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In the last struggles of departing breath,
She saw her SAVIOUR gild the bed of death;
Heard his mild accents, tuned to peace
and love, Give glorious welcome to the realms above : In those bright regions, that celestial shore, Where friends long lost shall meet to part no more ; “ Blest LORD, I come! my hopes have not been
vain," Upon her lifeless cheek ecstatic smiles remain.
IN vain would ev'ry human record trace
Th'expressive features of her lovely face;
Tell how, with happiest art, she knew to blend
instructor with th' endearing friend;
How zeal, to strengthen ev'ry social tie,
Smil'd on her lip, and sparkled in her eye;
How husband, children, friends, domestics, join'd
To love her person, and revere her mind.
Such frail memorials ruthless time invades ;
The tomb-stone moulders, and the writing fades;
But heaven-recorded virtues time defy,
Bloom on the tree of life, and never die.
STAY, Christian, stay; nor let thy haste profane
This humble stone, that tells thee life is vain.
Here beauty lies in mould'ring ruins lost,
A blossom nipt by Death's untimely frost;
Unwarned, yet unsurprized; found on her guard,
Like a wise virgin watching for her LORD.
In life's sweet opening dawn she sought her God,
And the gay path of youth with caution trod;
In bloom of beauty, humbly turned aside
The incense flattery offered to her pride.
Her front with blushing modesty she bound,
And on her lips the law of truth was found;
Fond to oblige, too gentle to offend,
Beloved by all, to all the good a friend;
The bad she censured by her life alone,
Blind to their faults, severe upon her own :
In others' joy and grief a part she bore,
And with the needy shared her little store;
At distance saw the world with pious dread,
And to God's temple for protection fled;
There sought that peace which Heaven alone can
And learned to die, ere others learn to live.
If, in the morn of life, each winning grace,
The converse sweet, the mind-illumin'd face,
The lively wit that charmed with early art,
And mild affections beaming from the heart ;
If these, loved youth! could check the hand of fate,
Thy matchless worth had claimed a longer date.
But thou art blest! while here we heave the sigh,
By Death is Virtue wasted to the sky.
Yet still thy image fond affection keeps ;
The sire remembers, and the mother weeps.
Still the friend grieves, who saw thy vernal bloom,
And here, sad task ! inscribes it on thy tomb.
FORGIVE, blest shade, the tributary tear
That mourns thy exit from a world like this; Forgive the wish that would have kept thee here,
And stay'd thy progress to the seat of bliss.
No more confined to grov'ling scenes of night,
No more a tenant pent in mortal clay,
How should we rather hail thy glorious flight,
And trace thy journey to the realms of day.
ON A BEAUTIFUL GIRL.- Robert Cobb, Esq.
ALTHOUGH to grace
this modest cell, No sculptured cherubs idly weep, Let pious recollection tell
Here innocence and virtue sleep.
The rosebud in the morn of May,
The garden's pride, the gard'ner's care,
In all its painted foliage gay,
Was not so sweet, was not so fair.
To check vain mortals vainer pride
This virgin's life was given;
Stern Fate to man the prize denied,
And snatched her quick to Heaven.
THE SHEPHERD AND THE PHILOSOPHER.
REMOTE from cities liv'd a swain,
Unvex'd with all the cares of gain ;
His head was silver'd o'er with age,
And long experience made him sage:
In summer's heat and winter's cold,
He fed his flock and penn'd the fold;
His hours in cheerful labour flew,
Nor envy nor ambition knew ;.
His wisdom and his honest fame
Through all the country rais'd his name.
A deep philosopher (whose rules
Of moral life were drawn from schools)
The shepherd's homely cottage sought,
And thus explor'd his reach of thought:
“Whence is thy learning ? Hath thy toil
“O'er books consum'd the midnight oil ?
“ Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd,
“ And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd