The largest mountains barren lie, And lightning fear, Though they appear To bid defiance to the sky; We've seen the opening earth devour, But th' humble man heaves up his head Whose fruits ne'er fail, With flowers, with corn, and vines o'erspread! Or batter'd by a storm of hail. Like a tall bark treasure-fraught, He the seas clear Doth quiet steer : But when they are to a tempest wrought, He spreads his sail, and doth more high, For the Almighty joys to force The glorious tide Of human pride To the lowest ebb; that o'er his course (Which rudely bore Down what oppos'd it heretofore) His feeblest enemy may stride. But from his ill-thatch'd roof he brings The cottager, And doth prefer Him to the ador'd state of kings: He bids that hand, Which labour hath made rough and tann'd, The all-commanding sceptre bear. Let then the mighty cease to boast Their boundless sway; Since in their sea Few sail, but by some storm are lost. Beware for they are their own shelves: "I WILL CONSIDER MY YEARS." TIME! where didst thou those years inter My soul's at war; and truth bids her To give her troubles peace. Pregnant with flowers, doth not the spring Whose feather'd music only bring On the departed year? The earth, like some rich wanton heir, As the spring ne'er should die. The present hour, flattered by all, But I, like a sad factor, shall To account my life each moment call, My mem❜ry tracks each several way, Over my actions her first sway; Poor bankrupt conscience! where are those How carelessly I some did lose, I have infected with impure There is no cure, Nor antidote, but tears. "I DESIRE TO DEPART."-ST. PAUL. THE Soul, which doth with God unite, Like sacred virgin wax, which shines How doth she burn away! How violent are her throes, till she How soon she leaves the pride of wealth, And every gaudy circumstance, The cunning of astrologers The wand'ring pilot sweats to find The politician scorns all art, But what doth pride and power impart, And swells the ambitious soul. But he, whom heavenly fire doth warm, And 'gainst these powerful follies arm, Doth soberly disdain All these fond human mysteries, As the deceitful and unwise Distempers of our brain. He as a burden bears his clay, On every idle cause : But, with the same untroubled eye, My God! if 'tis thy great decree My heart obeys, joy'd to retreat And treachery of the fair. When thou shalt please this soul to enthrone Above impure corruption, What should I grieve or fear, To think this breathless body must For in the fire when ore is tried, Do we deplore the loss? And, when thou shalt my soul refine, That it thereby may purer shine, |