Sidor som bilder

To mortal want and labour born,
And more than mortal woe!

Incarnate Word! by every grief,
By each temptation tried,
Who liv'd to yield our ills relief,
And to redeem us, died!

If gaily cloth'd and proudly fed,
In dang'rous wealth we dwell;
Remind us of thy manger bed,
And lowly cottage cell!

If, prest by poverty severe,
In envious want we pine,
Oh, may thy Spirit whisper near,
How poor a lot was thine!

Through fickle fortune's various scene
From sin preserve us free!
Like us thou hast a mourner been,
May we rejoice with Thee!


FAR from his home beyond the wave,
The stranger sicken'd and he died;
No tears were shed around his grave,
And there no friend with sorrow sigh'd.

They plac'd him in the lowly tomb;
They laid the mould upon his breast;
Yet never thought an hour would come
To wring an absent parent's breast.
Though now the mournful task is done,
And o'er his bed the night-winds sigh;
Afar, a mother hails her son,

And thinks she sees his sparkling eye!

She thinks, (and hope believes the tale,
For who could say it was untrue?)
When some auspicious fav'ring gale,

Will waft him from his long adieu.

Oh! could that sun which saw his shroud
Afar, the mournful tale declare,
Then Hope would sink behind a cloud,
A dreary cloud of dark Despair.

They laid him in the lonely grave,
Unnoticed there he softly sleeps ;
Nor will he hear from o'er the wave,

That sorrow-while a Mother weeps.

But why! oh why should sorrow's tear,
E'er wring a weeping Mother's breast?
For he who died, though lonely here,
Is happy, and for aye at rest.

And though no parent saw him die,
Nor friendly hand his eyelid clos'd;
One friend beheld him from the sky,
And on his bosom he repos'd.

It matters not, what distant clime,

Receives the body's mould'ring clay; For it shall rise when Death and Time, No more will triumph o'er decay,



THESE emmets, how little they are in our eyes! We tread them to dust, and a troop of them dies,

Without our regard or concern :

Yet as wise as we are, if we went to their school, There's many a sluggard, and many a fool,

Some lessons of wisdom might learn.

They don't wear their time out in sleeping or play, But gather up corn in a sun-shiny day,

And for winter they lay up their stores.

They manage their work in such regular forms, One would think they foresaw all the frosts and the storms,

And so brought their food within doors.

But I have less sense than a poor creeping ant,
If I take not due care for the things I shall want,
Nor provide against dangers in time:

When death or old age shall stare in my face,
What a wretch shall I be in the end of my days,
If I trifle away all their prime!


Now, now, while my beauty and strength are in
[shall come,
Let me think what will serve me when sickness
And pray that my sins be forgiv'n:
Let me read in good books, and believe and obey,"
That, when death turns me out of this cottage of
I may dwell in a palace in heaven.




How poor! how rich! how abject! how august!
How complicate! how wonderful is Man!
How passing wonder he who made him such !
Who centred in our make such strange extremes !
From different natures marvellously mixt.
Connexion exquisite of distant worlds!
Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain!
Midway from nothing to the Deity!
A beam ethereal sullied, and absorb'd!
Tho' sullied, and dishonor'd, still divine!

Dim miniature of greatness absolute !
An heir of glory! a frail child of dust!
Helpless immortal! insect infinite!

A worm! a god! I tremble at myself;
And in myself am lost! at home a stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, surpris'd, aghast,
And wond'ring at her own; how reason reels!
O what a miracle to man is man!

Triumphantly distress'd, what joy, what dread!
Alternately transported and alarm'd!

What can preserve my life, or what destroy?
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave;
Legions of angels can't confine me there.



WHERE shall the tribes of Adam find
The sovereign good to fill the mind?
Ye sons of moral wisdom, show
The spring whence living waters flow.

Say, will the stoic's flinty heart
Melt, and this cordial juice impart ?
Could Plato find these blissful streams,
Amongst his raptures and his dreams?

In vain I ask; for nature's power
Extends but to this mortal hour;
'Twas but a poor relief she gave
Against the terrors of the grave.

Jesus, our kinsman, and our God,
Array'd in Majesty and blood,


Thou art our life; our souls in thee
Possess a full felicity.

All our immortal hopes are laid
In thee, our surety, and our head;
Thy cross, thy cradle, and thy throne,
Are big with glories yet unknown.

Let Atheists scoff, and Jews blaspheme
The Eternal Life, and Jesus' name;
A word of his Almighty breath
Dooms the rebellious world to death.

But let my soul for ever lic
Beneath the blessings of thine eye;
'Tis heaven on earth, 'tis heaven above,
To see thy face, to taste thy love.


FEW are the days, and full of woe,
O man of woman born!
Thy doom is written, 'Dust thou art,
And shalt to dust return.'

Determin'd are the days that fly
Successive o'er thy head;

The number'd hour is on the wing,
That lays thee with the dead.

Alas! the little day of life

Is shorter than a span;

Yet black with thousand hidden ills
To miserable man.

Gay is thy morning; flattering hope
Thy sprightly step attends;
But soon the tempest howls behind,
And the dark night descends.

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