View us late in beauty blooming,

Number'd now among the dead.

Youths, though yet no losses grieve you,
Gay in health, and many a grace;
Let not cloudless skies deceive you ;

Summer gives to autumn place.

Yearly in our course returning,
Messengers of shortest stay ;
Thus we preach this truth concerning,
Heav'n and earth shall pass away.

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,
And press'd on ev'ry side,

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,
He'll reinstate my peace;

For He, who bade the tempest roar,
Can bid the tempest cease.

In the dark watches of the night,
I'll count his mercies o'er:

I'll praise him for ten thousand past,
And humbly sue for more.

Then, O my soul, why thus depress'd,
And whence this anxious fear?

Let former favours fix thy trust,
And check the rising tear.

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,
And an immortal crown.

A cloud of witnesses around,
Hold thee in full survey:

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
To thine aspiring eye;

That prize with peerless glories bright,
Which shall new lustre boast,

When victors' wreaths, and monarch's gems,
Shall blend in common dust.

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!
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss, of dying!

Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper; angels say,
"Sister spirit, come away."-
What is this absorbs me quite ;
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring ;-

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!

O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?

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,
In humble form was found,

With cruel slanders, false and vain,
He was encompass'd round,

The woes of men his pity mov'd;
Their peace he still pursu'd:
They render'd hatred for his love,
And evil for his good.

Their malice rag'd without a cause;
Yet with his dying breath,
He pray'd for murd'rers on his cross,
And bless'd his foes in death.

From the rich fountain of his love,
What streams of mercy flow!