But mounting fancy's airy car,
My dearest kindred to survey,
Swift darting thro' th' elastic air,
She wings her solitary way.
And whisp'ring in my longing ear,
This consolation doth impart,
'Your friends are well, your sighs forbear,
And ease, for once, your aching heart.'
My drooping spirit thus to cheer,
Hope lends a melancholy ray;
While on the brink of sad despair,
I sigh, and wish my time away.
Still, Fortitude! on thy sure aid,
With unabated pray'rs I'll lean;
My safe companion and my guide,
Till Heav'n shall deign to change the scene.
THE morning Star shoots forth her silver rays,
Riding triumphant in the eastern skies.
Gray twilight, glimm'ring close behind her car,
Announces to the world th' approach of day.
Now Night, with her dark mantle all o'ercast,
Slow travels on as loath to quit her claim,
And, ling'ring, creeps behind the western hills,
By slow gradations sinking in the deep.-
Sweet Contemplation! ere the bustling world
Breaks forth in busy crowds, when clam'rous noise
May mar the pleasures I with thee enjoy,
Kindly assist me, while my morning song
Ascends to Heav'n with gratitude and praise.
IF poverty beset my friend,
And I have ought to spare,
Shall I not my assistance lend,
And his misfortunes share?
Tho' life seems long, 'tis but a day,
And when that day is gone,
What are this world's enjoyments, say!
What are we bent upon?
Grant me, O Heav'n! that gen'rous mind
To deal what thou hast giv'n;
With feelings and affections kind,
To make our portions even.
Content if I thy favour share,
When all my cares shall cease,
And then possess a conscience clear,
And quit this world in peace.
RELIGION, I own, we should always admire,
More precious than silver refin'd in the fire!
But those, I acknowledge, my feelings provoke,
Who put on Religion to serve for a cloak.
Their falsehood and flatt'ry may please in a throng,
Tho' the poison of asps is under their tongue.
The fruit that looks fair is not always the cheapest, And water where stillest is often the deepest.
Of such doubtful characters always beware:
We all of us know, 'tis no harm to take care.
For, tho' by their looks they appear to be sainted,
At best they're no other than sepulchres painted.
Such ones, tho' exalted to ride in their chariot,
Are no more to be trusted than Judas Iscariot.
O MY poor son! my poor, deluded son!
To gain the prize, is this the race you run?
Ah foul mistake! permit me, child, to say,
You run your race the quite contrary way.
Hear then, once more, a parent and a friend
And strive at once your wicked life t'amend;
Alter your conduct, and no more rebel.
Why will you travel headlong down to hell?
And mind! unless another course you steer,
Your present sinful life will bring you there.
Did you but know what your poor parents feel,
Your heart would break—if not a heart of steel.
Could they but see you take a diff'rent road,
And change the alehouse, for the house of God,
Their sorrows would subside, and you would find
A far more happy and contented mind.
Were you not bred to work with useful tools?
Then why thus spend your time with knaves and fools?
With such you'll find but idle tales and lies,
How then can fools and mad-men make you wise?
Shun these foul scenes! What can you gather thence,
But dire contagion, plague, and pestilence?
Forsake their haunts, and all their snares defy,
And "learn to live as you would wish to die."
TO AN ABSENT SON.
My Son while I my life retain,
And Heav'n that blessing spares,
Accept a parent's kind advice,
Advice he writes with tears.
Now absent from your native home,
Where first your breath you drew ;
May He who holds us in his care,
Protect and prosper you.
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