AN HYMN.

HAIL, King Supreme! all wife, and good;
To thee my voice I raise;
While nature's beauties wide display'd,
Inspire my foul to praise.

At morning, noon, and ev'ning mild,
Thefe fcenes entice my view;

Oft as I gaze my heart exults
With transport ever new.

Thy glory beams in every ftar,
That gilds the gloom

night,

And decks the rofy face of morn
With cheering rays of light.

The funny glade, the dew-bright lawn,
With matchlefs beauties fhine;
Each lovely haunt, and awful fhade,
Proclaim thy power divine.

The limpid ftream that warbling flows,
And leaves its moffy fides:
Still as it warbles, fpeaks its God,
And praises as its glides.

From spray to fpray the ceaseless hymn
Employs the feather'd throng;
To Thee their willing throats they fwell
And trill their grateful fong.

Still, God of Nature, let these scenes
My ferious hours engage;
Still let my raptur'd heart confult
Great Nature's moral page.

So fhall my early tow'ring ftrain
The morning lark's excel;
And grateful cloíe the fetting day
With ev'ning Philomel.

GOOD

GOOD children will not lie, nor difpute, nor contradict, nor speak unprofitably; neither will they feek for excufe when they have done amifs, but be ready to confess ingenuously their faults, and beg forgiveness. We can never reasonably expect pardon of our fins, while we continue to excuse them.

WE ought not too much to rejoice in pleafing men, or in being esteemed or praised by them, in being handsome, well cloathed, well provided for, and well accommodated in all things; for all these may terminate in sadness, which will be fo much the more afflicting, as we have fet our hearts more paffionately upon them.

BE content with a few things; take delight in what is fimple and plain; mindful of that poverty which the Son of God took upon himself for you, and recommended to you. You are the difciples, he the Mafter and Teacher: you the fervants, he the Lord. Let the difciple rejoice in that he imitates his master: let the fervant be glad in that he follows his Lord.

ADVICE to SWEARERS.

LIKE all the num'rous fins which lawless rage,
And form the vices of the prefent age,
Swearing, with dreadful fury takes its course,
And conquers reafon with its favage force.

Vile thoughtless wretches for deftruction call,
And feek damnation to o'erwhelm them all:
Forfake that God who life and being gave,
And curfe that very foul they wish to save.

If nought will hence, let future judgment move,
Nor force the vengeance of the pow'r above:
His anger kindles, tremble at his rod;
Make no delay, but quickly turn to God.

AS

AS he that lives longeft, lives but a little while, every man may be certain that he has no time to waste. The duties of life are commenfurate to its duration, and every day brings its tafk, which, if neglected, is doubled on the morrow. But he that has already trifled away those months and years, in which he should have laboured, must remember, that of what he has now only a part, the whole is little; and that fince the few moments remaining are to be confidered as the laft truft of heaven, not one is to be loft.

"OF him, to whom much is given, much fhall be required." Thofe to whom God has granted fuperior faculties, and more extenfive capacities, and made eminent for quickness of intuition, and accuracy of diftinction, will certainly be regarded as culpable in his eye, for defects and deviations which, in fouls lefs exalted and enlightened, may be guiltless. But, furely, none can think without horror on that man's condition, who has been more wicked in proportion as he has had more means of excelling in virtue, and used the light imparted from heaven only to embellish folly, and to palliate crimes.

TO THEE, oh Father! fill'd with fervent zeal,
And funk in humble filence, I appeal;
Take me, my great Creator, to thy care,
And gracious liften to my ardent pray'r.
Supreme of Beings! omniprefent pow'r!
My great preferver from my natal hour!
Fountain of wifdom, boundlefs Deity!
Omnifcient God! my wants are known to thee:
With mercy look on my infirmity!

Whatever itate thou fhalt for me ordain,
Whether my lot in life be joy or pain,

Patient may I fuftain thy wife decree,

And learn to know myself, and honour thee.

}

THERE is no probability that any one should do all the duty that is expected from him, or make that progress in piety, which the holiness and juftice of God requires of him, but he that is conftantly afraid of falling fhort of it.

1

ODE

ODE to a FRIEND.

WHY, oh my friend! fhould man be vain,
If bounteous heav'n hath made him great?
Why look with infolent disdain

On those undeck'd with wealth and state?

Can fplendid robes, or beds of down,
Or coftly gems to deck the hair;

Can all the glories of a crown

Give health, or smooth the brow of care?

The scepter'd prince, the burthen'd flave,
The humble and the haughty die;
poor, the rich, the base, the brave,
In duft without diftinction lie.

The

Go fearch the tombs, where monarchs reft,
Who once high worldly titles bore;
Fled is that grandeur they poffefs'd,
And all their greatness is no more.

So glides the meteor thro' the skies,

And sweeps along a gilded train;
But when its fhort-liv'd beauty dies,

Diffolves to common air again.

TOO great an opinion of one's felf, with a defire after honours, and laying claim to more than is our share, is vanity and pride, which commonly disappoint their own purpose, and inftead of gaining efteem, bring a perfon into contempt.

LEARN by the Bee from each event to find
Some hint of ufe or profit to your mind:
Nothing fo fmall but you may draw from thence
Improvement for your virtue or your fenfe.
Honey like this, life's evils will affuage,
And yield you fweets in your declining age.

The

THE HERMIT.

AT the clofe of the day, when the hamlet is ftill,
And mortals the fweets of forgetfulness prove;
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's fong in the grove :
'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain reclin'd,
A Hermit his nightly complaint thus began:
Tho' mournful his numbers, his foul was refign'd:
He thought as a fage, though he felt as a man.

Ah! why thus abandon'd to darkness and woe?
Why thus, lovely Philomel, flows thy fad ftrain?
For fpring fhall return, and a lover bestow;
And thy bofom no trace of misfortune retain.
Yet, if pity infpire thee, O cease not thy lay;
Mourn, fweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn:
O foothe him whofe pleasures, like thine, pass away;
Full quickly they pafs,-but they never return!

Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky,
The moon, half extinct, a dim crefcent difplays,
But lately I mark'd, when majeftic on high
She fhone, and the planets were loft in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladnefs purfue
The path that conducts thee to fplendor again.-
But man's faded glory no change fhall renew;
Ah, fool, to exult in a glory fo vain!

'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to reflore,
Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew.
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;

Kind nature the embryo-bloffom shall fave,-
But when shall spring vifit the mouldering urn!
Oh! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!

SEQUEL to the HERMIT.

'TWAS thus, by the glare of falfe fcience betray'd, That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind;

My thoughts wont to roam, from fhade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and forrow behind.

· VOL. II.

K

"O! pity