Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every

flower Vied with its fellow plant in luxury Of dress— Oh! then, the longest summer's

day Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full

heart Had not imparted half : 'twas happiness Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, Not to return, how painful the remembrance !

Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746.

Strange things, the neighbours say, have

happen'd here : Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow

tombs : Dead men have come again, and walk'd

about ; And the great bell has toll’d, unrung, un.

touch'd, (Such tales their cheer at wake or gossiping, When it draws near to witching time of

night.) Oft, in the lone churchyard at night I've

seen, By glimpse of moonshine chequering through

the trees, The schoolboy, with his satchel in his hand, Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'er.

grown), That tell in homely phrase who lie below. Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he

hears, The sound of something parring at his heels ; Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind

him, Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows : Who gather round, and wonder at the tale Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, That walks at dead of night, or takes his

stand O'er some new-open'd grave; and (strange to

tell !) Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746.

844.—THE MISER. Here the lank-sided miser, worst of felons, Who meanly stole (discreditable shift!) From back, and belly too, their proper cheer, Eased of a tax it irk'd the wretch to pay To his own carcase, now lies cheaply lodged, By clamorous appetites no longer teased, Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs. But, ah! where are his rents, his comings.

in ? Ay! now you've made the rich man poor

indeed : Robb’d of his gods, what has he left behind ? O cursed lust of gold! when for thy sake The fool throws up his interest in both

worlds; First starved in this, then damn'd in that to come.

Robert Blair.—Born 1699, Died 1746.

843.-FRIENDSHIP. Invidious grave !-how dost thou rend in

sunder Whom love has knit, and sympathy made

one! A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul ; Sweetener of life, and solder of society, I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from

me Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. Oft have I proved the labours of thy love, And the warm efforts of the gentle heart, Anxious to please.-Oh! when my friend

and I In some thick wood have wander'd heedless

845.-UNPREPARED FOR DEATH. How shocking must thy summons be, O

Death! To him that is at ease in his possessions ; Who, counting on long years of pleasure

here, Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come! In that dread moment, how the frantic soul Raves round the walls of her clay tenement, Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help, But shrieks in vain !-How wishfully she

looks On all she's leaving, now no longer hers! A little longer, yet a little longer, Oh! might she stay, to wash away her

stains, And fit her for her passage. — Mournful

sight! Her very eyes weep blood ;--and every groan She heaves is big with horror : but the foe, Like a staunch murderer, steady to his

purpose, Pursues her close through every lane of life, Nor misses once the track, but presses on ; Till, forced at last to the tremendousverge, At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.

Robert Blair.—Born 1699, Died 1746.

on,

Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along
In grateful errors through the underwood,
Sweet murmuring: methought the shrill.

tongued thrush
Mended his song of love ; the sooty blackbird
Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note :
The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose

846.-DEATH. Sure 'tis a serious thing to die! My soul, What a strange moment it must be, when

near Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in

view! That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd To tell what's doing on the other side. Nature runs back and shudders at the sight, And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of

parting; For part they must : body and soul must

part; Fond couple ! link'd more close than wedded

pair. This wings its way to its Almighty Source, The witness of its actions, now its judge : That drops into the dark and noisome grave, Like a disabled pitcher of no use.

Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746.

847.-THE GRAVE. Death's shafts fly thick !-Here falls the

village-swain, And there his pamper'd lord !—The cup goes

round; And who so artful as to put it by ? 'Tis long since death had the majority; Yet, strange! the living lay it not to heart. See yonder maker of the dead man's bed, The Sexton, hoary-headed chronicle ; Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er

stole A gentle tear ; with mattock in his hand Digs through whole rows of kindred and

acquaintance, By far his juniors.--Scarce a skull’s cast

up, But well he knew its owner, and can tell. Some passage of his life. — Thus hand in

hand The sot has walk'd with death twice twenty

years; And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs

louder, Or clubs a smuttier tale : when drunkards

meet, None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand More willing to his cup.-Poor wretch ! he

minds not, That soon some trusty brother of the trade Shall do for him what he has done for

thousands. On this side, and on that, men see their

friends Drop off, like leaves in autumn ; yet launch

out Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers In the world's hale and undegenerate days Could scarce have leisure for.–Fools that we

are!

