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Olet us in thy kindness share,
As fellow-men of ours partake.

Evils beset us ev'ry hour!
Thy kind protection we implore :
Thine is the kingdom, thine the power ;
Be thine the glory evermore!


This earthly globe, the creature of a day,
Tho' built by God's right land, must pass away;
And long oblivion creep o'er mortal things,

The fate of empires, and the pride of kings: Eternal night shall veil their proudest story, And drop the curtain o'er all human glory.

The sun himself, with gath’ring clouds opprest,
Shali in his silent, dark pavilion rest;
His golden urn shall break, and useless lie,

Amidst the common ruins of the sky;
The stars rush headlong in the wild commotion,
And bathe their glittring foreheads in the ocean.
But fix'd, O God! for ever stands thy throne ;
Jehwah reigns, a universe alone :
Th' eternal fire that feeds each vital flame,

Collected, or diffus'd, is still the same:
He dwells within his own unfatbom'd essence,
And fills all space with his unbounded presence.

But oh! our highest notes the theme debase,
And silence is our least injurious praise :
Cease, cease your songs, the daring flight con-


Revere him in the stillness of the soul : With silent duty meekly bend before him, and deep within your inmost hearts adore him.


« The house appointed for all living." JOB.

Whi'st some affect the sun, and some the shade,
Some flee the city, some the hermitage,
Their aims as various as the roads they take
In jourveying thro'lute; the task be mine
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb;

Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all
These travllers meet. Thy succours I implore,
Eternal King, whose potent arms sustains
The keys of hell and death. The grave, dread

Men shiver when thou'rt nam'd: nature appallid
Shakes off her wonted firmness. Ah! how dark
Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes ;
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark

night, Dark as was chaos ere the infant gun Was roll*d together, or had tried its beanis Athwart the gloom profound! The sickly taper, By glimm’ring thro' thy low brow'd misty vaults, Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy slimes Lets fall a supernumerary horror, And only serves to make thy night more irksome. Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew, Cheerless, unsocial plant! That loves to dwell 'Midst sculls and coffins, epitaplıs and worms; Where light-heel'd ghosts and visionary shades, Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports) Embodied thick, perform their mystic rounds. No other merriment, dull tree! is thine.

See yonder hallow'd fane! the pious work Of names once fam’d, now dubious or forgot, And buried 'midst the wreck of things which

were : There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. The wind is op: hark! how it howls ! methinks

Till now, I never heard a sound so dreary:
Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul

bird Rook'd in the spire screams loud; the gloomy

aisles Black plaster'd and bung round with shreds of

scutcheons, And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults, The mansions of the dead. Rous'd from their

slumbers, In grim array the grisly spectres rise, Grin horrible, and obstinately sullen Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night. Again! the screech-owlshrieks: ungracious sound! I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill.

Quite round the pile, a row of rev'rend elms, Coæval near with that, all ragged shew, Long lash'd by the rude winds: some rift half

down Their branchless trunks; others so thin a-top, That scarce two crows could lodge in the same tree. Strange things, the neighbours say, have hap

pen'd here: Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs; Dead men have come again, and walk'd about; And the great bell has toll’d, unrung, untouch'd. Such tales their cheer, at wake or gossipping, When it draws near to witching time of night.

Oft in the lone church-yard at night I've seen,

By glimpse of moonshinc, chequering thro’the trees,
The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up,
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones,
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o’ergrown)
That tell in homely phrase who lie below;
Sudden he starts ! and hears, or thinks he hears,
The sound of something purring at his heels ;
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,
Till, out of breath, he overtakes his fellows,
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O’er some new-open'd grave; and, (strange to tell!)
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes spy'd
Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead:
Listless, she crawls along in doleful black,
While bursts of sorrow gush from either eye,
Fast-falling down her now uniasted cheek.
Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man
She drvops; whilst busy meddling memory,
In barbarous succession, musters up
T'he past endearinents of their softer hours,
Tenacious of its theme Still, still she thinks
Slie sees him, and indulging the fond thought,
Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf,
Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way.

Invidious grave!--how dost thou rend in sunder Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one?


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