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My forrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth ; Might learn from the wisdom of
age, And be cheer'd by the fallies of youth. Religion ! what treasure untold
Resides in that Heavenly word!
More precious than silver or gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the found of the church-going bell
These vallies and rocks never heard ;
Never figh'd at the found of a knell,
Or smil'd when a Sabbath appear'd.
Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore,
Some cordial endearing report
Of a land I Mall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me? o tell me I
yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind !
Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-wing'd arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there : But alas ! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea-fowl is gone to her neft,
The beast is laid down in his lair ;
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
"here's mercy in every place ;
And mercy! (encouraging thought)
'ives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
O how shall words with equal warmth,
The gratitude declare,
That glows within my ravish'd heart?
But thou canst read it there.
Thy providence my life sustain's,
And all my wants redrest,
When in the filent womb I lay,
And hung upon the breast.
To all my weak complaints and cries,
Thy mercy lent an ear,
Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt
To form themselves in pray'r.
Unnumber'd comforts to my soul
Thy tender care bestow'd, Before my infant heart conceiv'd
From whom those comforts flow'd.
When, in the flipp'ry paths of youth,
With heedless Iteps I ran,
Thine arm, unseen, corvey'd me safe,
And led me up to man.
Through hidden dangers, toils, and deaths,
It gently clear'd my way ; And through the pleasing snares of vice,
More to be fear'd than they. When worn with fickness, oft haft thou
With health renew'd my face, And, when in fin and forrow sunk,
foul with grace. Thy bounteous hand, with worldly bliss,
Has made my cup run o'er ;
And, in a kind and faithful friend,
Has doubled al my store.
Ten thousand thousand precious gifts
My daily thanks employ ;
Nor is the least, a cheerful heart,
That tastes those gifts with joy.
Through every period of my life,
Thy goodness I'll pursue ;
And after death, in diftant worlds,
The glorious theme renew.
When nature fails, and day and night
Divide thy works no more,
My ever grateful heart, O Lord !
Thy mercy shall adore.
Through all eternity, to thee
A joyful fong I'll raise,
For Q! eternity's too short
To utter all thy praise.
A Man perishing in the Snow ; from whence Reflections are
raised on the Miseries of Life. As Thus the snows arise ; and foul and fierce, All winter drives along the darken'd air ; In his own loose revolving fields, the fwain Disaster'd hands ; fees other hills ascend, Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes, Of horrid prospect, thag the trackless plain ; Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on From hill to dale, still more and more astray ; Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth In many a vain attempt. How links his soul ! What black despair, what horror fills his heart ! When, for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd His tufted cottage rising through the snow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Far from the track and blest abode of man ; While round him night resistless closes falt, And ev'ry tempest howling o'er his head, Renders the favage wilderness more wild. Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep, A dire descent, beyond the pow'r of frost ; Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge, Smooth'd up with snow; and what is land, unknown, What water, of the still unfrozen spring, In the loose marsh or folitary lake, Where the freth fountain from the bottom boils. These check his fearful steps; and down he finks Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots Through the wrung bosom of the dying man,
His wife, his children, and his friends unseen.
In vain for him th' officious wife prepares
The fire fair blazing, and the vestment warm ;
In vain his little children, peeping out
Into the mingled form, demand their fire
With tears of artless innocence. Alas!
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold;
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve
The deadly winter seizes ; shuts up senle ;
And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the snows a stiffen'd corse,
Siretch'd out and bleaching in the northern blast.
Ah little think the gay licentious proud,
Whom pleasure, power and affluence surround;
They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel riot, waste;
Ah ! little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,
And all the fad variety of pain.
How many fink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring fame! How many bleed,
By shameful variance betwixt man and man!
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms,
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs! How many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery ! Sore pierc'd by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty! How many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded paffion, madness, guilt, remorse!
How many, rack'd with honelt pallions, droop
In deep retir'd distress! How many stand
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguish! Thought, fond man,
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one incessant struggle render life
One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would fand appallid,
And heedless rambling impulse learn to think ;
The conscious heart of charity would warm,
And her wide wish benevolence dilate ;
The focial tear would rise, the social figh,
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining still, the social pallions work.
A Morning Hymn.
These are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty, thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair ; thyself how wondrous then
Unspeakable, who fitt'st above these heavens
To us, invisible, or dimly feen:
In these thy lower works ; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
Speak ye, who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral fymphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing ; ye in heaven,
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol
Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the fmiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun, of this great world, both eye and soul,
thy greater, found his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'it,
And when high noon halt gain’d, and when thou fall'ft.
Moon, that now meet'it the orient fun, now fly'st
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies
And ye five other wandering fires that move
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light..
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix
And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great MAKER still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise
From hill or Itreaming lake, dulky or gray,
Till the fun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great AUTHOR rise !
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd fky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling, till advance his praise.
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud : and wave your tops, ye pinesz
With ev'ry plant in fign of worship wave.