

What thivk you now, from this imperfeet sketch,
My friends, of such a miserable wresch?
"Why 'tis a wretch, we think of your own making,
"No fool can be supposed in such a taking:
** Your own warm fancy.”_Nay, but warm, or cool,
The world abounds with many such a fool:
The choicest ills, the greatest torments, sure,
Are those, which numbers labour to endure.
"What, for a pond !»--Why call it an ESTATE;
You change the Name, but realize the Fate.

The Brahman priests of a Hindoo college, confuted upon the sub

ject of their religion, by the Rev. Wr. Thomas.

In the month of January, 1792, I was returning from a journey on the River Ganges, and hoped by one tide more to reach Calcutta, but the tide flowing sooner than I expected, I was obliged to come to, about eight miles short of that place. It was about the middle of the day, and I thought to take a soļitary walk on shore. On landing, I saw no town or village

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