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Lays the rough paths of peevish nature ev'ri
And opens in each heart a little heaven.

Each other gift, which God on man bestows,
Its proper bounds, and due reflection knows:
To one fix'd purpose dedicates its power;
And finishing its act, exists no more.

Thus in obedience to what heaven decrees,
Knowledge fhall fail, and prophecy shall cease:
But lafting CHARITY's more ample sway,
Nor bound by time, nor fubject to decay,
In happy triumph fhall for ever live,

And endless good diffufe, and endless praise receive.
As thro' the artift's intervening glass,

Our eye obferves the diftant planets pass;

A little we discover; but allow,

That more remains unfeen, than art can fhow;
So whilft our mind its knowledge would improve
(Its feeble eye intent on things above)
High as we may, we lift our reason up,
By faith directed, and confirm'd by hope:
Yet are we able only to survey

Dawnings of beams, and promises of day.
Heaven's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled fight;
Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light.
But foon the mediate clouds fhall be difpell'd,
The fun fhall then be face to face beheld,
In all his robes, with all his glory on,
Seated fublime on his meridian throne.
Then conftant faith, and holy hope fhall die,
One loft in certainty, and one in joy:

Whilft thou, more happy power, fair CHARITY,
Triumphant fifter, greateft of the three,

Thy office, and thy nature ftill the fame;
Lafting thy lamp, and unconfum'd thy flame,
Shalt ftill furvive-

Shalt ftand before the host of heaven confeft,
For ever bleffing and for ever blest.





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,
Expreffive of a folly so refin❜d.

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Wand o'er my cheek defcends the falling tear,

HEN my breaft labors with oppreffive care,

While all my warring paffions are at strife,
Oh, let me listen to the words of life!
Raptures deep-felt his doctrine did impart,
And thus he rais'd from earth the drooping heart.
Think not, when all your scanty stores afford,
Is fpread at once upon the fparing board;
Think not, when worn the homely robe appears,
While, on the roof, the howling tempest bears;
What farther fhall this feeble life fuftain,
And what shall cloath these fhiv'ring limbs again.
Say, does not life its nourishment exceed ?
And the fair body its invefting weed?

Behold! and look away your low despair

See the light tenants of the barren air:
To them, nor ftores, nor granaries belong,
Nought, but the woodland, and the pleasing song;
Yet, your kind heavenly Father bends his eye
On the leaft wing that flits along the sky.
To him they fing, when fpring 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 diftrefsful call,
And with unfparing bounty fills them all.




Obferve the rifing lily's fnowy grace;
Obferve the various vegetable race;

They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow,
Yet fee how warm they blush! how bright they glow!
What regal vestments can with them compare!
What king fo fhining! or what queen so fair!

If, ceafelefs thus the fowls of heaven he feeds,
If o'er the fields fuch lucid robes he spreads;
Will he not care for you, ye faithlefs, fay!
Is he unwife? or, are ye lefs than they?

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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.

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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;


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