fitting and chanting an air of ravish

ment.

Thou fon of affliction, how can thy voice deceive fuch wretchednefs! Iffues and blotches mar thy fkin; thy joints are cramped with pains of long durance; thy languid eyes feem willing to withdraw from the light, that brings no joy to thee. Say, what can delight thy heart, which must have long forgot each cheerful impulfe?

You fee this body, shattered with disease and age, and wonder how I fing? Why should I not rejoice, with hopes like mine? 'Tis only guilt that caufes forrow and remorse. This forry tenement has long my better part confined; but now the prifon walls are falling to decay, to set me free. A few days more, and this poor harbour of disease will fink into the grave, while my intellectual part, wafted by angels, fhall mount, exulting, to the realms above. Death will be to me a friend, a welcome meffenger, to heal me of my pains. The courts of Salem are trodden down. She weeps alone for her glory departed; and now this world, to me a barren defart, has nothing in it worth my care. My treasure is in yonder diftant land, where forrow is not known, and where no enemy can annoy. Should I then be fad, who wait the lapfe of a few short hours, to lift my foul to peace. With inexpreffible joy, I look forward to

that

་

happy moment, when I shall shake off old age, and want, and fickness, all at once, and mix with blessed Spirits in the realms of light.

But, ftranger, if the rueful scenes of defolation before thee have not untuned thy foul for melody, liften and I will give thee the fong of my confolation :--

The DYING MAN's Song of Consolation,

Arife, my foul, to heavenly strains,
Forget a while, thy prefent pains';
Thou foon fhalt know a joyful ease,
And leave this body of disease.

From Zion's fallen temple rife,
View that bright temple in the skies;
There thou all glorious fhalt fhine,
And tune thy harp to fong's divine.

What though affliction's cup was deep,
That Salem made a ruin'd heap;
Why waste thy time in vain complaints,
God's ftill a refuge to his faints.

He does their rifing fears control,
And cherishes the pious foul;
His promises their hopes revive;
His grace ftill keeps their faith alive,

Though this poor tenement of clay,
Makes rapid progrefs to decay;
To that bright city of my God,
I haste, to my divine abode.

My joyful foul for flight prepare,

God makes thy happiness his care;

When paffing through death's gloomy vale,
Neither thy faith, nor hope fhall fail.

I fee the bright the fhining ray,
That guides me to eternal day;
I fee the path that faints have trod,
And follow them to meet my God:

To me the ills of life are past,

My body to the grave makes hafte; My fpirit, like a bird, takes flight, To realms of everlasting light.

ALL gracious heaven, faid the Bard, how delightful are thy confolations! Why do I lament, the deftruction of this temple of Salem, where only the fymmetry of wood, and precious ftones is destroyed! This poor man's heart is a better temple, in which Jehovah delights to refide. Through the ruins of this fhattered tabernacle, the foul looks out to a blooming immortality. Here true devotion breathes, enlivened with a glorious hope. Thou art more precious, than columns overlaid with gold, faid the Bard, and wept. They were not the tears of pity; but fuch as the generous fhed, when fuffering virtue is about to be relieved, or fcandalized innocence to be acquitted.

Be pleased to mind my fong, and spare thy condolence, thou man of feeling, faid the dying Lazarus. Soon fhall I be at reft in the land of filence; foon fhall the clods of the valley cover my wretchedness. Go learn the science of living well, that thou mayeft die happy. Mourn not over the defolation of wafted cities, and the miferies that attend humanity; but rather ftudy to avoid,

as an individual, thofe fins that importune the vengeance of heaven against guilty nations. If thou haft complacency enough to be inftructed by me, obferve, that no real evil can befal him who cultivates religion in his heart; and whofe mind is free from the painful stings of remorfe. They alone are wretched, and strangers to felicity, who are deftitute of true piety.

THE

THE

DEATH OF MORVEN;

A

STORY

IN THE

STYLE OF OSSIAN,

IERCE rushes the red torrent from the FIE heights.---Hollow is the groan of the gathering ftorm.---Deep fighs the awful genius of the blaft, that rens the venerable oaks.

The beautiful Merione trembled in the deep cave, while the restless fea thundered against the opposing rocks of Yla; her orifons were for the fon of the mighty Conrad. A rage of love made her fufpect his safety; but she hoped the powers would be partial to her regards. Oft fhe looked upon the foaming deep, and anxious longed for Morven. Her fnowy breaft heaved with unusual throbbings; prefage, faid the, of his approach: Direct his courte, Comptroller of the ocean.---I fhall again hear his voice in the halls of mirth.

GHOST