De sacris autem hæc sit una sententia, ut conserventur,
But let us all concur in this one sentiment, that things sacred be inviolate.
He lives, who lives to God alone,
And all are dead beside;
For other source than God is none
Whence life can be supplied.
To live to God is to requite
His love as best we may;
To make his precepts our delight,
His promises our stay.
But life, within a narrow ring
Of giddy joys comprised,
Is falsely named, and no such thing,
But rather death disguised.
Can life in them deserve the name,
Who only live to prove
For what poor toys they can disclaim
An endless life above?
Who, much diseased, yet nothing feel,
Much menaced, nothing dread;
Have wounds, which only God can heal,
Yet never ask his aid?
Who deem his house a useless place,
Faith, want of common sense;
And ardour in the Christian race,
A hypocrite's pretence?
Who trample order; and the day,
Which God asserts his own,
Dishonour with unhallowed play,
And worship chance alone?
If scorn of God's commands, impressed
On word and deed, imply
The better part of man unblessed
With life that cannot die:
Such want it, and that want, uncured
Till man resigns his breath,
Speaks him a criminal, assured
Of everlasting death.
Sad period to a pleasant course!
Yet so will God repay
Sabbaths profaned without remorse,
And mercy cast away.
FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTON.
PAUSE here, and think; a monitory rhyme
Demands one moment of thy fleeting time.
Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein;
Seems it to say-"Health here has long to reign?"
Hast thou the vigour of thy youth? an eye
That beams delight? a heart untaught to sigh?
Yet fear. Youth ofttimes healthful and at ease,
Anticipates a day it never sees;
And many a time, like Hamilton's, aloud
Exclaims, "Prepare thee for an early shroud."
EPITAPH ON A HARE.
HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose feet ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halo'.
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who nursed with tender care,
And to domestic hounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack-hare.
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk and oats, and straw;
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
Or pippin's russet peal,
And, when his juicy salads failed,
Slice carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,
But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.
But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.
He, still more aged, feels the shocks,
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.
Hic etiam jacet,
Qui totum novennium vixit
Puss.
Siste paulisper,
Qui præteriturus es,-
Et tecum sic reputa―
Hunc neque canis venaticus,
Nec plumbum missile,
Nec laqueus,
Nec imbres nimii,
Confecere:
Tamen mortuus est-
Et moriar ego.
ON THE FIRST PUBLICATION OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON, IN
To rescue from the tyrant's sword
Th' oppressed;-unseen and unimplored,
To cheer the face of wo;
From lawless insult to defend
An orphan's right- a fallen friend,
And a forgiven foe;
These, these distinguish from the crowd,
And these alone, the great and good,
The guardians of mankind;
Whose bosoms with these virtues heave
O, with what matchless speed, they leave
The multitude behind!
Then ask ye, from what cause on earth
Virtues like these derive their birth,
Derived from heaven alone,
Full on that favoured breast they shine,
Where faith and resignation join
To call the blessing down.
Such is that heart:-but while the Muse
Thy theme, O RICHARDSON, pursues,
Her feeble spirits faint:
She cannot reach, and would not wrong,
That subject for an angel's song,
The hero, and the saint!
ON READING THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE.
AND dwells there in a female heart,
By bounteous heaven designed
The choicest raptures to impart,
To feel the most refined-
Dwells there a wish in such a breast
Its nature to forego,
To smother in ignoble rest
At once both bliss and wo.
Far be the thought, and far the strain,
Which breathes the low desire,
How sweet soe'er the verse complain,
Though Phoebus string the lyre.
Come then, fair maid, (in nature wise)
Who knowing them can tell
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