« 上一頁繼續 »
Lays the rough paths of peevish nature ev'ri
Each other gift, which God on man bestows,
Thus in obedience to what heaven decrees,
And endless good diffufe, and endless praise receive.
Our eye obferves the diftant planets pass;
A little we discover; but allow,
That more remains unfeen, than art can fhow;
Dawnings of beams, and promises of day.
Whilft thou, more happy power, fair CHARITY,
Thy office, and thy nature ftill the fame;
Shalt ftand before the host of heaven confeft,
THE FOLLY OF LAUGHING AT SİN.
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 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 fo 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 disease, Welcomes approaching torments with his fmiles; Dares at his foul's expence his fancy please, Affronts his GOD, himself of blifs beguiles.
Who laughs at fin, fports with his guilt and fhame, Laughs at the errors of his fenfeless mind;
For fo abfurd a fool there wants a name,
PART OF VI. CHAP. MATTHEW,
PARAPHRASED BY MR. THOMSON.
HEN my breaft labors with oppreffive care,
While all my warring paffions are at strife,
Behold! and look away your low despair
See the light tenants of the barren air:
Obferve the rifing lily's fnowy grace;
They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow,
If, ceafelefs thus the fowls of heaven he feeds,
A THOUGHT AT WAKING.
TTEND, my foul, the early birds inspire Thy grov'ling thoughts with pure celestial fire; They from their temp'rate sleep awake, and pay Their thankful anthems, for the new-born day. See how the tuneful lark is mounted high, And, poet like, falutes the eastern sky; He warbles thro' the fragrant air his lays, And feems the beauties of the morn to praise : But MAN! more void of gratitude, awakes, And gives no thanks for that sweet rest he takes ; Looks on the glorious fun's new-kindled flame, Without one thought of Him from whom it came; The wretch unhallow'd does the day begin,
Shakes off his SLOTH, but shakes not off his SIN.
KNOW YOUR SEL F.
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; A branching channel, with a mazy flood? The purple stream that through my veffel glides, Dull and unconscious 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;