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The Memory has hitherto acted only in fubfer

vience to the senses, and so far man is not emi

nently distinguished from other animals : but, with

respect to man, she has a higher province; and is

often busily employed, when excited by no external

cause whatever.

She preserves, for his use, the

treasures of art and science, history and philoso.


phy. She colours all the prospects of life: for


we can only anticipate the future, by conclud

ing what is possible from what is past.'


her agency depends every effufion of the Fancy,

whose boldest effort can only compound or trans

pose, augment or diminish the materials which she

has collected and retained.

When the first emotions of despair have subsided,

and sorrow has softened into melancholy, she

amuses with a retrospect of innocent pleasures,

and inspires that noble confidence which results

from the consciousness of having acted well.

When fleep has fupended the organs of sense

from their office, she not only supplies the mind

with images, but assists in their combination.

And even in madness itself, when the foul is

resigned over to the tyranny of a distempered

imagination, she revives past perceptions, and awakens the train of thought which was formerly

most familiar.

Nor are we pleased only with a review of the

brighter passages of life; events, the most distress

ing in their immediate consequences, are often

cherished in remembrance with a degree of en


But the world and its occupations give a mecha

nical impulse to the passions, which is not very

favourable to the indulgence of this feeling. It is

in a calm and well-regulated mind that the Memory

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is most perfect; and solitude is her best sphere of

action. With this sentiment is introduced a Tale,

illustrative of her influence in solitude, sickness,

and sorrow. And the subject having now been

considered, so far as it relates to man and the

animal world, the Poem concludes with a conjec

ture, that superior beings are blest with a nobler

exercise of this faculty.

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the stream of Time I turn my sail,

To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours,

Bleft with far greener shades, far fresher flowers.

Ages and climes remote to Thee impart


What charms in Genius, and refines in Art;

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