Can life in them deserve the name, Who only live to prove For what poor toys they can disclaim An endless life above? Who, much diseased, yet nothing feel; Much menaced, nothing dread; Have wounds, which only God can heal, Yet never afk his aid? Who deem his house an useless place, Who trample order; and the day, If fcorn of God's commands, impreffed On word and deed, imply The better part of man, unbleffed With life that cannot die; Such want it, and that want uncured Till man refigns his breath, Speaks him a criminal, affured Of everlasting death. Sad period to a pleasant course! Yet fo will God repay Sabbaths profaned without remorse, And mercy caft away. INSCRIPTION FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTON. PAUSE here, and think: a monitory rhime Confult life's filent clock, thy bounding vein; And many a tomb, like HAMILTON's, aloud EPITAPH ON A HARE. HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Old Tiney, furlieft of his kind, And to domeftic bounds confined, Though duly from my hand he took He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite. His diet was of wheaten bread And milk, and oats, and straw; Thiftles, or lettuces instead, With fand to fcour his maw. On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, And, when his juicy falads failed, A Turkey carpet was his lawn, His frisking was at evening hours, For then he loft his fear, But moft before approaching showers, Or when a ftorm drew near. Eight years and five round-rolling moons He thus faw fteal away, Dozing out all his idle noons, I kept him for his humour' fake, My heart of thoughts that made it ache, And force me to a smile. |