Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,
Alque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari!

Happy the mortal, who has traced effects


To their firft caufe, caft fear beneath his feet,
And Death, and roaring Hell's voracious fires!

THANKLESS for favours from on high,
Man thinks he fades too foon;

Though 'tis his privilege to die,

Would he improve the boon.

But he, not wife enough to fcan
His bleft concerns aright,

Would gladly ftretch life's little span
To ages, if he might.

To ages in a world of pain,

To ages, where he goes

Galled by affliction's heavy chain,

And hopeless of repose.

Strange fondnefs of the human heart,

Enamoured of its harm!

Strange world, that cofts it fo much fmart, And still has power to charm.

Whence has the world her magic power?

Why deem we death a foe?

Recoil from weary life's beft hour,

And covet longer woe?

The caufe is Confcience-Confcience oft

Her tale of guilt renews:
Her voice is terrible though foft,
And dread of death enfues.

Then anxious to be longer fpared
Man mourns his fleeting breath:
All evils then feem light, compared

With the approach of Death.

'Tis judgment shakes him; there's the fear,

That prompts the wifh to ftay: He has incurred a long arrear, And must despair to pay.

Pay!-follow Chrift, and all is paid;
His death your peace infures;
Think on the grave where he was laid,
And calm defcend to yours.



De sacris autem hae sit una sententia, ut conserventur.


But let us all concur in this one fentiment, that things facred be inviolate.

He lives who lives to God alone,

And all are dead befide;

For other fource than God is none

Whence life can be supplied.

To live to God is to requite

His love as beft we may:

To make his precepts our delight,

His promifes our stay.

But life, within a narrow ring
Of giddy joys comprized,

Is falfely named, and no fuch thing,
But rather death disguised,

Can life in them deferve the name,

Who only live to prove

For what poor toys they can disclaim

An endless life above?

Who, much diseased, yet nothing feel; Much menaced, nothing dread;

Have wounds, which only God can heal, Yet never afk his aid?

Who deem his houfe an useless place,
Faith, want of common sense;
And ardour in the Chriftian race,
A hypocrite's pretence?

Who trample order; and the day,
Which God afterts his own,
Difhonour with unhallowed play,
And worship chance alone?

If fcorn of God's commands, impreffed
On word and deed, imply

The better part of man, unbleffed
With life that cannot die;

Such want it, and that want uncured
Tilloan refigns his breath,
Speaks him a criminal, affured

Of everlafting death.

Sad period to a pleasant courfe!

Yet fo will God repay

Sabbaths profaned without remorse,

And mercy caft away.

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