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No more imagin'd spectres walk,
How sweet these sacred hours of rest, Fair portraits of the virtuous breast, Where lawless lust, and passion rude, And folly never dare intrude!
Be others' choice the sparkling bowl;
A nobler joy my thoughts design;
That tree which bears immortal fruit,
Come then, my soul, be this thy guest,
With this companion in the shade, Surely thou couldst not be dismay'd ; But if thy Saviour here were found, All Paradise would bloom around,
Had I a firm and lasting faith,
the balm that heals the smart.
Though Heav'n afflicts, I'll not repine:
THE COMPLAINT OF NATURE.
Few are thy days and full of wo,
O man of woman born!
And shalt to dust return.
Successive o'er thy head ;
That lays thee with the dead. • Alas ! the little day of life
Is shorter than a span ;
To miserable man.
Thy sprightly step attends ;
And the dark night descends.
Comes o'er the beam of light;
ÍMan tarries but a night.
The flowers that paint the field;
And boughs and blossoms yield.
Away the summer flies ;
And all their beauty dies.
• Nipt by the
the forest fades; And, shaking to the wind, The leaves toss to and fro, and streak
The wilderness behind.
• The winter past, reviving flowers
Anew shall paint the plain ; The woods shall hear the voice of spring,
And flourish green again :
• But man departs this earthly scene,
Ah! never to return !
The ashes of the urn.
" Th’inexorable doors of Death
What hand can e'er unfold ?
Can raise the human mould ?
• The mighty flood that rolls along
Its torrents to the main,
From that abyss again.
• The days, the years, the ages, dark
Descending down to night, Can never, never be redeem'd
Back to the gates of light. • So man departs the living scene,
To night's perpetual gloom; The voice of morning ne'er shall break The slumbers of the tomb.
• Where are our fathers ? Whither gone
The mighty men of old ?
In sacred books enrolld ?
• Gone to the resting-place of man,
The everlasting home,
Where future ages come.'
And urg'd her earnest cry ;
Ascended to the sky.
In majesty he rose ;
His voice in mercy flows.
And falls a clod of clay,
To never-setting day.
The bed of torment lies ; The just shall enter into bliss Immortal in the skies.'