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Lays the rough paths of peevith nature ev'ris
Each other gift, which God on man bestows,
As thro' the artist's intervening glass,
But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispelld,
Then constant faith, and holy hope shall die;
Whilst thou, more happy power, fair CHARITY;
THE FOLLY OF LAUGHING AT SIN,
BY THE LATE MR. JOSEPH STÉNNETT.
FOOLS MAKE A MOCR AT SIN.
PROVERBS XIV. IX.
HOlaughs at fin, laughsathis Maker's frowns; sword
: Laughs at the great Redeemer's tears and wounds, Who but for fin had neither wept nor bled.
Who laughs at fin, laughs at the num'rous woes That have the guilty world so oft befel ; Laughs at the whole creation's groans and throes; At all the fpoils of death and pains of hell.
Who laughs at fin, laughs at his own disease, Welcomes approaching torments with his fmiles ; Dares at his soul's expence his fancy please, Affronts his GOD, himself of bliss beguiles.
Who laughs at fin, sports with his guilt and shame, Laughs at the errors of his fenseless mind; For so abfurd a fool there wants a name, Expressive of a folly so refin'd.
PART OF VI. CHAP. MATTHEW,
PARAPHRASED BY MR. THOMSON.
HEN my breast labors with oppressive care,
And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear,
Think not, when all your scanty stores afford,
Behold! and look away your low despair
Observe the rising lily's snowy grace;
If, ceaseless thus the fowls of heaven he feeds,
A THOUGHT AT WAKING.
TTEND, my foul, the early birds inspire
Thy grov'ling thoughts with pure celestial fire; They from their temp'rate sleep awake, and pay Their thankful anthems, for the new-born day. See how the tuneful lark is mounted high, And, poet like, salutes the eastern sky; He warbles thro' the fragrant air his lays, And seems the beauties of the morn to praise : But MAN! more void of gratitude, awakes, And gives no thanks for that sweet reft he takes; Looks on the glorious sun's new-kindled Aame, Without one thought of Him from whom it came; The wretch unhallow'd does the day begin, Shakes off his SLOTH, but shakes not off his sin.
BY THE LATE DR. ARBUTHNOT.
HAT am I? how produc'd? and for what end?
Whence drew I being? to what period tend? Am I the abandon'd orphan of blind chance; Dropt by wild atoms in disorder'd dance? Or from an endless chain of causes wrought? And of unthinking substance, born with thought? By motion which began without a cause, Supremely wise, without design or laws ? Am I but what I feem, mere flesh and blood; A branching channel, with a mazy food ? The purple stream that through my vessel glides, Dull and unconscious flows like common tides : The pipes through which the circling juices stray, Are not that thinking I, no more than they : This frame compacted with transcendent skill, Of moving joints obedient to my will, Nurs'd from the fruitful glebe, like yonder tree, Waxes and wastes; I call it mine, not me: New matter still the mould'ring mass sustains, The mansion chang'd, the tenant still remains : And from the fleeting stream, repair'd by food,
Distinct, as is the swimmer from the flood. ? What am I then ? sure, of a nobler birth By parents right: I own as mother, earth;