BENEVOLENCE AND COMPASSION.

From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myself omnipotent in thee.

Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my swimming eye;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate,
I stand and stretch my view to either state;
Teach me to quit this transitory scene
With decent triumph and a look serene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And having lived to thee, in thee to die.

BENEVOLENCE AND COMPASSION.
BEHOLD where, breathing love divine,
Our dying Master stands!

His weeping followers, gathering round,
Receive his last commands.

From that mild teacher's parting lips,
What tender accents fell!

The gentle precepts which he gave,
Became its author well.

"Blest is the man whose soft'ning heart

Feels all another's pain;

To whom the supplicating eye

Was never rais'd in vain.

Whose breast expands with gen'rous warmth

A stranger's woes to feel,

And bleeds in pity o'er the wound,

He wants the power to heal.

He spreads his kind supporting arms

To every child of grief;

His secret bounty largely flows,

And brings unask'd relief.

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To gentle offices of love

His feet are never slow,

He views through mercy's melting eye
A brother in a foe.

Peace from the bosom of his God,
My peace to him I give;

And when he kneels before his throne,
His trembling soul shall live.

To him protection shall be shown,
And mercy from above,
Descend on those who thus fulfil
The perfect law of love."

HANNAH MORE.

BORN, 1745; DIED, 1833.

INCENTIVE TO EARLY RISING.

SOFT slumbers now mine eyes forsake,
My powers are all renewed;
May my freed spirit too awake,

With heavenly strength endued.

Thou silent murderer, sloth, no more
My mind imprison'd keep;
Nor let me waste another hour
With thee, thou felon sleep.

Think, O my soul, could dying men
One lavished hour retrieve,

Though spent in tears, and passed in pain
What treasures would they give.

But seas of pearls and mines of gold
Were offered then in vain;

Their pearl of countless price is sold,
And where's the promised gain?

THE COMPLAINT OF NATURE.

Lord, when thy day of dread account,
For squander'd hours shall come,
Oh! let not this increase th' amount,
And swell the former sum.

Teach me in health each good to prize
I dying shall esteem;
And every pleasure to despise

I then shall worthless deem.

For all thy wondrous mercies past,
My grateful voice I'll raise,
While thus I quit my bed of rest,
Creation's Lord to praise.

JOHN LOGAN.

BORN, 1748; DIED, 1788.

THE COMPLAINT OF NATURE.
JOB, xiv.

FEW are thy days and full of woe,
O man of woman born!

Thy doom is written, "Dust thou art,
And shalt to dust return."

Determined are the days that fly
Successive o'er thy head;

The number'd hour is on the wing,
That lays thee with the dead.

Alas! the little day of life

Is shorter than a span;

Yet black with thousand hidden ills

To miserable man.

Gay is thy morning; flattering hope
Thy sprightly step attends;
But soon the tempest howls behind,
And the dark night descends.

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Before its splendid hour the cloud
Comes o'er the beam of light;
A pilgrim in a weary land,
Man tarries but a night.

Behold! sad emblem of thy state,
The flowers that paint the field;
Or trees that crown the mountain's brow,
And boughs and blossoms yield.

When chill the blast of Winter blows
Away the Summer flies;

The flowers resign their sunny robes,
And all their beauty dies.

Nipp'd by the year the forest fades;
And, shaking to the wind,

The leaves toss to and fro, and streak
The wilderness behind.

The Winter past, reviving flowers
Anew shall paint the plain:

The woods shall hear the voice of Spring,
And flourish green again :

But man departs this earthly scene,

Ah! never to return!

No second spring shall e'er revive

The ashes of the urn.

Th' inexorable gates of death,

What hand can e'er unfold?
Who from the cerements of the tomb
Can raise the human mould?

The mighty flood that rolls along

Its torrents to the main,

The waters lost, can ne'er recall

From that abyss again.

THE COMPLAINT OF NATURE.

The days, the years, the ages, dark

Descending down to night,
Can never, never be redeem'd

Back to the gates of light.

"So man departs the living scene,
To night's perpetual gloom;
The voice of morn ne'er shall break
The slumbers of the tomb.

"Where are our fathers? whither gone
The mighty men of old?

The patriarchs, prophets, priests, and kings,
In sacred books enroll'd?

"Gone to the resting-place of man,

The everlasting home,

Where ages past have gone before,
Where future ages come."

Thus nature pour'd the wail of woe,
And urg'd her earnest cry;

Her voice in agony extreme
Ascended to the sky.

Th' Almighty heard: then from his throne

In majesty he rose;

And from the heaven that open'd wide,

His voice in mercy flows:

"When mortal man resigns his breath,
And falls a clod of clay,

The soul, immortal, wings its flight
To never-setting day.

"Prepar'd of old for wicked men,
The bed of torment lies;

VOL. I.

The just shall enter into bliss,
Immortal in the skies."

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