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ON THE WORKS OF CREATION.

BY MRS. ROWE.

B

EAUTY complete, and majesty divine,

In all thy works, ador'd Creator, shine,
Where'er I cast my wond'ring eyes around,
The God I seek in every part is found.
Pursuing thee, the Aow'ry fields I trace,
And read thy name on every spire of grass.
I follow thee thro' many a lonely shade,
And find thee in the folitary glade.
I meet thee in the kind refreshing gale,
That gently passes thro' the dewy vale.
The pink, the jeff’min, and the purple rose,
Perfum’d by thee, their fragrant leaves disclose.
The feather'd choir that welcome in the spring,
By thee were taught their various notes to fing.
By thee the morning in her crimson vest,
And ornaments of golden clouds is drest.
The sun, in all his fplendor, wears thy beams,
And drinks in light from thy exhaustless streams.
The moon reveals thee by her glimm’ring ray;
Unnumber'd stars thy glorious paths display.
Amidst the folemn darkness of the night,
The thoughts of God my musing foul delight.
Thick shades and night thy dread pavilion form,
In state thou rid'st upon the flying storm;
While thy strong hand its fiercest rage restrains,
And holds the wild unmanag’d winds in reins.

What

What sparklings of thy majesty appeat,
When thro’ the firmament swift lightnings glare !
When peals of thunder fill the skies around,
I hear thy voice in the tremendous sound.
But, oh! how small a part is known of thee,
From all thy works immense variety?
Whatever mortal men perfection name,
Thou, in an infinite degree, doft claim.

And while I here thy fainteft shadows tracej
I pine to see the glories of thy face;
Where beauty in its never changing height;
And uncreated excellence shines bright.
When shall the heavenly scene, without controuls
Open in dazzling triumph on my soul ?
My powers with all their ardor shall adore,
And languish for terrestrial charms no more.

ON A CLERGYMAN'S GAMING AT

BATH.

D'I

ID Christ or his apostles ever play?
Or did they rather chuse to preach and

pray If you from them your sacred power derive, From them take also holy rules to live; Declare yourself an enemy to vice, To things that give offence---to box and dice, If you

love tables, Moses will produce Tables more proper for a Levite's use.

SERIOUS THOUGHTS

ON A LATE CORONATION,

F

ROM finish'd prayer the fluck disperse apace,

And each glad foot forsakės the dreary place z. The hooded prebend plods along before, And the last verger claps the founding door. In thoughtful pensiveness I stray'd alone, In the dark temple, when they all were gone; No noise invades my ear, no murmuring breathy Not one low whisper in the hall of death. No trampling found swims o'er the filent floor, But the flow clock, that counts the siding hour. Lead on, my muse! while trembling I essay To trace the footstep thro' the cloister'd way. Cast a thick veil about thy radiant head, And lead me thro' the dwellings of the dead. Where the still banner, faded and decay’d, Nods pendent o'er its mould'ring master's head. Where love's transform'd to marble, angels mourn, And weeping cherubs seem to sob in stone. To mount their thrones---here monarchs bend their Oe'r pavements where their predecessors lay. (way, O fons of empire, who, in pompous hour, Attend to wear the cumb'rous robes of power, When ye proceed along the crouded way, Think, there's a second visit here to pay ; Now, purple pride, and shouting joy appears, Then, black processions, and attending tears ;

And

And when in state on buried kings ye tread,
And swelling robes sweep o'er th' unnotic'd dead,
While, honor'd thus, ye cast your eyes around,
Think then, O think, ye tread on treach'rous ground.
Tho' firm the chequer'd pavement seems to be,
'Twill surely open, and give way to thee;
And while the crouding lords address you near,
Th’anointing prelate, and the kneeling peer ;
While with obsequious diligence they bow,
And spread the careful honors o'er thy brow;
While the high-rais'd spectators thout around, -
And the long ifles and vaulted roofs resound;
Then snatch a sudden thought, and turn thy head
From the loud living to the filent dead.
With careful eye the neighb'ring tombs survey,
These will instruct thee better far than they ;
Thou from vast crouds thy present power may'st see,
But these inform thee what thou’rt sure to be;
Think these, like thee, were once ordain'd to wear
Imperial robes, and fill the antique chair.
One wore the weighty diadem, like thee
Receiv'd the folemn kiss and bended knee;
Heard the same loud applauses rend the sky,
And ļastly, think they dy'd, as thou must die.
Like DAMOCLES thou fit'st, a dangerous show,
His menace hung above, but thine below :
The fate of all thy brother monarchs scan,
And own, tho' ftil'd a God, thou’rt still a man.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMAS

ROWE.

BY MRS. ROWE.

I

N what soft language shall my thoughts get free,

My dear Alexis, when I talk of thee?
Ye muses, graces, all ye gentle train
Of weeping loves, affift the penfive strain !
But why should I implore your moving art?
'Tis but to speak the dictates of my heart.
And all that knew the charming youth will join
Their friendly fighs, and pious tears to mine:
For all that knew his merit must confess,
In grief for him there can be no excess.

His soul was form’d to act each glorious part
Of life, unstain'd with vanity, or art.
No thought within his gen'rous mind had birth,
But what he might have own'd to heaven and earth.
Practis'd by him, each virtue grew more bright,
And shone with more than its own native light.
Whatever noble warmth could recommend
The just, the active, and the constant friend,
Was all his own- but oh! a dearer name,
And softer ties my endless sorrow claim ;
Loft in despair, distracted, and forlorn,
The lover I, and tender husband mourn.
Whate'er to such superior worth was due,
Whate'er excess the fondest passion knew,

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