View us late in beauty blooming, Number'd now among the dead. Youths, though yet no losses grieve you, Summer gives to autumn place. Yearly in our course returning, On the tree of life eternal, Man, let all thy hopes be staid; Which alone, for ever vernal, Bears a leaf that shall not fade." SECTION XVIII. Trust in the goodness of God. WHY, O my soul, why thus depress'd, And whence this anxious fear? Let former favours fix thy trust, And check the rising tear. When darkness and when sorrows rose, Did not the Lord sustain thy steps, And was not God thy guide? DR. HORNE. Affliction is a stormy deep, Where wave resounds to wave: Though o'er my head the billows roll, I know the Lord can save. Perhaps, before the morning dawns, For He, who bade the tempest roar, In the dark watches of the night, I'll praise him for ten thousand past, Then, O my soul, why thus depress'd, Let former favours fix thy trust, Here will I rest, and build my hopes, Nor murmur at his rod; He's more than all the world to me, My health, my life, my God! SECTION XIX. The Christian race. AWAKE, my soul, stretch ev'ry nerve, And press with vigour on: COTTON. A heav'nly race demands thy zeal, A cloud of witnesses around, Forget the steps already trod, And onward urge thy way. 'Tis God's all-animating voice, That calls thee from on high; 'Tis his own hand presents the prize That prize with peerless glories bright, When victors' wreaths, and monarch's gems, My soul, with sacred ardour fir'd, The glorious prize pursue; And meet with joy the high command, To bid this earth adieu. DODDRIDGE. SECTION XX. The dying Christian to his soul. VITAL spark of heav'nly flame! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, Hark! they whisper; angels say, The world recedes; it disappears! Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? SECTION XXI. Epitaph on a poor and virtuous man. STOP, reader, here, and deign to look On one without a name; Ne'er enter'd in the ample book Of fortune, or of fame. Studious of peace, he hated strife; Meek virtues fill'd his breast: His coat of arms, a spotless life;" "An honest heart," his crest. POPE. Quarter'd therewith was innocence ; And thus his motto ran: "A conscience void of all offence Before both God and man." In the great day of wrath, though pride Now scorns his pedigree, Thousands shall wish they'd been allied To this great family. SECTION XXII. Love to enemies. WHEN Christ, among the sons of men, With cruel slanders, false and vain, The woes of men his pity mov'd; Their malice rag'd without a cause; From the rich fountain of his love, |