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Who gave thee life? whose saving pow'r
Upholds thee in affliction's hour,
Nor leaves thy soul to weep

? Whose mighty voice, and sov’reign will, Bid the tempestuous waves be still,

And calm the roaring deep?

Whose bounteous hand each beauty yields
That gilds the skies, and paints the fields,

And all in heav'n and earth?
Who gives the moon her silver rays,
The morning stars their brighter blaze,

That hail'd Creation's birth?

Who, when the battle's rage begins,
And war, to scourge a nation's sins,

Assumes its giant form,
Directs the carnage from on high,
And bids the warrior stand, or fly?

The Genius of the storm !

Who, when upon the bed of death
The bleeding hero pants for breath

Beneath the fatal blow,
Whispers, in soothing sounds of love,
He shall enjoy, in realms above,

His glories gain'd below?

'Tis God! whose throne is fix'd on high, Lord of the universe, and sky,

Whom earth and heav'n revere; Whose mercy guards us ev'ry hour, Whose beauty blossoms in the flow'r,

And crowns the varied year!

Eternal truths though myst'ry veil, When man hath chang’d his nature frail,

Those truths shall God reveal: Earth shall to her foundations shake, When he the book of life shall take,

And break the sacred seal.

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A pilgrim in this world of strife,
Thy faith, my staff--thy breath, my life,-

Thy hope, and promise giv'n,-
The pow'r of sin and death destroy,
Make doubt, belief; and sorrow, joy;

And earth, a step to heav'n.



.THERE is a debt we all must pay,

The sooner it is paid the better ; Come, tyrant Death, why this delay?

I wish not to remain thy debtor.


Some ask a year, a month, an hour;

Nay, some implore a moment's credit! And though, like them, I know thy pow'r,

Come when it will, I do not dread it.

Nor houses, lands, nor gold have I,

Let Fortune, jade! say why, and wherefore; Then what have I to do but die ?

With nothing left on earth to care for.

Life is a feast—a strange one too !

To fare but poorly I've been able ; Yet seen enough to pall my view

So let me now retire from table.

If twenty years I've still on earth

T' exist, for I'm a young beginner; Give ten to that gay son of mirth,

And ten to yon old trembling sinner!


I value not this boon of life,

Its boasted joys are all a bubble : Youth is a scene of envy, strife,

And age of av'rice, toil, and trouble.


Say, is the struggle more severe

That ends our mortal strife,
Than watching, waiting, ling'ring here,

With a distaste for life?

It cannot be—a moment's pain,

And lo, the dart is sped!
No more we drag affliction's chain,

The living are the dead.

But when disease assails the mind,

When ev'ry hope 's destroy'd, And life appears a boon unkind,

A sad, a dreary void;

When gath'ring clouds and tempests low'r,

Without a ray to cheer,
Death has not in his darkest hour

Affliction so severe.

Taste, genius, high attainments all,

For what are ye design’d?
As plagues to fill the heart with gall ?

As torments for the mind ?

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