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Seated sublime on his meridian throne.
Then constant Faith, and holy Hope shall die,
Thy office, and thy nature still the same,
THE PLEASURE AND BENEFIT OF AN IMPROVED
AND WELL DIRECTED IMAGINATION.
Oh! blest of Heaven, who not the languid songs
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
of man : we feel within ourselves
Whom nature's works instruct, with God himself
REFLECTIONS ON THE MISERIES OF
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 sad variety of pain. How many sink in the devouring flood, Or more devouring flame. 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 passion, madness, guilt, remorse. How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop In deep retir'd distress. How many stand:
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends,
Here paus'd the patriot. With religious awe Grief heard the voice of virtue. No complaint The solemn silence broke. Tears ceas'd to flow; Ceas'd for a moment ; soon again to stream. For now,
in arms before the palace rang'd, His brave companions of the war demand Their leader's presence; then her griefs renew'd, Too great for utt'rance, intercept her sighs, And freeze each accent on her fault'ring tongue. In speechless anguish on the hero's breast She sinks. On ev'ry side his children press, Hang on his knees, and kiss his honour'd hand. His soul no longer struggles to confine Its strong compunction. Down the hero's cheek, Down flows the manly sorrow.
Great in woe, Amid his children, who inclose him round, He stands indulging tenderness and love In graceful tears, when thus, with lifted eyes, Address'd to Heaven : “Thou ever living Pow'r, Look down propitious, sire of gods and men ! And to this faithful woman, whose desert
May claim thy favour, grant the hours of peace.
........ No place inspires Emotions more accordant with the day, Than does the field of graves, the land of rest :Oft at the close of evening pray'r, the toll, The fun'ral toll, announces solemnly The service of the tomb; the homeward crouds Divide on either hand : the pomp draws near; The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing, * I am the resurrection and the life.” Ah mé ! these youthful bearers rob'd in white, They tell a mournful tale ; some blooming friend Is gone, dead in her prime of years was she, The poor man's friend, who, when she could not give With angel tongue pleaded to those who could, With angel tongue and mild beseeching eye, That ne'er besought in vain, save when she pray'd For longer life, with heart resign'd to die, Rejoic'd to die ; for happy visions bless'd Her voyage's last days, and, hov'ring round, Alighted on her soul, giving presage That heav'n was nigh: what a burst of rapture from her lips ! what tears of joy Her heav'nward eyes suffus’d! Those eyes are clos'd: Yet all her loveliness is not yet flown : She smil'd in death, and still her cold pale face