Adore no God beside me, to provoke mine eyes;

Nor worship me in shapes and forms that men devise;
With rev'rence use my name, nor turn my words to jest;
Observe my Sabbath well, nor dare profane my rest;
Honour and due obedience to thy parents give;
Nor spill the guiltless blood, nor let the guilty live:
Preserve thy body chaste, and flee th' unlawful bed;
Nor steal thy neighbour's gold, his garment, or his bread.
Forbear to blast his name with falsehood or deceit ;
Nor let thy wishes loose upon his large estate."

REMEMBER YOUR CREATOR, &c

Ecclesiastes, xii.

CHILDREN, to your Creator, God,

Your early honours pay,

While vanity and youthful blood
Would tempt your thoughts astray.

The memory of his mighty name
Demands your first regard,
Nor dare indulge a meaner flame
Till you have lov'd the Lord.

Be wise, and make his favour sure,

Before the mournful day,

When youth and mirth are known no more,
And life and strength decay.

No more the blessings of a feast
Shall relish on the tongue,
The heavy ear forgets to taste

The pleasure of a song.

Old age, with all her dismal train,
Invades your golden years

With sighs, and groans, and raging pain,
And death that never spares.

What will ye do when light departs, And leaves your withering eyes, Without one beam to cheer your hearts, From the superior skies?

How will you meet God's frowning brow, Or stand before his seat,

While nature's old supporters bow,

Nor bear their tott'ring weight?

Can you expect your feeble arms
Shall make a strong defence,
When death, with terrible alarms,
Summons the pris'ner hence ?

The silver bands of nature burst,
And let the building fall;

The flesh goes down to mix with dust,
Its vile original.

Laden with guilt, (a heavy load,)

Uncleans'd, and unforgiv'n,
The soul returns t'an angry God,
To be shut out from heav'n.

THE WELCOME MESSENGER.

LORD, when we see a saint of thine
Lie gasping out his breath,
With longing eyes, and looks divine,
Smiling and pleased in death;

How we could e'en contend to lay
Our limbs upon that bed!
We ask thine envoy to convey
Our spirits in his stead.

Our souls are rising on the wing,

To venture in his place;

For when grim death has lost his sting He has an angel's face.

Jesus, then purge my crimes away,

"Tis guilt creates my fears,

'Tis guilt gives death its fierce array, And all the arms it bears.

Oh! if my threat'ning sins were gone,
And death had lost his sting,

I could invite the angel on,
And chide his lazy wing.

Away these interposing days,
And let the lovers meet;
The angel has a cold embrace,

But kind, and soft, and sweet.

I'd leap at once my seventy years,
I'd rush into his arms,

And lose my breath, and all my cares,
Amidst those heav'nly charms.

Joyful I'd lay this body down,
And leave the lifeless clay,
Without a sigh, without a groan,
And stretch and soar away.

SINCERE PRAISE.

ALMIGHTY Maker, God!
How wondrous is thy name!
Thy glories how diffus'd abroad
Through the creation's frame!

Nature in every dress

Her humble homage pays,

And finds a thousand ways t'express
Thine undissembled praise.

In native white and red

The rose and lily stand,

And free from pride their beauties spread

To show thy skilful hand.

The lark mounts up the sky,

With unambitious song,

And bears her Maker's praise on high

Upon her artless tongue.

My soul would rise and sing

To her Creator too,

Fain would my tongue adore my King,

And pay the worship due.

But pride, that busy sin,

Spoils all that I perform :

Curs'd pride, that creeps securely in,

And swells a haughty worm.

Thy glories I abate,

Or praise thee with design; Some of thy favours I forget, Or think the merit mine.

The very songs I frame

Are faithless to thy cause,

And steal the honours of thy name
To build their own applause.

Create my soul anew,

Else all my worship's vain;

This wretched heart will ne'er be true

Until 'tis form'd again.

Descend, celestial fire,

And seize me from above,

Melt me in flames of pure desire,

A sacrifice to love.

Let joy and worship spend
The remnant of my days,
And to my God, my soul, ascend
In sweet perfumes of praise.

TRUE LEARNING.

PARTLY IMITATED FROM A FRENCH SONNET OF

M. POIRET.

HAPPY the feet that shining Truth has led

With her own hand to tread the path she please,
To see her native lustre round her spread,
Without a veil, without a shade,

All beauty, and all light, as in herself she is.

Our senses cheat us with the pressing crowds

Of painted shapes they thrust upon the mind:
The truth they show lies wrapp'd in sevenfold shrouds,
Our senses cast a thousand clouds

On unenlighten'd souls, and leave them doubly blind.