PLEASURE AND PAIN. THE flower that smiles in morn of May, Thunders roaring, winds resounding, Earthquakes rumbling, Ætna flaming, Children, duteous, kind and loving, Fond affection's glist'ning tear, And Religion, treasure dear, Far more delight. Constant bickerings, quarrels, jars, Frowning that enjoyment mars, Bitter scolding, jars unfolding, Thoughtlessly the moments rolling, Far more affright. MAN'S THOUGHTLESSNESS. MOCK horrors scare us. Often does a dream Call up the crazy shape of grisly terrors, Which frighten and alarm, And mad our reeling sense : Thro' the dim distant gloom some eye seems peep.Mantled in thicker darkness direful anticks move, And ghosts, with pale dull ghastliness Flit horrible along Such seemings scare us, While the thoughts of Death, of Hell, And Justice unappeas'd, Roam wilder'd thro' our minds-like strangers Wondering how they came there. THE BOOK. THERE is a book, whose leaves are penn'd by truth, Worth more to mortals than the world beside : Its pow'rs divine-'twill guide our thoughtless youth, How vast the wealth which here enclosed dwells, More than this Earth with all Creation shews; Of prospects beauteous as the stars it tells, And Hope, like floods of beaming light, from this one volume flows. Open one page-a scene of Heaven you view, Then visions from the deadly deep 'twill call; 'Twill spread out Hell and tell you why prepar'd; "Twill scatter Chaos' causes o'er your sight: "Twill shew you evil, and by whom 'twas made, With the black horrors of dark brooding night. The latent cause of suns and stars 'twill tell, "Twill shew you young Rebellion on the earth, "Twill shew him dragging down the race of man, With monsters vile, of most perfidious birth, Who smile to aid with all the strength they can. Twill roll forth thunders as the due of sin- But stop-already is there drawn enough, Some other scenes I'd pencil, pleasing proof That goodness more than vengeance habits there. Behold-with wond'ring awe-a God from Heav'n- Oh glorious now unfolds the brightest scene ;- He comes-all this that wond'rous volume shews He comes-and mantled in a garb of clay He stands amid the careless eyes of those, Who viler are than dust of beaten way. A prey to Sin-he gave himself to Death- |