846.-DEATH. Sure 'tis a serious thing to die! My soul, What a strange moment it must be, when near Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view! That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd For part they must: body and soul must part; Fond couple! link'd more close than wedded pair. This wings its way to its Almighty Source, The witness of its actions, now its judge: That drops into the dark and noisome grave, Like a disabled pitcher of no use. Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746. 847.-THE GRAVE. Death's shafts fly thick!-Here falls the village-swain, And there his pamper'd lord!-The cup goes round; And who so artful as to put it by? Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand Digs through whole rows of 'kindred and acquaintance, By far his juniors.-Scarce a skull's cast up, But well he knew its owner, and can tell Some passage of his life. Thus hand in hand The sot has walk'd with death twice twenty years; And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs louder, Or clubs a smuttier tale: when drunkards meet, None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand More willing to his cup.-Poor wretch he minds not, That soon some trusty brother of the trade Shall do for him what he has done for thousands. On this side, and on that, men see their friends Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers In the world's hale and undegenerate days Could scarce have leisure for.-Fools that we are ! Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones! The very turf on which we tread once lived; The shivering Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor; Here the proud prince, and favourite yet prouder, His sovereign's keeper, and the people's scourge, Are huddled out of sight.-Here lie abash'd Here the o'er-loaded slave flings down his burden From his gall'd shoulders ;-and when the cruel tyrant, With all his guards and tools of power about him, Is meditating new unheard-of hardships, Mocks his short arm,-and, quick as thought, escapes Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest. Lie close; unmindful of their former feuds. Of a span long, that never saw the sun, 849.-THE RESURRECTION. Even the lag flesh Rests, too, in hope of meeting once again Its better half, never to sunder more. Nor shall it hope in vain :-the time draws on, When not a single spot of burial earth, Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale. Ask not how this can be ?-Sure the same power That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down, Can reassemble the loose scatter'd parts, Through length of days: and what he can, he will: His faithfulness stands bound to see it done. When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust, Not unattentive to the call, shall wake; been absent, With haste runs over every different room, In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting! Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more. 'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night; We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day, Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears away. Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746. 850. THE ROSE. How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower, The glory of April and May! But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day. Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, Above all the flowers of the field; When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colours lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield! So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, Though they bloom and look gay like the rose; But all our fond care to preserve them is vain, Time kills them as fast as he goes. Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty, Since both of them wither and fade; But gain a good name by well-doing my duty; This will scent like a rose when I'm dead. Dr. Watts.-Born 1674, Died 1748. 851.-A SUMMER EVENING. How fine has the day been, how bright was the sun, How lovely and joyful the course that he run, Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun, And there followed some droppings of rain! But now the fair traveller's come to the west, His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best; He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest, And foretells a bright rising again. Just such is the Christian; his course he begins, Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins, And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines, And travels his heavenly way : But when he comes nearer to finish his race, Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace, And gives a sure hope at the end of his days, Of rising in brighter array. Dr. Watts.-Born 1674, Died 1748. Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains As custom leads the way: Not sordid souls of earthly mould, So two rich mountains of Peru Not the mad tribe that hell inspires On Ætna's top let furies wed, Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms With osiers for their bands. Not minds of melancholy strain, Can the dear bondage bless : Nor can the soft enchantments hold Two jarring souls of angry mould, The rugged and the keen: Samson's young foxes might as well In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, With firebrands tied between. Nor let the cruel fetters bind For love abhors the sight:" Two kindest souls alone must meet, Dr. Watts.-Born 1674, Died 1748. 852.-FEW HAPPY MATCHES. Say, mighty Love, and teach my song, To whom thy sweetest joys belong, And who the happy pairs Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Find blessings twisted with their bands, To soften all their cares. 853. THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. When the fierce north wind, with his airy forces, Roars up the Baltic to a foamy fury; comes Rushing amain down, You, whose capacious powers survey How flat your highest praises fall Great God forgive our feeble lays, 855.-NIGHT. These thoughts, O Night! are thine; From thee they came like lovers' secret sighs, While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign, In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere, Her shepherd cheered; of her enamoured less Than I of thee. And art thou still unsung, Beneath whose brow, and by whose aid, I sing? Immortal silence! where shall I begin? Where end? or how steal music from the spheres To soothe their goddess? O majestic Night! Nature's great ancestor! Day's elder born! Wrought through varieties of shape and shade, In ample folds of drapery divine, Thy flowing mantle form, and, heaven through. out, Voluminously pour thy pompous train: Thy gloomy grandeurs-Nature's most august, Inspiring aspect!-claim a grateful verse; And, like a sable curtain starr'd with gold, Drawn o'er my labours past, shall clothe the scene. Edward Young.-Born 1681, Died 1765. 856.-ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! sakes: Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, : From short (as usual) and disturbed repose I wake how happy they who wake no more! Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams Tumultuous; where my wrecked desponding thought From wave to wave of fancied misery At random drove, her helm of reason lost. Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain (A bitter change!) severer for severe : The day too short for my distress; and E'en in the zenith of her dark domain, from her ebon In rayless majesty, now stretches forth found! Nor eye nor list'ning ear an object finds; From ancient Night, who nurse the tender To reason, and on reason build resolve A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. Thou, who didst put to flight Oh Thou! whose word from solid darkness That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul; My soul, which flies to thee, her trust, her treasure, As misers to their gold, while others rest. Through this opaque of nature and of This double night, transmit one pitying ray, Lead it through various scenes of life and And from each scene the noblest truths in- Nor less inspire my conduct than my song; On this devoted head, be poured in vain. how How complicate, how wonderful is man! such! Who centred in our make such extremes, strange From different natures marvellously mixed, A beam ethereal, sullied and absorpt! A worm a god! I tremble at myself, And wondering at her own. reels! How reason Oh what a miracle to man is man! dread! Alternately transported and alarmed! what What can preserve my life! or what destroy! Of subtler essence than the common clod: ** * * This is the desert, this the solitude: This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, |