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Let them enjoy their little day,
Their lowly bliss receive:
O! do not lightly take away
The life thou canst not give.

EPITAPH

ON MARY, THE WIFE OF THE REV. W. MASON.

TAKE, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear;
Take that best gift, which Heaven so lately gave.
To Bristol's fount I bore, with trembling care,

Her faded form-she bow'd to taste the wave,
And died! Does youth, does beauty read the line?
Does sympathetic fear their breast alarm?
Speak, dead MARIA; breathe a strain divine-
E'en from the grave thou shalt have power to charm!
Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee;

Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move,

And if as fair, from vanity as free,

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love;

Tell them, though 't is an awful thing to die,

('T was even to thee)-yet the dread path once trod,

HEAVEN lifts its everlasting portals high,

And bids the pure in heart behold their GOD.

THE PARISH PRIEST.

A PARISH Priest was of the pilgrim train,
An awful, reverend, and religious man;
His eye diffused a venerable grace,
And charity itself was in his face.

Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor,
As God had clothed his own ambassador;
For such on earth his bless'd Redeemer bore.
Of sixty years he seem'd; and well might last
To sixty more, but that he lived too fast;
Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense,
And made almost a sin of abstinence:
Yet had his aspect nothing of severe,
But such a face as promised him sincere.
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see;
But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity:
Mild was his accent, and his action free.
With eloquence innate his tongue was arm'd;
Though harsh the precept, yet the people charm'd.
For, letting down the golden chain from high,
He drew his audience upward to the sky;
And oft with holy hymns he charm'd their ears,
A music more melodious than the spheres ;
For David left him, when he went to rest,
His lyre; and after him he sung the best.

He bore his great commission in his look,
But sweetly temper'd awe; and soften'd all he spoke.
He preach'd the joys of heaven and pains of hell,
And warn'd the sinner with becoming zeal;

But on eternal mercy loved to dwell.
He taught the Gospel rather than the Law,
And forced himself to drive; but loved to draw.
For fear but freezes minds; but love, like heat,
Exhales the soul sublime to seek her native seat.
To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard,
Wrapp'd in his crimes, against the storm prepared;
But when the milder beams of mercy play,
He melts and throws his cumbrous cloak away.
Lightning and thunder, Heaven's artillery,
As harbingers before the Almighty fly:
Those but proclaim his style, and disappear;
The stiller sound succeeds, and-GoD is there!

Though he had little, he had some to spare,
To feed the famish'd, and to clothe the bare:
For mortified he was to that degree,
A poorer than himself he would not see.
Wide was his parish; not contracted close
In streets, but here and there a straggling house ⚫
Yet still he was at hand, without request,
To serve the sick, to succor the distress'd,
Tempting on foot, alone, without affright,
The dangers of a dark tempestuous night.

All this the good old man perform'd alone,
Nor spared his pains, for curate he had none.
The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheer'd;
Nor to rebuke the rich offender fear'd.

His preaching much, but more his practice wrought,
A living sermon of the truths he taught.

For this by rules severe his life he squared,

That all might see the doctrines that they heard:

For priests, he said, are patterns for the rest;
The gold of heaven, who bear the God impress'd;
But when the precious coin is kept unclean,
The Sovereign's image is no longer seen.
If they be foul, on whom the people trust,
Well may the baser brass contract a rust.

The prelate for his holy life he prized;
The worldly pomp of prelacy despised.
His Savior came not with a gaudy show:
Nor was his kingdom of the world below.
Patience in want, and poverty of mind,

These marks of church and churchmen he design'd, And living taught, and dying left behind.

Such was the saint, that shone with every grace, Reflecting, Moses-like, his Maker's face.

God saw his image lively was express'd,
And his own work, as in creation, bless'd.

ON THE SABBATH.

How sweet, upon this sacred day,
The best of all the seven,

To cast our earthly thoughts away,
And think of God and heaven!

How sweet to be allow'd to pray
Our sins may be forgiven!
With filial confidence to say,

"Father! who art in heaven!"

With humble hope to bend the knee,
And, free from folly's leaven,
Confess that we have stray'd from thee,
The righteous Judge of heaven!

How sweet the words of peace to hear
From Him to whom 't is given

To wake the penitential tear,
And lead the way to heaven!

And if to make all sin depart
Vainly the will has striven,
He who regards the inmost heart
Will send his grace from heaven.

When from the bosom that was dear,
By cold unkindness driven,

The heart that knows no refuge here, Shall find a friend in heaven.

And when from all of bliss below
In solitude 't is riven,

He who dispenses weal or wo

Shall raise it up to heaven.

Then hail, thou sacred, blessed day,
The best of all the seven!

When hearts unite their vows to pay
Of gratitude to Heaven!

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