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Lays the rough paths of peevish nature ev'riž
Each other gift, which God on man bestows,
And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive.
Our eye obferves the diftant planets pass;
That more remains unfeen, than art can show;
High as we may, we lift our reason up,
But foon the mediate clouds fhall be difpell'd,
Then conftant faith, and holy hope shall die, One loft in certainty, and one in joy:
Whilft thou, more happy power, fair CHARITY,
Shalt ftand before the host of heaven confeft,
THE FOLLY OF LAUGHING AT SÍN.
BY THE LATE MR. JOSEPH STÉNNETT.
FOOLS MAKE A MOCK AT SIN. PROVERBS XIV. IX.
HOlaughs at fin, laughs at his Maker's frowns; Laughs at the fword of vengeance o'er his head: Laughs at the great Redeemer's tears and wounds, Who but for fin had neither wept nor bled.
Who laughs at fin, laughs at the num❜rous woes That have the guilty world so oft befel; Laughs at the whole creation's groans and throes, At all the spoils of death and pains of hell.
Who laughs at fin, laughs at his own difeafe, Welcomes approaching torments with his fmiles; Dares at his foul's expence his fancy please, Affronts his GOD, himfelf of blifs beguiles.
Who laughs at fin, sports with his guilt and shame, Laughs at the errors of his fenfelefs mind; For fo abfurd a fool there wants a name, Expreffive of a folly so refin❜d.
PART OF VI. CHAP. MATTHEW,
PARAPHRASED BY MR. THOMSON.
HEN my breaft labors with oppreffive care,
And o'er my cheek defcends the falling tear,
While all my warring paffions are at strife,
Behold! and look away your low despairSee the light tenants of the barren air: To them, nor ftores, nor granaries belong, Nought, but the woodland, and the pleafing fong; Yet, your kind heavenly Father bends his eye On the leaft wing that flits along the sky. To him they fing, when spring renews the plain; To him they cry, in winter's pinching reign; Nor is their mufic, nor their plaint in vain : He hears the gay, and the distressful call, And with unfparing bounty fills them all.
Obferve the rifing lily's fnowy grace;
Obferve the various vegetable race;
They neither toil, nor fpin, but careless grow,
If, ceaseless thus the fowls of heaven he feeds,
A THOUGHT AT WAKING.
foul, the early birds inspire
Thy grov'ling thoughts with pure celestial fire;
BY THE LATE DR. ARBUTHNOT.
HAT am I? how produc'd? and for what end? Whence drew I being? to what period tend? Am I the abandon'd orphan of blind chance; Dropt by wild atoms in diforder'd dance? Or from an endless chain of causes wrought? And of unthinking substance, born with thought? By motion which began without a cause, Supremely wife, without defign or laws? Am I but what I feem, mere flesh and blood d; A branching channel, with a mazy flood? The purple stream that through my veffel glides, Dull and unconfcious flows like common tides: The pipes through which the circling juices ftray, Are not that thinking I, no more than they : This frame compacted with transcendent skill, Of moving joints obedient to my will, Nurs'd from the fruitful glebe, like yonder tree, Waxes and waftes; I call it mine, not me: New matter still the mould'ring mass sustains, The mansion chang'd, the tenant still remains : And from the fleeting ftream, repair'd by food, Diftinct, as is the fwimmer from the flood. → What am I then? fure, of a nobler birth By parents right: I own as mother, earth;