Our frailties help, our vice controul, And when rebellious they are grown, Chafe from our minds th' infernal foe, Make us eternal truths receive, Immortal honour, endlefs fame, And equal adoration be, Eternal Paraclete, to thee. DRYDEN. AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF, HOW doth the little bufy bee Improve each fhining hour, And gather honey all the day. How fkilfully he builds her cell! With the fweet food fhe makes. In works of labour, or of fkill, For Satan finds fome mifchief still For idle hands to do. In books, or work, or healthful play, That I may give for every day Some good account at last. WATTS. WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT IN A LET coward Guilt, with pallid Fear, To fhelt'ring caverns fly, And justly dread the vengeful fate. That thunders through the fky. Protected by that hand whofe law The threat'ning storms obey, Intrepid Virtue fmiles fecure, As in the blaze of day. In the thick cloud's tremendous gloom, Through Nature's ever-varying fcene, The one eternal end of Heaven 1 With like beneficent effect O'er flaming æther glows, A's when it tunes the linnet's voice, Or blushes in the rofe. By reafon taught to scorn those fears Let no fantaftic terrors break Thy life may all the tend'reft care Of Providence defend; And delegated angels round Their guardian wings-extend! When thro' creation's vast expanfe Unmov'd may'st thou the final ftorm That ufhers in the glad ferene Whofe days are dwindled to the fhortest-span; Thefe tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak, Yon houfe erected on the rifing ground, With tempting afpect drew me from the road; For Plenty there a refidence has found, Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor! O! take me to your hofpitable dome; Keen blows the wind and piercing is the cold! Should I reveal the fources of my grief, If foft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not with-hold the kind relief, And tears of pity would not be represt. Heaven fends misfortunes-why fhould we repine ? A little farm was my paternal lot; Then like the lark I fprightly hail'd the morn; "But ah! oppreffion forc'd me from my cot, My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. |