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Who while on earth in fame they live,
Are fenfelefs of the fame they give.
Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades!

All flow, and wan, and wrap'd with shrouds,
They rise in vifionary crouds,

And all with fober accent cry,

"Think, Mortal, what it is to die.”

Now from yon black and fun'ral yew,
That bathes the charnel-house with dew,
Methinks I hear a voice begin;

(Ye Ravens, ceafe your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time refound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground)
It fends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus speaking from among the bones.

When men my scythe and darts supply,

How great a King of fears am I !

They view me like the laft of things:
They make, and then they dread, my ftings.
Fools! if you lefs provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre-form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If Man wou'd ever pass to God:
A port of calms, a state of ease
From the rough rage of fwelling seas.
Why then thy flowing fable stoles,
Deep pendent cyprefs, mourning poles,

Loofe fcarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn herfes, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black, that as they tread,
Nod o'er the fcutcheons of the dead?
Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the foul, these forms of woe:
As men who long in prifon dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
When-e'er their fuffering years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring fun :
Such joy, tho' far tranfcending fenfe,
Have pious fouls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body plac'd,
A few, and evil years they wafte:
But when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.

Y M M N

H Y

то

CONTENTMENT.

LOVELY, lafting peace of mind!

Sweet delight of human-kind!

Heavn'ly born, and bred on high,
To crown the fav'rites of the sky,
With more of happiness below,
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek, contented head!
What happy region doft thou please
To make the feat of calms and ease?
Ambition fearches all its sphere
Of pomp and state, to meet thee there.
Encreafing Avarice would find
Thy prefence in its gold enshrin'd.
The bold advent'rer ploughs his way,
Thro' rocks amidst the foaming fea,
To gain thy love; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.

94

The filent heart with grief affails,

Treads foft and lonesome o'er the vales, rivers run,

Sees daifies open,

And feeks (as I have vainly done)
Amusing thought; but learns to know
That folitude's the nurse of woe.
No real happiness is found

In trailing purple o'er the ground;
Or in a foul exalted high

To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its forms below;
The rest it seeks, in feeking dies,
And doubts at last for knowledge rife.
Lovely, lafting peace, appear!
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blefs'd,
And man contains it in his breast.

'Twas thus, as under fhade I stood,

I fung my wishes to the wood,
And loft in thought, no more perceiv'd
The branches whisper as they wav'd:
It feem'd, as all the quiet place
Confefs'd the prefence of the grace.
When thus she spoke-go rule thy will,
Bid thy wild paffions 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.

Oh! by yonder moffy feat,
In my hours of sweet retreat;
Might I thus my foul employ,
With fenfe of gratitude and joy:
Rais'd as ancient prophets were,
In heav'nly vifion, praise, and pray'r;
Pleafing all men, hurting none,
Pleas'd and blefs'd with God alone:
Then while the gardens take my fight,
With all the colours of delight;
While filver waters glide along,
To please my ear, and court my fong:
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string,
And Thee, great fource of nature, fing.

The fun that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day;
The moon that shines with borrow'd light ;
The stars that gild the gloomy night;
The feas that roll unnumber'd waves;
The wood that spreads its fhady leaves;
The field whofe ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain;
All of these, and all I fee,
Shou'd be fung, and fung by me:
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.

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