who died but as yesterday, and fome fix hundred years ago, I confider that great day when we fhall all of us be cotemporaries, and make our appearance together *." SPECTATOR, Great day! for which all other days were made; Trent-day of dread, decifion, and defpair! DR. YOUNG NIGHT NIGHT THOUGHTS AMONG THE TOMB S. BY THE LATE REV. MR. MOORE, or CORNWALL However my focial hours are enliven'd with innocent pleafantry, let every evening in her fable habit, toll the bell to serious confideration. - HERVEY'S MEDITATIONS. TRUCK with religlous awe and folemn dread, STRUC I view these gloomy manfions of the dead; Around me tombs in mix't diforder rife, And in mute language teach me to be wife. Time was these afhes liv'd; a time muft be, When others thus ftand and look at me *. may * Well does yonder tomb-stone say As I am now, fo you must be ; Prepare in time to follow me. Here, Here, blended, lie the aged and the young, Mark yonder afhes, in confusion spread! How friking the resemblance yet how just! Why do you hide the fecrets of your fate? -all fhall diffolve, And like the bafelefs fabric of a vifion, Leave not a wreck behind. SHAKESPEAR All, all on earth is fhadow, all beyond Is fubftance YOUNG. Nor Nor tell your endlefs pains or joys to none, The grave has eloquence, its lectures teach, A humbling lecture this for human pride. The clock ftrikes twelve-how folemn is the found! The felon now attacks the mifer's door, And my pulfe throbs as feebly as my ftrain. ROMANS i, 17. *The grave being the houfe appointed for all living, a frequent view of, and reflections on it, may not be altogether improper for perfons of all ages. + We take no note of time but from its lofs, To give it then a tongue is wife in man. YOUNG. What What means this fudden, ftrange, unufual fart This folemn fomething creeping to my heart? Why fear to read a gracious God's decree? Why fear to look on that I foon must be * ? Can man be thoughtless of his end? or proud Of charms that claim the coffin and the fhroud? Come, let him read thefe fculptur'd tomb-ftones o'er Here fix his thoughts, and then be vain no more. Let proud ambition learn this leffon hence, Howe'er diftinguish'd, dignify'd for sense; Whate'er the honour'd enfigns of renown, The сар, the hood, the mitre, or the crown, Death levels all; nor parts nor pow'rs can fave; Milton himself must moulder in the grave, Who fung and prov'd with infpiration ftrong, The foul immortal, in immortal fong. Hark! thus death fpeaks; ingenious fons of men, *What am I, and what must I be ere-long, aud where? are queftions we fhould daily put to ourfelves, and ferioufty reflect on. No |