It fends a peal of hollow groans,

Thus fpeaking from among the bones.

When men my scythe and darts fupply, How great a King of Fears am I?

They view me like the laft of things;

They make, and then they draw my strings,
Fools! if you lefs provok'd your fears,

No more my spectre-form appears.

Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man wou'd ever pass to God:
A port of calms, a state to ease

From the rough rage of swelling feas.
Why then thy flowing fable ftoles,
Deep pendant cyprefs, mourning poles,
Loofe fcarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearfes, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black, that as they tread,

Nod o'er the 'fcutcheons of the dead?

Nor can the parted body know,

Nor wants the foul, these forms of woe;

As

As men who long in prison dwell,

With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
Whene'er their fuff'ring years are run,

Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring fun :
Such joy, tho' far transcending sense,
Have pious fouls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body plac'd,

A few, and evil years, they waste :
But when their chains are caft aside,
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.

A HYMN

A HYMN to CONTENTMENT.

Lovely, lafting peace of mind!

Sweet delight of human kind!

Heav'nly born, and bred on high,

To crown the fav'rites of the sky
With more of happiness below,

Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek, contented head?
What happy region doft thou please
To make the feat of calms and ease?

Ambition searches all its sphere
Of pomp and state, to meet thee there.
Encreasing Avarice would find

Thy presence in its gold infhrin'd.
The bold advent'rer ploughs his way,
Thro' rocks amidst the foaming fea,
To gain thy love; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.

The

The filent heart which grief affails,

Treads foft and lonesome o'er the vales,

Sees daifies open, rivers run,

And feeks, (as I have vainly done,)

Amusing thought; but learns to know

That Solitude's the nurfe of woe.

No real happiness is found

In trailing purple o'er the ground :

Or in a foul exalted high,

To range the circuit of the fky,

Converse with flars above, and know

All nature in its forms below;

The reft it seeks, in fecking dies,

And doubts at laft for knowledge rife.

Lovely, lafting Peace appear!

This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden bleft,

And man contains it in his breast.

'Twas thus, as under fhade I ftood,

I fung my wifhes to the wood,

And

And loft in thought, no more perceiv'd

The branches whisper as they wav'd:
It seem'd, as all the quiet place

Confefs'd the prefence of the Grace.

When thus she spoke-Go rule thy will,
Bid thy wild paffions all be ftill,

Know God and bring thy heart to know,
The joys which from religion flow':
Then ev'ry Grace fhall prove its guest,

And I'll be there to crown the reft.

In

Oh! by yonder mofsy seat,

my hours of fweet retreat;

Might I thus my foul employ,
With sense of gratitude and joy :

Rais'd as ancient prophets were,

In heav'nly vision, praite, and pray'r ;
Pleafing all men, hurting none,

Pleas'd and blefs'd with God alone:

Then while the gardens take my fight,

With all the colours of delight;

I

While