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In vain we seek a heaven below the sky;

The world has false but flattering charms :
Its distant joys show big in our esteem,
But lessen still as they draw near the eye;

In our embrace the visions die :
And when we grasp the airy forms,

We lose the pleasing dream.

Earth, with her scenes of gay delight,

Is but a landscape rudely drawn,
With glaring colours, and false light;
Distance commends it to the sight,

For fools to gaze upon ;
But bring the nauseous daubing nigh,
Coarse and confus'd the hideous figures lie,
Dissolve the pleasure, and offend the eye.

Look up, my soul, pant tow’rd th' eternal hills;

Those heavens are fairer than they seem;
There pleasures all sincere glide on in crystal rills,
There not a dreg of guilt defiles,

Nor grief disturbs the stream.
That Canaan knows no noxious thing,

No cursed soil, no tainted spring,
Nor roses grow on thorns, nor honey wears a sting.


I am not concern'd to know
What to-morrow fate will do ;
"Tis enough that I can say,
I've possess'd myself to-day :
Then if haply midnight death
Seize my flesh, and stop my breath,
Yet to-morrow I shall be
Heir to the best part of me.

Glittering stones, and golden things,
Wealth and honours that have wings,
Ever fluttering to be gone,
I could never call my own:
Riches that the world bestows,
She can take, and I can lose;


But the treasures that are mine
Lie afar beyond her line.
When I view my spacious soul,
And survey myself a whole,
And enjoy myself alone,
I'm a kingdom of my own.

I've a mighty part within
That the world hath never seen,
Rich as Eden's happy ground,
And with choicer plenty crown'd.
Here on all the shining boughs,
Knowledge fair and useful grows ;
On the same young flowery tree
All the seasons you may see;
Notions in the bloom of light,
Just disclosing to the sight;
Here are thoughts of larger growth,
Ripening into solid truth;
Fruits refin'd, of noble taste;
Seraphs feed on such repast.
Here, in a green and shady grove,
Streams of pleasure mix with love:
There beneath the smiling skies
Hills of contemplation rise;
Now upon some shining top
Angels light, and call me up;
I rejoice to raise my feet,
Both rejoice when there we meet.

There are endless beauties more Earth hath no resemblance for; Nothing like them round the pole, Nothing can describe the soul : 'Tis a region half unknown, That has treasures of its own, More remote from public view Than the bowels of Peru ; Broader 'tis, and brighter far, Than the golden Indies are; Ships that trace the watery stage Cannot coast it in an age ; Harts, or horses, strong and feet, Had they wings to help their feet, Could not run it half way o'er In ten thousand days and more.

Yet the silly wandering mind,
Loth to be too much confin'd,
Roves and takes her daily tours,
Coasting round her narrow shores,
Narrow shores of flesh and sense,
Picking shells and pebbles thence:
Or she sits at fancy's door,
Calling shapes and shadows to her,
Foreign visits still receiving,
And t' herself a stranger living.
Never, never would she buy
Indian dust, or Tyrian dye,
Never trade abroad for more,
If she saw her native store;
If her inward worth were known,
She might ever live alone.


The heavens invite mine eye,

The stars salute me round;
Father, I blush, I mourn to lie

Thus grovelling on the ground.
My warmer spirits move,

And make attempts to fly;
I wish aloud for wings of love

To raise me swift and high.
Beyond those crystal vaults,

And all their sparkling balls; They're but the porches to thy courts,

And paintings on thy walls
Vain world, farewell to you;

Heaven is my native air:
I bid my friends a short adieu,

Impatient to be there.
I feel my powers releas'd

From their old fleshy clod;
Fair guardian, bear me up in haste,

And set me near my God.

John Philips, the son of Dr. Stephen Philips, Archdeacon of Salop, was born at Bampton, Oxfordshire, in 1676. He was educated at Winchester school, from whence he removed to Christ Church College, Oxford, where he obtained a very high character, and where he employed his time in studying the older poets,-directing his more especial attention to the Paradise Lost.

His intention was to adopt the profession of physic; and he had devoted much of his care to botany, and other branches of natural history; but this pursuit he abandoned, when, in 1703, he published the Splendid Shilling. It gave him at once the reputation which science so much more tardily achieves, and introduced him to Bolingbroke, at whose request, and in whose house, he wrote the poem commemorating the battle of Blenheim. It was published in 1705, and obtained considerable popularity, although Addison had already enlightened the town by verse upon the same subject. The great theme, however, inspired neither of the two Poets. Blenheim is a dull, heavy, and spiritless composition; and the reader is at times persuaded that the author was indulging his taste for the burlesque rather than the heroic. Indeed the writer appears to be aware of his unfitness for the task, and speaks of himself as having

To sing Britannick trophies, inexpert

of war, with mean attempt." A subject more within the scope of his genius was soon afterwards presented to him. In 1706 he published the poem upon Cider, written on the model of the Georgics-a poem of which Dr. Johnson, usually so chary of praise, has said, “it need not shun the presence of the original.” A wide popularity followed the appearance of this work; but the writer did not long live to enjoy it. He died of consumption, at Hereford, in 1708, and was buried in the cathedral of that city; a monument was erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey.

He was a man modest, blameless, and pious; who bore narrowness of fortune without discontent, and a tedious and painful illness without impatience; beloved by all who knew him, but not ambitious to be known. He died honoured and lamented, in the full zenith of his fame. Such is the character drawn of him by his friend Dr. Sewell. A poet, Edmund Smith, has preserved one equally favourable.

". Though learn'd, not vain, and humble though admir'd.

To all sincere ; though earnest to commend,
Could praise a rival, or condemn a friend ! "

We have named the three poems on which depend the fame of John Philips. He wrote but one other,- Cerealia,-an encomium upon the influence of “nappy ale." It is weak, and there is no certainty that it emanated from his pen. The Splendid Shilling, the earliest of our parodies, is still considered as one of the happiest specimens of the burlesque. On its first appearance it startled the world as something new. Its humour is quiet and droll; the treatment of so rude a subject in the lofty Miltonic style and measure, was a bold attempt; but as the writer was then totally unknown, the risk of failure which he incurred was very slight. We cann find in it the talent that others have found; while his poem of Cider, which has been generally regarded as of far less merit, to us appears a production of the highest and rarest order. It is at once “a book of entertainment and of science." It communicates a vast quantity of knowledge in a form the most agreeable and impressive; there is, indeed, no point or circumstance connected with the subject upon which the author has not offered some comment, and given some explanation ; passing from essays on the nature and culture of the soil, to rural sports, when labour is over,-from the seasons, their changes and effects, to the industry of the husbandman and the skill of the mechanic,- from the growth of the tree to the treatment of the varied fruit it bears,--and always with a grace, easy, unforced, and natural. The poem is, like the subject of it, essentially English--the style is nervous, clear and comprehensive; the writer, if rarely enthusiastic, is always satisfactory; and the reader derives exceeding pleasure as well as ample information from its perusal.

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Thus naught is useless made; nor is there land But what or of itself or else compellid Affords advantage. On the barren heath The shepherd tends his flock, that daily crop Their verdant dinner from the mossy turf Sufficient; after them the cackling goose, Close grazer, finds wherewith to ease her want. What should I more? Ev'n on the cliffy height Of Penmenmaur, and that cloud-piercing hill Plinlimmon, from afar the traveller kens Astonish'd how the goats their shrubby browse Gnaw pendent; nor untrembling canst thou see

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