THE VILLAGE KNELL,
By the Rev. DR. TURNER, A. M.

O rerum febilis viciffitudo!

UST as the fun his beams had loft
Behind the western fea,
And light, ftill lingering on the coast,
Upheld the falling day,

On the green margin of a brook,

That ran foft murmuring by, Lonely, my penfive walk I took, While all ferene the sky.

Silent, along the flowery dale,

The grey-clad evening stole ;
Breath'd gently round the balmy gale,
Soft whispering to the foul,

There, crofs the plain, the weary hind
With lab'ring footsteps goes,
In hopes, in his low cot, to find

The fweets of foft repose.

Thefe the kind fhepherd's guardian eye
Beholds with calm delight,
His fleecy care fecurely lie,

Nor dreads th'approach of night.

All nature fmil'd-though grave, yet gay,
I felt her foothing power;
Caft every painful care away,

And hail'd the blifsful hour!

But while my foul, thus lull'd to rest,
Drinks the sweet pleasure in;
Far other thoughts invade my breaft,
And change the lovely scene.

The VILLAGE KNELL, with folemn toll,
(The voice of mortal woe)
Speaks the departure of a foul
From all its joys below.

The thoughts of death, and worlds unknown,
Now crowd upon my mind;

All Nature's beauties vanish foon,
Nor leave a trace behind.

There may fome faithful youth now mourn
The virgin of his choice,
Juft from his arms reluctant torn,
The fight of nuptial joys,

Or there, perhaps, th’untimely dart
Has pierc'd an only fon,
And fill'd a tender mother's heart
With griefs before unknown.

Or fome poor widow bathes, with tears,
Her fole fupporter, dead;
While fhe, in bitter anguish, hears
Her children cry for bread.

Harder than ftone that heart muft be,
Or loft in guilty ease,

That can, though but in fancy, fee,
Unmov'd, fuch scenes as these.

But where's the deathless spirit gone,
That juft has left its clay?
Through what vaft realms, to us unknown,
Now urged its trackless way?

If juft and pure, while here below,

Wash'd in the SAVIOUR's blood; It lives where endless pleasures flow, And fees its father, Gop.

But if, impenitent in fin,

It took its awful flight;
LORD! what a difmal ftate 'tis in,
Without one beam of light!

Think, then, my FLORIS, how thy foul
Hangs on a feeble thread;
And that, perhaps, to-morrow's toll
Proclaims thec, alfo, dead.

In blifs or woe, no tongue can tell,
Must then be thy abode;

The serious thought now ponder well,
And fear, and love thy God.

But fince this work was dull, it made Him glad when o'er, and therefore feek, If fourteen pray'rs on Sunday faid,

Were not as well for all the week. "Yes, fure," faid the Divine, " for ftill "When men their pray'rs fo irkfome call; ""Tis equal, pray they how they will, "Or if they never pray at all."

TE

JLAGNIEL.

THE ACTS OF FAITH.

ELL me not of Lynxe's eyes;
That's a lying Poet's tale;

But true Faith looks through the skics,
Sinai's cloud, and Mofes' veil.
Tell not me of Samplon's ftrength;
Faith is ftronger far than he;
He fubdued was at length,

Faith can never conquer'd be.
Heaps of Philistines he flew ;
-Crowds of fins by Faith will fall;
It can foon those fins fubdue,

Which did bafely him enthrall.

Tell me not of earthly Kings,

Swell'd with riches and renown; Faith more wealth and honour brings, It obtains a heavenly crown.

J. LAGNIEL.

WRITTEN DURING THE THUNDER STORM.

Job xl. 9.—Haft thou an arm like God ?— Canft thou thunder with a voice like him?

W compare?

HOSE voice can with the Lord's

What arm his burning fluid ftay ?
While pealing thunders rend the air,
While vivid lightnings ceafelefs glare,
And kindle night to fecond day.
His voice terrific, finners hear,

Who fcorn'd the gentle calls of love,
And trembling on the bed of fear,
Sufpect the God of veng'ance near,

His being by his wrath to prove.
The careless foul, who oft hath feen

His goodness with a brute-like gaze,
Now feeks fome interpofing fcreen
To hide him from the dreadful scene,

And fave him from the piercing blaze.
Faint emblem this of that dread hour

When loud the midnight cry fhall found, Behold the Judge in awful pow'r," While flames the heavens and earth devour, And thunders shake the planets round,

MPELL'D by curfed thirft of gold, See harden'd Britons plough the waves, (Their confciences to Mammon fold), To make their fellow-mortals flaves! Their prey, with favage joy is bound;

Him they unmov'd, in anguish, fee, Rolling his eyes, all wild, around,

And groaning, "O sweet Liberty!" What horrors crowd into his mind! What tortures feel his jetty limbs, In cavern dark and low confin'd,

Or rather crufh'd betwixt the beams! Thence dragg'd th'oppreffor's lash to bear, (His eyes from tears scarce ever free) He cries, where none but God will hear, "O dear, O precious Liberty!"

His time creeps on, his ftrength decays,
His cruel Lord no pity fhews;
In fweat and blood are fpent his days,

His nights in unavailing woes.
When Nature can no more endure,

He finks beneath his fav'rite tree;
From toil releas'd, of rest secure,
And, dying, whispers" Liberty.”

O my Philander, doft thou grieve

For the unhappy Negroe's fate? 'Tis right. But worfe, far worfe, believe Our flavery in a finful state: Grace wak'd our fouls to see our chains, And gave us fenfibility, To feel fuch forrow and fuch pains,

And figh for nobler "Liberty."

Yet we may grieve, while yet we find

Such strong propenfity to ili; Such cords our hearts on earth to bind, Such ftruggles, toils, and fcourges ftill; But, O my friend, our fands run faft,

Death foon will fet our fpirits free; Though not before, we fhall at last Find sweet, transporting “ Liberty.”

W. M.