Never to think of death and of ourselves
At the same time : as if to learn to die
Were no concern of ours.-0 more than

sottish,
For creatures of a day, in gamesome mood,
To frolic on eternity's dread brink
Unapprehensive; when, for aught we know,
The very first swoln surge shall sweep us in!
Think we, or think we not, time hurries on
With a resistless, unremitting stream;
Yet treads more soft than e'er did midnight

thief, That slides his hand under the miser's

pillow, And carries off his prize. – What is this

world ? What but a spacious burial field unwall'a, Strew'd with death's spoils, the spoils of

animals Savage and tame, and full of dead men's

bones! The very turf on which we tread once lived ; And we that live must lend our carcases To cover our own offspring : in their turns They too must cover theirs.—'Tis here all

meet! The shivering Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor; Men of all climes, that never met before ; And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the

Christian. Here the proud prince, and favourite yet

prouder, His sovereign's keeper, and the people's

scourge, Are huddled out of sight.—Here lie abash'd The great negotiators of the earth, And celebrated masters of the balance, Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts. Now vain their treaty skill : death scorns to

treat. Here the o'er-loaded slave flings down his

burden From his gall'd shoulders ;-—and when the

cruel tyrant, With all his guards and tools of power about

him, Is meditating new unheard-of hardships, Mocks his short arm,-and, quick as thought,

escapes Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest. Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade, The tell-tale echo, and the babbling stream (Time out of mind the favourite seats of love), Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down, Unblasted by foul tongue.--Here friends and

foes Lie close ; unmindful of their former feuds. The lawn-robed prelate and plain presbyter, Erewhile that stood aloof, as shy to meet, Familiar mingle here, like sister streams That some rude interposing rock had split. Here is the large-limb'd peasant ;-here the

child Of a span long, that never saw the sun, | Nor press'd the nipple, strangled in life's

porch.

Here is the mother, with her sons and daugh.

ters; The barren wife; the long-demurring maid, Whose lonely unappropriated sweets Smiled like yon knot of cowslips on the

cliff, Not to be come at by the willing hand. Here are the prude severe, and gay coquette, The sober widow, and the young green virgin, Cropp'd like a rose before 'tis fully blown, Or half its worth disclosed. Strange medley

here! Here garrulous old age winds up his tale ;. And jovial youth, of lightsome vacant heart, Whose every day was made of melody, Hears not the voice of mirth.—The shrill.

tongued shrew, Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding. Here are the wise, the generous, and the

brave; The just, the good, the worthless, the pro

fane; The downright clown, and perfectly well.

bred; The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the

mean; The supple statesman, and the patriot stern; The wrecks of nations, and the spoils of

time, With all the lumber of six thousand years.

Robert Blair.—Born 1699, Died 1746.

849.—THE RESURRECTION.

Even the lag flesh Rests, too, in hope of meeting once again Its better half, never to sunder more. Nor shall it hope in vain :-the time draws

on, When not a single spot of burial earth, Whether on land, or in the spacious sea, But must give back its long-committed dust Inviolate !—and faithfully shall these Make up the full account; not the least

atom Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale. Each soul shall have a body ready furnish'd; And each shall have his own.-Hence, ye

profane! Ask not how this can be ?-Sure the same

power That rear'd the piece at first, and took it

down, Can reassemble the loose scatter'd parts, And put them as they were.—Almighty God Has done much more; nor is his arm im

pair'd Through length of days : and what he can, he

will : His faithfulness stands bound to see it done. When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumber.

ing dust, Not unattentive to the call, shall wake; And every joint possess its proper place, With a new elegance of form, unknown To its first state. Nor shall the conscious

soul Mistake its partner, but, amidst the crowd, Singling its other half, into its arms Shall rush, with all the impatience of a man That's new come home; and, having long

been absent, With haste runs over every different room, In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy

meeting! Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them

more. 'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night; We make the grave our bed, and then are

gone. Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely

brake Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of

day, Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears away.

