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Strange things, the neighbours say, have Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every happen'd here :
flower Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow Vied with its fellow plant in luxury tombs :
Of dress- Oh! then, the longest summer's Dead men have come again, and walk'd day about ;
Seem'd too, too much in haste : still the full And the great bell has toll’d, unrung, un heart touch'd,
Had not imparted half : 'twas happiness (Such tales their cheer at wake or gossiping, | Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, When it draws near to witching time of Not to return, how painful the remembrance ! night.)
Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746. 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,
844.-THE MISER. Whistling aloud to bear his courage up,
Here the lank-sided miser, worst of felons, And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones Who meanly stole (discreditable shift !) (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'er From back, and belly too, their proper cheer, grown),
Eased of a tax it irk'd the wretch to pay That tell in homely phrase who lie below. To his own carcase, now lies cheaply lodged, Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he By clamorous appetites no longer teased, hears,
Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs. The sound of something purring at his heels; But, ah! where are his rents, his comings. Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind in ? him,
Ay! now you've made the rich man poor Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows:
indeed; Who gather round, and wonder at the tale Robb'd of his gods, what has he left behind ? Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,
O cursed lust of gold! when for thy sake That walks at dead of night, or takes his The fool throws up his interest in both stand
worlds ; O'er some new-open'd grave; and (strange to First starved in this, then damn'd in that to tell!)
come. Evanishes at crowing of the cock.
Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746. Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746.
843.-FRIENDSHIP. Invidious grave !-how dost thou rend in
845.-UNPREPARED FOR DEATH. How shocking must thy summons be, O
Robert Blair.—Born 1699, Died 1746.
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
Never to think of death and of ourselves
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
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 tho
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.
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 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 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'd! '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
As custom leads the way :
And be as blest as they.
To dull embraces move :
And make a world of love.
The purer bliss destroy ;
T'improve the burning joy.
Can mingle hearts and hands :
With osiers for their bands.
Can the dear bondage bless :
Or none besides the bass.
The rugged and the keen :
With firebrands tied between.
For love abhors the sight:
Rise and forbid delight.
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,
Rushing amain down,
How the poor sailors stand amazed and You, whose capacious powers survey tremble
Largely beyond our eyes of clay, While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody Yet what a narrow portion too trumpet,
Is seen or thought or known by you !
How flat your highest praises fall
Before th' immense Original ! Such shall the noise be, and the wild dis Weak creatures we, that strive in vain order,
To reach an uncreated strain.
Great God! forgive our feeble lays, angel
Sound out thine own eternal praise ;
A song so vast, a theme so high,
Call for the voice that tuned the sky. Tears the strong pillars of the vault of
Dr. Watts.-Born 1674, Died 1748. heaven, Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes : See the graves open and the bones arisingFlames all around them!
855.—NIGHT. Hark, the shrill outeries of the guilty wretches!
These thoughts, O Night! are thine ; Lively bright horror and amazing anguish. From thee they came like lovers' secret sighs, Stare through their eyelids, while the living
While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign, worm lies
In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her Gnawing within them.
Her shepherd cheered; of her enamoured Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their
Than I of thee. And art thou still unsung, And the smart twinges, when the eye beholds Beneath whose brow, and by whose aid, I the
sing? Lofty Judge, frowning, and a flood of | Immortal silence! where shall I begin ? vengeance
Where end ? or how steal music from the Rolling afore him.
To soothe their goddess ? Stop here, my fancy (all away, ye horrid
O majestic Night! Doleful ideas); come, arise to Jesus !
Nature's great ancestor ! Day's elder born! How he sits God-like; and the saints around | And fated to survive the transient sun! him
By mortals and immortals seen with awe! Throned, yet adoring.
A starry crown thy raven brow adorns,
An azure zone thy waist ; clouds, in heaven's O may I sit there, when he comes triumphant loom Dooming the nations! then ascend to glory; Wrought through varieties of shape and While our hosannahs all along the passage
shade, Shout the Redeemer.
In ample folds of drapery divine,
Thy flowing mantle form, and, heaven through. Dr. Watts.-Born 1674, Died 1748.
out, Voluminously pour thy pompous train : Thy gloomy grandeurs-Nature's most au
Inspiring aspect !-claim a grateful verse ; 854.-GOD KNOWN ONLY TO HIMSELF. And, like a sable curtain starr'd with gold, Stand and adore! how glorious He
Drawn o'er my labours past, shall clothe the
scene. That dwells in bright eternity! We gaze and we confound our sight,
Edward Young.-Born 1681, Died 1765. Plunged in th' abyss of dazzling light. Thon sacred One, Almighty Three, Great, everlasting Mystery, What lofty numbers shall we frame
856.-ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMOREqual to thy tremendous name?
TALITY. Seraphs, the nearest to the throne,
Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! Begin to speak the Great Unknown:
He, like the world, his ready visit pays Attempt the song, wind up your strings Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he for. To notes untried, and boundless things.