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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 1
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 sooth 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.
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.
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.”
WHILE Night in solemn shade invests the pole,
And calm Reflexion soothes the pensive soul;
While Reason undisturb’d asserts her sway,
And life's deceitful colours fade away:
To Thee, all-conscious Presence I devote
This peaceful interval of sober thought;
Here all my better faculties confine,
And be this hour of sacred silence Thine.
If, by the day's illusive scenes misled,
My erring soul from Virtue's path has stray'd :
If, by example snar'd, by passion warm'd, -
Some false delight my giddy sense has charm'd;
My calmer thoughts the wretched choice reprove,
And my best hopes are center'd in thy love.
Depriv'd of this, can life one joy afford *
Its utmost boast a vain unmeaning word.
But ah! how oft my lawless passions rove,
And break those awful precepts I approve .
Pursue the fatal impulse I abhor,
And violate the virtue I adore
Oft, when Thy gracious SPIRIT's guardian care,
Warn'd my fond soul to shun the tempting snare,
My stubborn will His gentle aid represt,
And check'd the rising goodness in my breast,
Mad with vain hopes, or urg’d by false desires,
Still'd His soft voice, and quench'd His sacred fires.
With grief opprest, and prostrate in the dust,
Shouldst Thou condemn, I own the sentence just;
But, oh! Thy softer titles let me claim,
And plead my cause by Mercy's gentle name:
Mercy, that wipes the penitential tear,
And dissipates the horrors of despair;
From rig'rous justice steals the vengeful hour;
Softens the dreadful attribute of power;
Disarms the wrath of an offended GoD,
And seals my pardon in a SAVIOUR's blood.
All-pow'rful Grace, exert thy gentle sway,
And teach my rebel passions to obey:
Lest lurking folly with insidious art
Regain my volatile inconstant heart.
Shall every high resolve Devotion frames,
Be only lifeless sounds and specious names *
Oh, rather, while Thy hopes and fears controul
In this still hour each motion of my soul,
Secure its safety by a sudden doom,
And be the soft retreat of sleep my tomb.
Calm let me slumber in that dark repose,
*Till the last morn its orient beam disclose;
Then, when the great archangel's potent sound
Shall echo thro’ creation's ample round,
Wak'd from the sleep of death, with joy survey
The op'ning splendors of eternal day.
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,