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No more your blandifhments my heart detain,
Seize all my powers, ye fading toys, from you.
No fatal chance thro' endless years shall rife,
No various scenes to come, no change of place,
THE STATE OF OLD AGE.
HE feas are quiet when the winds give o'er,
As they draw nearer to their latest home.
CHAP. VII. OF JOB, PARAPHRASED.
BY THE LATE MR. SAMUEL BOYSE.
AS not kind heaven, regarding human woe, Set a fix'd period to our race below? Known to th' All-wife is our uncertain stay, And we, like hirelings, toil but by the day: Then when the busy tedious dream is o'er, We fink into the grave, and are no more. And is then death our flumber? our repose? Oh! when shall death JOB's weary'd eye-lids close! As with defiring eyes the harrass'd swain Expects the evening-fhade to quit the plain; So with impatience to the grave I bend, And long to fee my numerous forrows end: For crufh'd, o LORD! beneath thy powerful arm, What balm can cure my griefs? what music charm? While in a thousand shapes thy wrath I know, And feel a ftrange variety of woe!
When will my long protracted troubles cease? And this tormented sufferer be at peace!
Each ling'ring night in agonies I lie,
And oft I wish, but wish in vain, to die;
In filent woe I lengthen out the night,
Then curfe the gloom, and wait the dawning light: The dawning light returns---but not to me,
And all but I its kindly aspect fee:
To me no friendly feasons e'er return,
Nor gives the evening ease, nor joy the morn.
Remember, LORD, my tranfient life, like wind,
Curft by that Being who once made it bleft?
Each evening yields the fun to fable night,
Oh! why should tortur'd JOB his fighs refrain?
Forbid'ft me one short interval of rest,
My terrors heighten'd, and my hopes controul'd:
I call for death-but call in vain for aid:
Then humbly in thy fight I lay me down,
CHAP. III. OF JOB, TRANSLATED.
BY THE SAME.
HUS JOB began-Curft be the fatal morn, In which distinguish'd wretchedness was born! From the fair round of the revolving year Perish that day! nor let the night appear, In which this wretched being first began To fwell to mifery and promise man! Let darkness stain it o'er, no friendly ray Pierce thro' the gloom of that accurfed day! But shades of terror o'er its circuit spread, And fold it in the mantle of the dead! May all its stars with rays diminish'd show, And thro' the dusky air obfcurely glow! No glimpse of hope the dreadful scene adorn, Nor let it fee the promise of a morn!Because it shut not up my mother's womb, Nor join'd at once my cradle and my tomb: Why dy'd I not? why did preventive care My deftin❜d life for future forrows spare? Then had I found that ease I seek in vain, Nor known this load of unexampled pain!
O grave! thou refuge of the foul distrest ! When shall I fink into thy downy rest? There kings and mighty ones neglected rot, In their own mould'ring monuments forgot: