And now, with earthly care opprest,
My Spirit, Father! sinks to rest,
Be thou my guardian Pow'r;
And thro' the silent reign of night,
Let sleep descend in slumbers light,
As saint's expiring hour.

AN APRIL DAY.

DEAR Emma, on that infant brow
Say why does disappointment low'r?
Ah, what a silly girl art thou,
To weep to see a summer show'r !

O, dry that unavailing tear,

The promis'd visit you shall pay ; The sky will soon again be clear,

For 'tis, my love, an April Day.

And see, the sun's returning light

Away the transient clouds hath driv'n; The rainbow's arch, with colours bright, Spreads o'er the blue expanse of heav'n;

The storm is hush'd, the winds are still,
A balmy fragrance fills the air;
Nor sound is heard, save some clear rill
Meand'ring thro' the valleys fair.

Those vernal show'rs that from on high

Descend, make earth more fresh and green;

Those clouds that darken all the air
Disperse, and leave it more serene :

And those sad tears that for a while Down sorrow's faded cheek may roll, Shall sparkle thro' a radiant smile,

And speak the sunshine of the soul !

While yet thy mind is young and pure,
This sacred truth, this precept learn—
That He who bids thee all endure,
Bids sorrow fly, and hope return:

His chast'ning hand will never break
The heart that trusts in Him alone;
He never, never will forsake

The meanest suppliant at his throne.

The world, that with disdainful pride
To vice gives virtue's modest due,
From thee, alas! may turn aside—

Ah, shun the fawning, flatt'ring crew!

And blest with cheerfulness and health
With joy thy daily course to run,
Let wretches hoard their useless wealth,

And Heav'n's mysterious will be done.

With fair Religion, woo content,

"Twill bid tempestuous passions cease; And know, my child, the life that's spent In pray'r and praise must end in peace:

Its fitful dream is quickly past,

A little while we linger here; And tho' the morn be overcast,

The ev'ning may be bright and clear.

DEATH.

CEASE, Fool, to mourn life's little span, And hush that impious cry,

For what an abject thing were man,

If he were ne'er to die.

Yet grant thee all thy soul's desire,

A free, immortal state;

Soon immortality would tire,

And thou would'st curse thy fate:

Wealth, honours, all the world can give, And soft, luxurious ease,

The charms for which men crave to live, Would lose their pow'r to please.

But Death, tho' harsh to worldly ears, To misery and to me,

Sounds like the musick of the spheres, Celestial harmony!

It mingles in one common clay,

Th' oppressor and th' opprest;