To EUSEBIUS, from a Deist.

WHERE shall I find rest? The wide creation denies it. I have run through all the varieties of human folly, and searched every vanity below the sun. I have tried what was to be found in madness; women, wine, and frolic have divided my hours; and I am now trying what satisfaction Wisdom and Philosophy can yield. You have made me at last a convert to natural religion, and turned me into a sort of a virtuous Heathen. Morality in its practice is no longer my aversion; I begin to think reason and immortality the highest advantages of humanity. That there is a God, all Nature cries aloud through all her works; and while I am attending those sacred dictates, in such raptures as these I often address myself,

To the unknown GOD.

Whate'er thou art, thou Excellence unknown! 'Tis thee through all thy various works we seek : These secret languishments, these fierce desires, Howe'er licentious, free and unconfin'd,

Pursue unseen an object infinite;

Through ev'ry fair disguise the leading God

Allures our eager souls: that rosy blush,

Those sparkling eyes, and soft enchanting smiles,
Receiv'd their charms from thee. Beauty is thine,

In all its conq'ring powers: in thee

We trace up Pleasure to its sacred source.

We meet thee in the balmy western breeze,
The fragrance of the Spring, the spicy isles,
And all Arabia breathes its sweets from thee.
From harmony to harmony we rise
To that superior skill which tun'd the spheres,
Gave melody to Gabriel's heavenly lyre,
And ev'ry moving grace to Rolli's song.

Whatever sacred force in Music lyes,

The dying strain that calms the wildest care,
Or loftier note that prompts to glorious deeds;
Th' inspiring God dwells in the mystic sound,
And charms and captivates the list'ning Soul
Through all her soft capacities of joy.

But what art thou, the secret spring of Life,
Supreme in all perfections, though unknown?
More lovely than the fairest of thy works;
For thou art still beyond similitude.

Still rising with distinguish'd eminence,
In perfect beauty and unrivall'd glory.

But what those beauties, what those glories, are No mortal eye has seen, nor boldest flight Of Fancy, in her gaiest scenes, conceiv'd. Some soft celestial echoes from afar, Some glimm'ring rays, with a reflected light, Atract our souls, and kindle warm desires, Impetuous wishes, and aspiring hopes, Which own no bounds, but, infinitely free, Break through created limits with contempt, And seek the great Original of bliss.

But, oh! if Love-if Love's the boasted name,

And darling attribute, reveal thyself,

Unfold the heav'nly wonders of thy face,

And stand in open majesty confess'd?

Why was I form'd with these aspiring thoughts

That reach at nothing short of God himself?
If 'tis a bliss impossible to man,

If thou wilt never fill these vast desires,

Why were they rais'd? this eminence of thought
Is but my torment.-Oh! recall again

This glorious curse, this thankless gift, my reason!
This immortality, my dread! my horror!

Far rather had I flourish'd in a plant,

And only reach'd a vegetable life,
Open'd my blossoms to the rising sun,

And dropp'd their beauties ere the evening close;
Or had I mounted with the feather'd race
In heights of air, or with my fellow brutes
At freedom rang'd the trackless desert o'er,
Slept in a den, or stretch'd my careless bulk
Secure in open fields, heedless of good
Or evil past, or present, or to come!

Oh, envy'd lot to mine! if I must live
Eternal years excluded from thy face,
Be it in earth, or air, or in the deep,
Where thou art absent ev'ry place is hell!

The fields and woods are often witness to these soliloquies, while I fly from man to converse with the great spirit of Nature; for you have at last convinced me of a Divine Presence, with whose immensity I am surrounded. To this conscious Mind I sometimes address myself; with pleasure I grow acquainted with this propitious Being, and adore him as the spring of my existence. I seem to find some new capacities of happiness awake in my soul. I languish for some unknown joys, some yet unexperienced pleasures, and grow confident, that the Powers who raised these desires will at last

gratify them. That silence that self-reflection and retirement, that was lately my horror, is now become my delight; while I am attending the dictates of Reason, and sincerely endeavouring to know the will of that Divine Mind, who must be too beneficent to leave me in my present doubts, while I am sincerely seeking the heavenly illumination.

Thus far, my dear Eusebius, your arguments have had success. I have the highest obligations to you for not suffering me to degrade myself into the rank of animals, and for persuading me to assume the dignity of a reasonable creature, that capacity I am your most humble servant,

LETTER V.

In

PHILANDER.

To Mrs ****, from AMORET, giving an account of her criminal passion for SEBASTIAN.

Madam,

How shall I begin? what language can paint the confusion of my thoughts? which, could you be sensible of, it would be some apology for the fatal secret I would discover. I am yet but a modest sinner, and can neither excuse nor dare disguise my guilt from one who, till now, has shared all the secrets of my soul.

Oh, think what I would say imagine what it is I find such reluctance to discover, and which I

must discover, though it costs me all your esteem? your esteem, which has been my pride and happiness but even that I will resign rather than suffer you to injure your own character by a continuance of that frienship I have forfeited.

I am not that modest innocent person you believe me; there is no disguising my infamy, nor recovering my lost honour.

I know you are surprised; you hardly credit me; you would fain believe I have belied myself; and what I have told you is the effect of spleen, melancholy, any thing but truth. Would to Heaven that it was all frenzy and wild imagination! that I were innocently unhappy! that I had lost my reason and kept my virtue!

Oh, heav'nly Virtue! thine's a sacred flame,

And still my soul pays homage te thy name.

Ye chaste and holy thoughts, that once possessed my soul, return again! return, ye smiling scenes of innocence and peace! Ye secret Consolations of religion! ye gentle Whispers of conscience! speak peace again to my unquiet breast!

I have not yet begun my fatal story:-Oh, let it never be told! let it be lost in eternal oblivion!--but that is impossible, it is registered on my heart.

In what dark cavern shall I hide my head?
Where seek retreat, now Innocence is filed?

If my penitence had obtained pardon from Hea