Page images


A.D. 1787.

While thic een moons saw smoothly cun

The men's barge. laden wave,
All these, Life's rambling journey done,

Have found their home, the grave.
Was man (frail always) made more frail

Than in foregoing years ?
Did famine, or did plague prevail ?

That so much death appears?

No-these were vig'rous as their sires,

Nor plague nor famine came;
This annual tribute death requires,

And never waives his claim.

Like crowded forest-trees we stand,

And some are mark'd to fall;
The axe will strike at God's command,

And soon shall smite us all.

Green as the bay-tree, ever green,

With its new foliage on,
The gay, the thoughtless, I have seen,

I pass'd--and they were gone.
Read, ye that run! the solemn truth

With which I charge my page,
A worm is in the hud of youth,

And in the root of age.

No present health can health ensure

For yet an hour to come;
No med'cine, though it often cure,

Can always balk the tomb.

And oh! that humble as my lot,

And scorn'd, as is my strain, These truths, though known, too much forgot

I may not teach in vain.


As when the weary trav’ller gains

The height of some o'erlooking hill, His heart revives if, cross the plains

He eyes his home, tho' distant still

While he surveys the much-lov'd spot,

He slights the space that lies between ; His past fatigues are now forgot,

Because his journey's end is seen :

Thus when the Christian pilgrim views,

By faith, bis mansion in the skies, The sight his fainting strength renews,

And wings his speed to reach the prize.

The thought of home his spirit cheers,

No more he grieves for troubles past;

Nor any Mature trial fears,

So he may safe arrive at last.

Tis there, he says, I am to dwell

With Jesus in the realms of day;
Then I shall bid my cares farewell,

And he shall wipe my tears away.

Jesus, on thee our hope depends,

To lead us on to thine abode :
Assur'd our home will make amends,

For all our toil when on the road.


While in the world we still remain,
We only meet to part again ;
But when we reach the heav'nly shore
We then shall meet to part no more.

The hope that we shall see that day,
Should chase our present griefs away;
A few short years of conflicts past,
We meet around the throne at last.

Then let us here improve our hours-
Improve them to a Saviour's praise ;
To him, with zeal, devote our pow'rs
And run with joy in wisdom's ways.

Let all our meetings now be made
Subservient to another's good ;
For worldly joys must quickly fade,
Nor can they yield substantial food,

Whene'er required to part from those
With whom the truth unites us here,
We'll call to mind the joyful close,
When Christ the Saviour will appear.

Then shall his saints all meet again,
For so his word of promise says,
With him for ever to remain,
And sing bis everlasting praise,


There is a land, of every land the pride,
Belov’d of heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons imparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,
Time-tutor'd age, and love-exalted youth :
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so beautiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ;
In every clime, the magnet of his soul,
Touch'd by remembrance, trembles to that pole

For in this land of heav'n's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his soften’d looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend :
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie :
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
“ Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ?'
Art thou a man?-a patriot ?-look around;
Oh! thou shall find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land, thy country—and that spot, thy home


HASTEN, sinner! to be wise,

Stay not for to-morrow's sun ;
Wisdom if you still despise,

Harder is she to be won.

Hasten, mercy to implore ;

Stay not for to-morrow's sun ;
Lest thy season should be o'er,

Ere this evening's stage is run

« EelmineJätka »