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Backsliding Israel found a double guide,

A pillar and a cloud-by day, by night;

Yet in my desperate dangers, which be far
More great than theirs, I have no pillar, cloud, nor star.
Oh! that the pinions of a clipping dove

Would cut my passage through the empty air; Mine eyes being sealed, how would I mount above The reach of danger and forgotten care!

My backward eyes should ne'er commit that fault,
Whose lasting guilt should build a monument of salt.

Great God! Thou art the flowing spring of light;
Enrich mine eyes with thy refulgent ray:
Thou art my path; direct my steps aright,
I have no other light, no other way;

I'll trust my God, and Him alone pursue;

His law shall be my path, his heavenly light my clue.

THE LONG-SUFFERING

OF GOD.

EVEN as a nurse, whose child's imperfect pace
Can hardly lead his foot from place to place,
Leaves her fond kissing, sets him down to go,
Nor does uphold him for a step or two:
But when she finds that he begins to fall,
She holds him up, and kisses him withal ;-
So God from man sometimes withdraws his hand
Awhile, to teach his infant faith to stand,
But when he sees his feeble strength begin
To fail, he gently takes him up again.

THE LAST TRUMPET.

SEE how the latter trumpet's dreadful blast
Affrights stout Mars his trembling son!
See how he startles, how he stands aghast,

And scrambles from his melting throne!

Hark how the direful hand of vengeance tears The sweltering clouds, whilst heaven appears A circle filled with flame, and centered with his fears.

THE BREVITY OF LIFE.

BEHOLD,

How short a span

Was long enough of old,

To measure out the life of man;

In those well-tempered days, his time was then Surveyed, cast up, and found but threescore years and ten.

Alas!

And what is that!

They come, and slide, and pass,

Before my pen can tell thee what;

The posts of time are swift, which, having run Their seven short stages o'er, their shortlived task is done.

Our days
Begun, we lend

To sleep, to antic plays

And toys, until the first stage end:

Twelve waning moons, twice five times told, we give To unrecovered loss, we rather breathe than live.

We spend

A ten years' breath

Before we apprehend

What 'tis to live, or fear a death:

Our childish dreams are filled with painted joys, Which please our sense awhile, and waking prove but toys.

How vain,

How wretched is

Poor man, that doth remain

A slave to such a state as this!

His days are short at longest, few at most:
They are but bad at best; yet lavished out, or lost.

They be

The secret springs,

That make our minutes flee

On wheels more swift than eagles' wings:

Our life's a clock, and every gasp of death Breathes forth a warning grief, till Time shall strike a death.

How soon

Our new-born light

Attains to full-aged noon!

And this, how soon, to gray-haired night! We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast, Ere we can count our days, our days they flee so fast.

They end

When scarce begun ;

And ere we apprehend

That we begin to live, our life is done :

Man, count thy days, and if they fly too fast For thy dull thoughts to count, count every day thy last.

AGE.

So have I seen the illustrious prince of light

Rising in glory from his crocean bed,

And trampling down the horrid shades of night,

Advancing more and more his conquering head;
Pause first, decline, at length begin to shroud
His fainting brows within a coal-black cloud.

So have I seen a well-built castle stand
Upon the tiptoes of a lofty hill,

Whose active power commands both sea and land,
And curbs the pride of the beleaguerer's will:

At length her aged foundation fails her trust,
And lays her tottering ruins in the dust.

So have I seen the blazing taper shoot

Her golden head into the feeble air;

Whose shadow-gilding ray, spread round about,

Makes the foul face of black-browed darkness fair;

Till at the length her wasting glory fades,

And leave the night to her inveterate shades.

E'en so this little world of living clay,

The pride of nature glorified by art;
Whom earth adores, and all her hosts obey,
Allied to heaven by his diviner part;
Triumphs awhile, then droops, and then decays,
And worn by age, death cancels all his days.

That glorious sun, that whilome shone so bright,

Is now e'en ravished from our darkened eyes;
That sturdy castle, manned with so much might,

Lies now a monument of her own disguise;
That blazing taper, that disdained the puff
Of troubled air, scarce owns the name of snuff.

Poor bedrid man! where is that glory now,

Thy youth so vaunted? where that majesty, Which sat enthroned upon thy manly brow?

Where, where that braying arm? that daring eye?
Those buxom tunes? those bacchanalian tones?
Those swelling veins? those marrow-flaming bones?

Thy drooping glory's blurred, and prostrate lies,
Grovelling in dust; and frightful horror now
Sharpens the glances of thy gashful eyes,

Whilst fear perplexes thy distracted brow;
Thy panting breast vents all her breath by groans,
And death enerves thy marrow-wasted bones.

Thus man that's born of woman can remain

But a short time! his days are full of sorrow

His life's a penance, and his death's a pain!

Springs like a flower to-day, and fades to-morrow!

His breath's a bubble, and his day's a span: 'Tis glorious misery to be born a man!

VAIN

-

BOASTING.

CAN he be fair, that withers at a blast?
Or he be strong, that airy breath becast?
Can he be wise, that knows not how to live?
Or he be rich, that nothing hath to give?
Can he be young, that's feeble, weak, and wan?
So fair, strong, wise, so rich, so young, is man.
So fair is man, that death (a parting blast)
Blasts his fair flower, and makes him earth at last;
So strong is man, that with a gasping breath
He totters and bequeaths his strength to death;
So wise is man, that if with death he strive,
His wisdom cannot teach him how to live;
So rich is man, that (all his debts being paid)
His wealth's the winding-sheet wherein he's laid;
So young is man, that (broke with care and sorrow)
He's old enough to-day to die to-morrow.

Why bragg'st thou then, thou worm of five foot long? Thou'rt neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor young.

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FROM ELEGIES ON DR. AYLMER.

FAREWELL those eyes, whose gentle smiles forsook
No misery, taught Charity how to look.

Farewell those cheerful eyes, that did erewhile
Teach succored Misery how to bless a smile:
Farewell those eyes, whose mixed aspect of late
Did reconcile humility and state.

Farewell those eyes, that to their joyful guest

Proclaimed their ordinary fare, a feast.

Farewell those eyes, the loadstars late whereby

The graces sailed secure from eye to eye.

Farewell, dear eyes, bright lamps-O who can tell
Your glorious welcome, or our sad farewell!

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