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But thou, who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail ?
Or tears which love and pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail!
VII. Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, And joy desert the blooming year.
But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side, Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!
And see, the fairy valleys fade;
Dun night has veil'd the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's child, again adieu !
The genial meads assign'd to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom!
Their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress,
With simple hands, thy rural tomb.
Long, long thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes;
O! vales and wild woods, shall he say,
In yonder grave your Druid lies!
BY DR. COTTON.
Pereunt et Imputantur.
TO-MORROW, didst thou say?
Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow.
Go to-I will not hear of it-To-morrow!
"Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury
Against thy plenty-who takes thy ready cash,
And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and promises,
The currency of idiots-Injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow!
It is a period no where to be found
In all the hoary registers of Time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis fancy's child, and folly is its father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are; and baseless
As the fantastic visions of the evening.
But soft, my friend-arrest the present moments; For be assured, they all are arrant tell-tales; And though their flight be silent, and their path Trackless, as the wing'd couriers of the air, They post to heaven, and there record thy folly. Because, though station'd on th' important watch, Thou, like a sleeping, faithless centinel, Didst let them pass unnoticed, unimproved. And know, for that thou slumber'dst on the guard, Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
For every fugitive: and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hoodwink'd Justice, who shall tell thy audit ?
Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio;
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings.
"Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain.
Oh! let it not elude thy grasp, but like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel fast, until he bless thee.
THE BENEDICITE PARAPHRASED.
BY THE REV. MR. MERRICK.
YE works of God, on him alone,
In earth his footstool, heaven his throne,
Be all your praise bestow'd;
Whose hand the beauteous fabric made,
Whose eye the finish'd work survey'd,
And saw that all was good.
Ye angels, that with loud acclaim
Admiring view'd the new-born frame,
And hail'd th' Eternal King;
Again proclaim your Maker's praise,
Again your thankful voices raise,
And touch the tuneful string.
Praise him, ye blest ethereal plains,
Where, in full majesty, he deigns
To fix his awful throne:
Ye waters, that above him roll,
From orb to orb, from pole to pole,
Oh! make his praises known!
Ye thrones, dominions, virtues, powers,
Join ye your joyful song with ours,
With us your voices raise;
From age to age extend the lay,
To heaven's eternal Monarch pay
Hymns of eternal praise.
Celestial orb!-whose powerful ray
Opes the glad eyelids of the day,
Whose influence all things own;
Praise him, whose courts effulgent shine
With light, as far excelling thine,
As thine the paler moon.
Ye glittering planets of the sky,
Whose lamps the absent sun supply,
With him the song pursue;
And let himself submissive own,
He borrows from the brighter Sun
The light he lends to you.
Ye showers and dews, whose moisture shed, Calls into life the opening seed,
To him your praises yield;
Whose influence wakes the genial birth,
Drops fatness on the pregnant earth,
And crowns the laughing field.
Ye winds, that oft tempestuous sweep
The ruffled surface of the deep,
With us confess your God;
See, through the heavens, the King of kings,
Up-borne on your expanded wings,
Comes flying all abroad.
Ye floods of fire, where'er ye flow,
With just submission humbly bow
To his superior power;
Who stops his tempest on its way,
Or bids the flaming deluge stray,
And gives it strength to roar.
Ye summer's heat, and winter's cold,
By turns in long succession roll'd,
The drooping world to cheer;
Praise him, who gave the sun and moon,
To lead the various seasons on,
And guide the circling year.
Ye frosts, that bind the watery plain,
Ye silent showers of fleecy rain,
Pursue the heavenly theme;
Praise him, who sheds the driven snow,
Forbids the harden'd waves to flow,
And stops the rapid stream.