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Behold him in the evening tide of life,

A life well-spent, whose early care it was
His riper years should not upbraid his green:
By unperceiv'd degrees he wears away;
Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting.
High in his faith and hopes, look how he reaches
After the prize in view! and, like a bird
That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away:
Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded
To let new glories in, the first fair fruits
Of the fast coming harvest.-Then, oh then!
Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears,
Shrunk to a thing of nought.-Oh! how he longs
To have his passport sign'd, and be dismiss'd!
"Tis done! and now he's happy!-the glad soul
Has not a wish uncrown'd.-Ev'n the lag flesh
Rests too in hope of meeting once again
Its better half, never to sunder more,
Nor shall it hope in vain :-the time draws on
When not a single spot of burial earth,
Whether on land, or in the spacious sea,
But must give back its long-committed dust
Inviolate and faithfully shall these

Make up the full account; not the least atom
Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale.
Each soul shall have a body ready furnish'd;

And each shall have his own.-Hence, ye profane!
Ask not, how this can be?-Sure the same pow'r
That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down,
Can re-assemble the loose scatter'd parts,
And put them as they were.-Almighty GoD
Has done much more: nor is his arm impair'd
Through length of days: and what he can, he will:
His faithfulness stands bound to see it done.
When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust,
(Not unattentive to the call) shall wake:
And every joint possess its proper place,
With a new elegance of form, unknown

To its first state.-Nor shall the conscious soul
Mistake its partner, but amidst the crowd

Singling its other half, into its arms

Shall rush with all the impatience of a man

That's new-come home, and, having long been absent,
With haste runs over every different room,

In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting!
Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more.
"Tis but a night, a long and moonless night;
We make the grave our bed, and then are gone.
Thus at the shut of even, the weary bird
Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake
Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day;
Then claps his well-fledg'd wings, and bears away.

THE

DAY OF JUDGMENT.

[GLYNN.]

THY justice, heavenly King! and that great day,
When Virtue, long abandon'd and forlorn,

Shall raise her pensive head; and Vice, that erst
Ranged unreproved and free, shall sink appall'd;
I sing advent'rous. But, what eye can pierce
The vast immeasurable realms of space,
O'er which Messiah drives his flaming car
To that bright region, where enthroned he sits
First-born of Heaven, to judge assembled worlds,
Clothed in celestial radiance! Can the Muse,
Her feeble wing all damp with earthly dew,
Soar to that bright empyreal, where around
Myriads of angels, God's perpetual choir,
Hymn hallelujahs; and in concert loud,
Chant songs of triumph to their Maker's praise ?-
Yet will I strive to sing, albeit unused

To tread poetic soil. What though the wiles
Of Fancy me, enchanted, ne'er could lure
To rove o'er fairy-lands; to swim the streams
That through her vallies weave their mazy way;

Or climb her mountain tops; yet will I raise
My feeble voice, to tell what harmony
(Sweet as the music of the rolling spheres)
Attunes the moral world: that Virtue still

May hope her promis'd crown; that Vice may dread Vengeance, though late; that reasoning Pride may own Just, though unsearchable, the ways of Heaven.

Sceptic! whoe'er thou art, who say'st the soul,
That divine particle which God's own breath
Inspired into the mortal mass, shall rest
Annihilate, till Duration has unroll❜d

Her never-ending line; tell, if thou know'st,
Why every nation, every clime, though all
In laws, in rites, in manners disagree,
With one consent expect another world,
Where Wickedness shall weep? Why paynim 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 placed 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?

Look round the world! with what a partial hand
The scale of bliss and misery 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-eyed Pity drops a melting tear:
But, in their stead, Contempt and rude Disdain
Insult the banjsh'd wanderer: 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

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