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Lo, he beckons from on bigb!
Fearless to his presence ly;
Thine the merit of his blood,
Thine the righteousness of God!
Angels, joyful to attend,
Hovering round thy pillow bend;
Wait to catch the signal giveu,
And escort thee quick to heaven!

Is thy earthly house distrest?
Willing to retain its guest?
"Tis not thou, but it, must die-
Fly, celestial tenant, ily!
Burst thy shackles, drop thy clay,
Sweetly breathe thyself away.
Singing, to thy crown remove,
Swift of wing, and fired with love.

Shudder not to pass the stream,
Venture all thy care on him,
Hiin, whose dying love and power
Still'd its tossing, hush'd its war:
Safe is the expanded wave,
Gentle as a summer's eve;
Not one object of his care
Ever suffered shipwreck there!

See the haven full in view,
Love divine shall bear thee through;
Trust to that propitious gale,
Weigh thy anchor, spread thy sail !
Saints in glory perfect made,
Wait thy passage through the shade :
Ardent for thy coming o'er,
See they throng the blissful shore !

Mount, their transports to improve,
Join the lorfging choir above,
Swiftly to their wish be given,
Kindle higher joy in heaven!
Such the prospects that arise
To the dying Christian's eyes !
Sueh the glorious vista, Faith
Opens through the shades of death!



AGAIN t'e balmy zephyr blows,

Fresh verdure decks the grove; Each bird with vernal rapture glows,

And tunes his notes to love.

Yr gentle warblers, hither fly,

And shun the noon-tide heat; My shrubs a cooling shade supply,

My groves a safe retreat.

Here freely hop from spray to spray,

Or weave the mossy nest,
Here rove and sing the live-long day,

At night here sweetly rest.

Amidst this cool, translucent rill,

That trickles down the glade,
Here bathe your plumes, here drink your till,

And revel in the shade

No school-boy rude, to mischief prone,

E’er shows his ruddy face;
Or twangs his bow, or hurls a stone,

In this sequester'd place.

Hither the vocal thrush repairs,

Secure the linnet sings; The goldfinch dreads uo slimy snares.

To clog her painted wings.

Sad Philomel ! ah, quit thy haunt,

Yon distant woods among,
And round my friendly grotto chaurt

Thy sweetly plaintive song.

Let not the harmless redbreast fear,

Domestic bird, to come
And seek a sure asylum here,

With one that loves his home.

My trees for you, ye artless tribe,

Shall store of fruit preserve:
O let me thus your friendship brite!

Come, feed without reserve.

For you these cherries I protect,

you these plums belong ; Sweet is the fruit that you have pick'd ;

But sweeter far your song.

Let then this league, hetwixt us made,

Our mutual int’rest guard;
Mine be the gift of fruit and shade,

Your songs be my reward.



MAN is an insect, life his cell,
Nor lives he till death breaks the shell;
He dreameth here, and waketh there,
So what, forsooth, hath life to heir?
A painted nothing of the mind,
Whose peace we hunt, and never find;
A fancied tale of what hath been,
When all is heard and nothing seen;
A mystic show, which thoughts devise,
A rumour cloth'd in prophecies;
A dream unmarr'd-a hope deferred
Here all is fancy, nothing heard.
Anon, man peeps behind the screen ;-
The spell is out, the show is seen,
The rumour proved, and so belied,
The prophecy nigh thrown aside ;
The dreain half faded, woke too soon;
The hope toru up, and well nigh done.
Anon, he lets the curtain fall;-
The past 's forgot, the present all,
The dream renews, the scene beguiles,
And hope's torn blossom lives and smiles.
The clouds seem gone, the skies are blue,
The sun is out-it must be true;
The dread of former storms and rain
Are nought as they'd be near again,
The flower is open,

leaves are green,
The summer reigns, the air serene;
The bird hath sung and built its nest,
Love's bowers too made, and they at rest,-

All Nature seems in pleasure's span, mes
Insects seem blest, and so does man.
In spirits high, in joyance loud,
In fancy great, in nature proud,
And all but wanting wings to fly
To mingle with eternity.
Anon be feasts :-life's viands shine,
Mirth futters, and prepares to dine :
The hall's deck'd out, the guests are come,*
Eyes serve for suns in beauty's bloom;
The dance is off, the music sweet,
And loud the prate of merry feet.
Aye, doth my ear deceive my

I turn to join, and all is still :
That moment revel's sons were gay,
And this is silent-where are they?
'Twas then their morn, but now 'tis noon;
So guests are fed and dinner done,-
The wine drank up and bottle drained ;
The riddle told though unexplained.


sung, the jests all said,
'The dance is done and all is sped
The insect fares, as summer fares.
Its joys were short, and so were theirs.
Sleep came ere mirth did well begin,-
Death, where they feasted, owns the inn;
So in he went to claim his pay,
And clear the wasted scraps away.
When eyes grew dim, the roses wan,
The rooms all still, and where is man?
Gone like a star from heaven's face,
Nor e'en his shadow heirs bis place.

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