awe?

"Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth;
And all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

"What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball;
What though no real voice nor sound
Among their radiant orbs be found;
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
Forever singing, as they shine,
The Hand that made us is divine."

It seems to me those verses shine like the stars. They shine out of a
great, deep calm. When he turns to Heaven, a Sabbath comes over that man's
mind; and his face lights up from it with a glory of thanks and prayers.
His sense of religion stirs through his whole being. In the fields, in the
town; looking at the birds in the trees; at the children in the streets;
in the morning or in the moonlight; over his books in his own room; in a
happy party at a country merrymaking or a town assembly, good will and
peace to God's creatures, and love and awe of Him who made them, fill his
pure heart and shine from his kind face. If Swift's life was the most
wretched, I think Addison's was one of the most enviable. A life
prosperous and beautiful--a calm death--an immense fame and affection
afterwards for his happy and spotless name.

NOTES.--Goldsmith (see biographical notice, page 215) founded his
descriptions of Auburn in the poem of "The Deserted Village," and of
Wakefield, in "The Vicar of Wakefield," on recollections of his early home
at Lissoy. Ireland.

Addison. See biographical notice, page 295. The quotation is from a
"Letter from Italy to Charles Lord Halifax."

Swift, Jonathan (b. 1667, d. 1745), the celebrated Irish satirist and
poet, was a misanthrope. His disposition made his life miserable in the
extreme, and he finally became insane.

CXXIX. IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. (438)

SCENE--CATO, alone, sitting in a thoughtful posture;--in his hand,
Plato's book on the immortality of the soul; a drawn sword on the
table by him.

Cato. It must be so. Plato, thou reasonest well!
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and s