Thou may'st couple thy name with high renown,
And send it to future ages down;
And men yet unborn may applaud the tale,-
But what will their plaudits to thee avail,
When thy form shall be mould'ring amongst the
dead,
And thy soul to the last great audit fled?
Then what is thy hope? Consider how high
Is thy destiny-think on the worth
Of a soul that is born for eternity,
Though it sojourn awhile upon earth.
Oh! why are the views of immortals confined
To narrower limits than Heaven assigned?
Why, when form'd to exist in a happier sphere,
Should we bury our expectations here;
And vainly seek for substantial good
In a world of unceasing vicissitude?
What is thy hope? Will it stand the test
Of nature's expiring hour?
Like armour of proof, will it shield thy breast,
Against the grim tyrant's power?
Will it gladden thy soul, and dispel the gloom,
The horror of darkness that veils the tomb,
When the damps of death to thy brow shall start,
And the life-blood ebbs from thy freezing heart?
Away with it else!-it is worse than vain
To cherish a hope that shall fail thee then.
But hope thou in GoD! To a dying hour
This hope sweet assurance brings,
When worldly preferments, and wealth, and
Shall all be forgotten things.
Ay, hope thou in God, though a feeble worm, And thy soul shall be safe, and thy confidence firmThou shalt traverse in triumph the gloomy abyss Which divides the eternal world from this; And consigning in hope thy frail flesh to the sod, Thy soul shall ascend to thy Saviour and God.
The whole creation, fixes full on me;
As on me shines the sun with his full blaze,
While o'er the hemisphere he spreads the same.
His hand, while holding oceans in its palm,
And compassing the skies, surrounds my life
Guards the poor rushlight from the blast of death.
GOD'S OMNIPRESENT AGENCY.
How desolate were nature, and how void
Of every charm, how like a naked waste
Of Africa, were not a present God
Beheld employing, in its various scenes,
His active might to animate and adorn!
What life and beauty, when, in all that breathes,
Or moves, or grows, his hand is viewed at work!-
When it is viewed unfolding every bud,
Zach blossom tinging, shaping every leaf,
Wafting each cloud that passes o'er the sky,
Rolling each billow, moving every wing
That fans the air, and every warbling throat
Heard in the tuneful woodlands! In the least,
As well as in the greatest of his works,
Is ever manifest his presence kind;
As well in swarms of glittering insects, seen
Quick to and fro, within a foot of air,
Dancing a merry hour, then seen no more,
As in the systems of resplendent worlds,
Through time revolving in unbounded space.
His eye, while comprehending in one view
OH! weep not that our beauty wears
Beneath the wings of Time;
That age o'erclouds the brow with cares
That once was raised sublime.
Oh! weep not that the beamless eye
No dumb delight can speak;
And fresh and fair no longer lie
Joy-tints upon the cheek.
No! weep not that the ruin-trace
Of wasting time is seen,
Around the form and in the face,
Where beauty's bloom has been.
But mourn the inward wreck we feel
As hoary years depart,
And Time's effacing fingers steal
Young feelings from the heart!
Those joyous thoughts that rise and spring
From out the buoyant mind,
Like summer bees upon the wing,
Or echoes on the wind.
The hopes that sparkle every hour,
Like blossoms from a soul
Where Sorrow sheds no blighting power
And Care has no control,
With all the rich enchantment thrown
On Life's fair scene around,
As if the world within a zone
Of happiness were bound!
Oh! these endure a mournful doom,
As day by day they die;
Till age becomes a barren tomb
Where withered feelings lie!
BENEATH the chancell'd hallowed stone,
Exposed to every rustic tread,
To few, save rustic mourners, known,
My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Few words, upon thy rough stone graven,
Thy name-thy birth-thy youth declare-
Thy innocence-thy hopes of heaven,
In simplest phrase recorded there.
No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave,
In mockery o'er my brother's grave!
The place is silent. Rarely sound
Is heard these ancient walls around,
Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet
Discoursing in the public street;
Nor hum of business dull and loud,
Nor murmur of the passing crowd,
Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell,
From neighbouring fort or citadel;
No sound of human toil or strife
In death's lone dwelling speaks of life,
Or breaks the silence still and deep
Where thou beneath thy burial stone,
Art laid in that unstartled sleep
The living eye hath never known.
The lonely sexton's footstep falls
In dismal echoes on the walls,
As, slowly pacing through the aisle,
He sweeps the unholy dust away,
And cobwebs, which must not defile
Those windows on the Sabbath-day;
And passing though the central nave,
Treads lightly on my brother's grave.
But when the sweet-toned Sabbath-chime,
Pouring its music on the breeze,
Proclaims the well-known holy time
Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees; When rustic crowds devoutly meet,
And lips and hearts to God are given,
And souls enjoy oblivion sweet
Of earthly ills, in thoughts of heaven;
What voice of calm and solemn tone
Is heard above thy burial-stone?
What form, in priestly meek array
Beside the altar kneels to pray?
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