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Who gave thee life? whose saving pow'r
? Whose mighty voice, and sov’reign will, Bid the tempestuous waves be still,
And calm the roaring deep?
Whose bounteous hand each beauty yields
And all in heav'n and earth?
That hail'd Creation's birth?
Who, when the battle's rage begins,
Assumes its giant form,
The Genius of the storm !
Who, when upon the bed of death
Beneath the fatal blow,
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.
A pilgrim in this world of strife,
Thy hope, and promise giv'n,-
And earth, a step to heav'n.
THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.
.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,
With a distaste for life?
It cannot be—a moment's pain,
And lo, the dart is sped!
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,
Affliction so severe.
Taste, genius, high attainments all,
For what are ye design’d?
As torments for the mind ?