What sense suggests, how fondly we believe,
And with what subtility ourselves deceive!

Frail is our state, (th' ungodly cry) how few
The days of life, and yet how tedious too!
Death is our certain doom, in vain we strive
To stay the blow, and idly wish to live;
When once we to the grave descend, in vain
Hope ever to return, and breathe again.
Chance gave us birth, chance form'd our brittle

frame, Nor know we how, or why, or whence we came: Smoke is our breath, a spark our vital part, That warms, and moves, and animates our heart, Which once extinguish’d, we no more are seen; Then shall we be, as if we ne'er had been. Our works shall all in dark oblivion lie, And with ourselves our very names shall die; Silent, forgot, to nothing we repair, To dust our bodies, and our souls to air.

We vanish like a cloud, that owes its birth To exhalations from the glowing earth, Drawn up, and painted by the solar rays, A beauteous being it awhile displays; But soon dissolv'd, its short-liv'd glory mourns, And to its parent earth in tears returns : View all the heavens around, nor can you find The path it pass'd, or mark its trace behind.

B

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Come, let us then the present hour employ; Nor to the faithless future trust our joy; Let us from care the wrinkled forehead smooth, Let us in age revive the sweets of youth, Pour out rich wines, the costly ointments bring, With all the blooming flow'rs that grace the spring; Let the fresh violet and the new-born rose A smiling chaplet for our brows compose. Entwine our templets, ere ye die, ye fiow'rs! Short is

your

date of life, and short is ours. Let's print each hour with pleasure, ere it pass, Leave monuments of joy in every place, That may our revellings and us survive, Shew we once were, and teach our sons to live. Lose not the little portion fate allows, That is man's lot-this all the heaven he knows.

Thus they, who from the ways of truth decline, Pervert their reason to confirm their sin; The mists of sensual lust so cloud their

eye, They can't the mysteries of God descry, Or taste the pleasing hope, and heavenly rest, The pious transports of the righteous breast; They know not man for noble views design'd, Nor feel the worth of their immortal mind; On transitory things they fix their bliss, And lose the better life to come for this.

WHEN my breast labours with oppressive care, And o'er

my

cheek descends the falling tear; While all my warring passions are at strife, Oh, let me listen to the words of life! Raptures deep-felt His doctrine did impart, And thus He rais’d from earth the drooping heart.

Think not, when all your scanty stores afford Is spread at once upon the sparing board; Think not, when worn the homely robe appears, While on the roof, the howling tempest hears; What farther shall this feeble life sustain, And what shall clothe these shiv'ring limbs again. Say, does not life its nourishment exceed? And the fair body its investing weed? Behold! and look away your low despairSee the light tenants of the barren air: To them, nor stores, nor granaries, belong, Nought but the woodland and the pleasing song;

Yet, your kind heav'nly Father bends his eye
On the least wing that flits along the sky.
To him they sing, when spring renews the plain,
To him they cry in winter's pinching reign;
Nor is their music, nor their plaint in vain:
He hears the gay, and the distressful call,
And with unsparing bounty fills them all.

Observe the rising lily's snowy grace,
Observe the various vegetable race;
They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow,
Yet see how warm theyblash, how bright theyglow!
What regal vestments can with them compare!
What king so shining! or what queen so fair!

If, ceaseless, thus the fowls of heaven he feeds, If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads; Will he not care for you, ye faithless, say? Is he unwise? or, are ye less than they?

ODE ON ÆOLUS'S HARP.

THOMSON

ÆTHEREAL race, inhabitants of air,

Who hymn your God amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love.

Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid !

With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart! Sure froin the hand of some unhappy maid,

Who dy'd of love, these sweet complainingspart.

But hark! that strain was of a graver tone;

On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws; Or he, the sacred bard*; who sat alone,

In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes.

Such was the song which Zion's children sung, When by Euphrates' stream they made their

plaint; And to such sadly solemn notes are strung

Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint.

Methinks I hear the full celestial choir,
Thro' heav'n's high dome their awful anthem

raise: Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire

To swell the lofty hymn, from praise to praise.

Let me, ye wand'ring spirits of the wind,

Who,as wild fancy prompts you touch the string, Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd,

For till you cease, my muse forgets to sing.