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Drawn up, and painted by the solar rays,
A beauteous being it awhile displays;

But soon dissolv'd, its short-liv'd glory mourns,
And to its parent earth in tears returns:
View all the heavens around, nor can you find
The path it pass'd, or mark its trace behind.
Come, let us then the present hour employ;
Nor to the faithless future trust our joy;
Let us from care the wrinkled forehead smooth,
Let us in age revive the sweets of youth,

Pour out rich wines, the costly ointments bring,
With all the blooming flow'rs that grace the spring;
Let the fresh violet and the new-born rose
A smiling chaplet for our brows compose.
Entwine our templets, ere ye die, ye flow'rs;
Short is your date of life, and short is ours.
Let's print each bour with pleasure, ere it pass,
Leave monuments of joy in every place,

That may our revellings and us survive,

Shew we once were, and teach our sons to live.
Lose not the little portion fate allows,

That is man's lot-this all the heaven he knows.
Thus they, who from the ways of truth decline,
Pervert their reason to confirm their sin;
The mists of sensual lust so cloud their eye,
They can't the mysteries of God descry,
Or taste the pleasing hope, and heavenly rest,
The pious transports of the righteous breast;
They know not man for noble views design'd,
Nor feel the worth of their immortal mind;

On transitory things they fix their bliss,
And lose the better life to come for this.

The grand distinction between the

VIRTUOUS AND THE WICKED

Reserved for another State.

Look round the world! with what a partial hand
The scale of bliss and mis'ry is sustain'd!
Beneath the shade of cold obscurity

Pale virtue lies; no arm supports her head,
No friendly voice speaks comfort to her soul,
Nor soft-ey'd pity drops a melting tear;
But in their stead, contempt and rude disdain
Insult the banish'd wand'rer. On she goes
Neglected and forlorn: disease, and cold,
And famine, worst of ills, her steps attend
Yet patient, and to Heaven's just will resign'd,
She ne'er is seen to weep, or heard to sigh.

Now turn your eyes to yon sweet-smelling bow'r, Where, flush'd with all the insolence of wealth, Sits pamper'd vice! for him th' Arabian gale Breathes forth delicious odours; Gallia's hills

For him pour nectar from the purple vine

;

Nor think for these he pays the tribute due

To Heaven: of heaven he never names the name,
Save when, with imprecations dark and dire,
He points his jest obscene. Yet buxom health
Sits on his rosy cheek; yet honour gilds
His high exploits, and downy-pinion'd sleep
Sheds a soft opiate o'er his peaceful couch.

Seest thou this, righteous Father! seest thou this,

And wilt thou ne'er repay? Shall good and ill
Be carry d undistinguish'd to the land

Where all things are forgot? Ah! no; the day
Will come when virtue from the cloud shall burst
That long obscur'd her beams; when sin shall fly
Back to her native hell; there sink eclips'd
In penal darkness; where nor star shall rise,
Nor ever sunshine pierce th' impervious gloom,

THE UNREASONABLENESS OF DENY.

ING A FUTURE STATE.

Sceptic! whoe'er thou art, who say'st the soul,
That particle divine, which God's own breath
Inspir'd into the mortal mass, shall rest
Annihilate, till duration has unroll'd
Her never-ending line: tell, if thou know'st,
Why ev'ry nation, ev'ry clime, though all
In laws, in rites, in manners disagree,
With one consent expect another world,
Where wickedness shall weep? Why Painim bards
Fabled Elysian plains, Tartarean lakes,
Styx and Cocytus? Tell why Hali's sons
Have feign'd a paradise of mirth and love,
Banquets and blooming nymphs? Or rather, tell,
Why on the brink of Orellana's stream,
Where never science rear'd her sacred torch,
Th' untutor'd Indian dreams of happier worlds
Behind the cloud-topt hill? Why in each breast
Is plac'd a friendly monitor, that prompts,
Informs, directs, encourages, forbids?

Tell why on unknown evil grief attends;
Or joy on secret good? Why conscience acts
With tenfold force, when sickness, age, or pain,
Stands tottering on the precipice of death?

Or why such horror gnaws the guilty soul
Of dying sinners; while the good man sleeps
Peaceful and calm, and with a smile expires?

TRUE RICHES.

I am not concern'd to know,
What to-morrow fate will do:
"Tis enough that I can say
I've possest myself to-day :
Then if haply midnight death
Seize my flesh and stop my breath,
Yet to-morrow I shall be

Heir to the best part of me.

Glitt'ring stones and golden things,
Wealth and honours that have wings,
Ever flutt'ring to be gone,

I could never call my own:
Riches that the world bestows,
She can take and I can lose ;
But the treasures that are mine,
Lie afar beyond her line :
When I view my spacious soul,
And survey myself awhole,

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