To fcreen thy mistress from the flightest harms,

Wouldst thou not purchase death, and would not death have charms? From hence a real paffion you may prove,

For never yet was coward known to love.

By these prescriptions judge your inward part,
Put all these questions closely to your heart;
And if by them your flame you can approve,
Then will I own that you fincerely love.

HYMN ON GRATITUDE.

BY MR. ADDISON.

I.

WHEN all thy mercies, O my God,

My rifing foul furveys;

Transported with the view, I'm loft,
In wonder, love, and praise.

II.

O how fhall words with equal warmth

The gratitude declare

That glows within my ravish'd heart}

But thou canst read it there.

III.

Thy providence my life sustain’d,
And all my wants redress'd;
When in the filent womb I lay,

And hung upon the breast.

Thro' hidden dangers, toils, and deaths,
It gently clear'd my way;

And thro' the pleafing fnares of vice,

More to be fear'd than they.

X.

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts

My daily thanks employ;
Nor is the least a chearful heart,

That taftes thofe gifts with joy..

XI.

Thro' every period of my life
Thy goodness I'll purfue;
And after death, in distant worlds,

The glorious theme renew.

XII.

When nature fails, and day and night

Divide thy works no more,

My ever-grateful heart, O Lord,

Thy mercy fhall adore.

XIII.

'Thro' all eternity to Thee
A joyful fong I'll raise;
For, O! eternity's too short
To utter all thy praise.

A NIGHT PIECE ON DEATH.

BY DR. PARNEL L.

Y the blue taper's trembling light,

BY

No more I waste the wakeful night,

Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the fages o'er;
Their books from wisdom widely stray,

Or point at best the longest way:

I'll feek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's furely taught below.
How deep yon azure dyes the fky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie;
While thro' their ranks, in filver pride,
The nether crescent seems to glide.
The flumb'ring breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the fpangled fhow
Defcends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right afpire,
In dimnefs from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whofe wall the filent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful fight
Among the livid gleams of night;
There pass, with melancholy ftate,
By all the folemn heaps of fate,
And think, as foftly-fad you tread
Above the venerable dead,

'Time was, like thee, they life poffefs'd,
And time fhall be, that thou shalt reft.'
Thofe graves with bending ofier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought difclofe
Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat fmooth ftones that bear a name,

The chiffel's flender help to fame,

(Which, ere our fet of friends decay,
Their frequent fteps may wear away)
A middle race of mortals own,
Men half ambitious, all unknown.

The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whofe dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars fwell with sculptur'd stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,

Thefe (all the poor remains of ftaté)
Adorn the rich, or praise the great ;
Who while on earth in fame they live,
Are fenfeless of the fame they give.

Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades;
The bursting earth unveils the fhades!
All flow, and wan, and wrapt with fhrouds,
They rise in vifionary crowds;

And all with fober accent cry,

• Think, mortal, what it is to die.'
Now from yon black and fun'ral yew,
That bathes the charnel-houfe with dew,
Methinks I hear a voice begin;

(Ye ravens cease your croaking din,

Ye tolling clocks no time refound

Q'er the long lake and midnight ground)
It fends a peal of hallow groans,
Thus fpeaking from among the bones.

• When men my scythe and darts supply, • How great a king of fears am I!

They view the like the laft of things;

They make, and then they dread my ftings,
• Fools! if you lefs provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
• If man would ever pafs to God:
A port of calms, a ftate of eafe,
• From the rough rage of fwelling feas.
Why, then, thy flowing fable ftoles,
• Deep pendent cyprefs, mourning poles,
Loofe fcarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearfes, cover'd fteeds,
And plumes of black, that as they tread,
Nod o'er the 'fcutcheons of the dead?

Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the foul thefe forms of woe:

? As