Robert Blair.—Born 1699, Died 1746.

848.—THE DEATH OF A GOOD MAN.

Sure the last end Of the good man is peace !-How calm his

exit! Night dews fall not more gently to the

ground, Nor weary, worn-out winds expire so soft. Behold him in the evening-tide of life, A life well spent, whose early care it was His riper years should not upbraid his

green : By unperceived degrees he wears away; Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting. High in his faith and hopes, look how he

reaches

After the prize in view! and, like a bird, That's hamper’d, struggles hard to get

away: Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide

expanded To let new glories in, the first fair fruits Of the fast-coming harvest.—Then, oh then! Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears, Shrunk to a thing of nought.-Oh! how he

longs To have his passport sign'd, and be dis

miss'a ! 'Tis done! and now he's happy! The glad

soul Has not a wish uncrown'd.

Robert Blair.—Born 1699, Died 1746.

850.—THE ROSE. How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower,

The glory of April and May! But the leaves are beginning to fade in an

hour, And they wither and die in a day.

Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,

Above all the flowers of the field ; When its leaves are all dead, and its fine

colours lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield! So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, Though they bloom and look gay like the

rose; But all our fond care to preserve them is

vain, Time kills them as fast as he goes. Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my

beauty, Since both of them wither and fade ; But gain a good name by well-doing my

duty; This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.

Dr. Watts.—Born 1674, Died 1748.

851.-A SUMMER EVENING. How fine has the day been, how bright was

the sun, How lovely and joyful the course that he run, Though he rose in a mist when his race he

begun, And there followed some droppings of

rain! But now the fair traveller's come to the

west, His rays are all gold, and his beauties are

best; He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his

rest, And foretells a bright rising again. Just such is the Christian ; his course he

begins, Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for

his sins, And melts into tears ; then he breaks out and

shines, And travels his heavenly way : But when he comes nearer to finish his race, Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in

grace, And gives a sure hope at the end of his days, Of rising in brighter array.

Dr. Watts.-Born 1674, Died 1748.

Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
That thoughtless fly into thy chains,

As custom leads the way :
If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,

And be as blest as they.
Not sordid souls of earthly mould,
Who drawn by kindred charms of gold

To dull embraces move :
So two rich mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too,

And make a world of love.
Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flames; those raging fires

The purer bliss destroy ;
On Ætna's top let furies wed,
And sheets of lightning dress the bed

T'improve the burning joy.
Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting passions warms,

Can mingle hearts and hands :
Logs of green wood that quench the coals
Are married just like Stoic souls,

With osiers for their bands.
Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still silent, or that still complain,

Can the dear bondage bless :
As well may heavenly concerts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,

Or none besides the bass.
Nor can the soft enchantments hold
Two jarring souls of angry mould,

The rugged and the keen :
Samson's young foxes might as well .
In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell,

With firebrands tied between.
Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;

For love abhors the sight:
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear

Rise and forbid delight.
Two kindest souls alone must meet,
'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,

And feeds their mutnal loves : Bright Venus on her rolling throne Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, And Cupids yoke the doves.

Dr. Watts.—Born 1674, Died 1748.

852.–FEW HAPPY MATCHES. Say, mighty Love, and teach my song, To whom thy sweetest joys belong,

And who the happy pairs Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Find blessings twisted with their bands,

To soften all their cares.

853.—THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. When the fierce north wind, with his airy

forces, Roars up the Baltic to a foamy fury; And the red lightning, with a storm of hail,

comes

Rushing amain down,