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Hast thou the Gospel rightly prized,
And ne'er its sacred truths despised ?
Say, hast thou kept thy heart from sin ?
Has all been pure and right within ?
Didst thou in secret always be
As seeing Him who seeth thee?
The past, review'd with solemn care,
Will call for penitence, and prayer
To Him alone who can forgive,
And bid the penitent to live.

TO REFLECTION.
While from the busy haunts of men I rove,

Their folly, noise, and riot leave behind,
And wander far among the scenes I love,

Do thou enlighten and expand my mind. What worlds on worlds unnumber'd round me roll Their glorious orbs, and speak their Maker's

praise : How great, magnificent, sublime the whole !

Then in my breast devotion's altar raise. Bring with thee Charity, sweet dove-ey'd maid !

And Pity, weeping at another's pain;
Let Hope attend thy train, with uprais’d head;

So shall my heart the heaving sigh restrain.
Oh ! lead me oft where want and sickness lie,

Forsaken by the proud, the rich, the gay: Tho' low my state, I can afford a sigh;

Tho' poor, to misery I've a tear to pay. Be it my pride within my humble sphere

To lend to drooping age the aiding hand ! To wipe from Misery's eye the gushing tear,

Nor e'er the still small voice of Grief withstand.

Oh, blest sensations ! balm to feeling minds !

To comfort and to soothe the couch of woe, The lux’ries which the good man ever finds,

Be they my lot, let them my heart o'erflow. Thus by thy aid my days shall glide away,

Nor riches, fame, nor honours do I crave; Cheer'd by thy smile, I'll chaunt my pensive lay,

And steal, contented, to my humble grave.

BEAUTY SHORT-LIVED.

The morning flowers display their sweets,

And gay their silken leaves unfold,
As careless of the noon-tide heats,

And fearless of the evening's cold.
Nipt by the wind's untimely blast,

Parch'd by the sun's directer ray,
The momentary glories waste,

The short-liv'd beauties die away.
So blooms the human face divine,

When youth its pride of beauty shows;
Fairer than spring the colours shine,

And sweeter than the new-blown rose.
But worn by slowly rolling years,

Or broke by sickness in a day,
The fading glory disappears,

The short-lived beauties die away.
Yet these, new rising from the tomb,

With lustre brighter far shall shine;
(If goodness in the life did bloom,).

Safe from diseases and decline.
Let sickness blast, let death devour,

So heaven but recompense our pains ;
Perish the grass, and fade the flower,

If firm the word of God remains,

CONTENTMENT.-Parnell.
LOVELY, lasting peace of mind,
Sweet delight of human kind!
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek contented head?
Lovely, lasting Peace appear!
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden bless'd,
And man contains it in his breast.
'Twas thus, as under shade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And, lost in thought, no more perceiv'd
The branches whisper as they wav'd :
It seem'd, as all the quiet place
Confess'd the presence of the Grace;
When thus she spoke" Go, rule thy will,
“ Bid thy wild passions all be still,

Know God, and bring thy heart to know
“ The joys which from Religion flow :
“ Then ev'ry grace shall prove its guest,
“ And I'll be there to crown the rest.”

ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.Beattie. Still shall unthinking man substantial deem The forms that fleet through life's deceitful dream? On clouds, where Fancy's beam amusive plays, Shall heedless Hope his towering fabric raise? ”Till at Death's touch th’ ideal glories fly, And real scenes rush dismal on the eye? O ye, whose hours in jocund train advance, Whose spirits to the song of gladness dance; O yet, while Fate delays th' impending woe, Be rous'd to thought, anticipate the blow; Lest, like the lightning's glance, the sudden ill Flash to confound, and penetrate to kill : Lest, thus encompass'd with funereal gloom, Like me, ye bend o'er some untimely tomb,

groves!

Pour your wild ravings in Night's frighted ear,
And half pronounce Heaven's sacred doom severe.
Wise! beauteous! good !-- every grace combin'd,
That charms the eye, that captivates the mind !
Fair, as the flow'ret opening on the morn,
Whose leaves bright drops of liquid pearl adorn!
Sweet, as the downy-pinion's gale, that roves
To gather fragrance in Arabian
Mild, as the strains, that at the close of day
Warbling remote, along the vales decay !
Yet, why with those compared ? what tints so fine,
What sweetness, mildness, can be match'd with

thine ?
Why roam abroad? Since still, to Fancy's eyes,
I see, I see thy lovely form arise.-
Ah whither fled !---ye dear illusions stay!
Lo, pale and silent lies the lovely clay!
All cold the hand, that soothed Woe's weary

head! All quench'd the eye, the pitying tear that shed ! All mute the voice, whose pleasing accents stole, Infusing balm into the rankled soul! O Death, why arm with cruelty thy power, Why spare the weed, yet crop the lovely flower ! Why fly thy shafts in lawless error driven ! Is Virtue then no more the care of Heaven? But peace, bold thought! be still, my bursting

heart! We, not Eliza, felt the fatal dart. 'Scaped the dark dungeon does the slave complain, Nor bless the hand that broke the galling chain? O happy stroke, that bursts the bonds of clay, Darts through the rending gloom the blaze of day, And wings the soul with boundless flight to soar, Where dangers threat, and fears alarm no more.

ODES.

ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM

VICISSITUDE.-Gray. Now the golden Morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, With vermeil cheek and whisper soft, She woos the tardy spring ; 'Till April starts, and calls around The sleeping fragrance from the ground,

, And lightly o'er the living scene Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. New-born flocks, in rustic dance, Frisking ply their feeble feet; Forgetful of their wintry trance, The birds his presence greet; But chief, the sky-lark warbles high His trembling thrilling ecstasy ; And, lessening from the dazzled sight, Melts into air and liquid light. Yesterday, the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Mute was the music of the air, The herd stood drooping by; Their raptures now that wildly flow, No yesterday nor morrow know; 'Tis man alone that joy descries With forward and reverted eyes. Smiles on past Misfortune's brow Soft Reflection's hand can trace,

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