Come, and claim thy kindred skies,
Come, thy fifter angels fay
Thou haft wept thy ftains away.
Let experience now decide
"Twixt the good and evil try'd.
In the fmooth, enchanted ground,
Say, unfold the treafures found.
Structures, rais'd by morning dreams,
Sands, that trip the flitting streams,
Down, that anchors on the air,
Clouds, that paint their changes there.
Seas, that smoothly dimpling lie,
While the storm impends on high,
Shewing, in an obvious glafs,
Joys that in poffeffion pass;
Tranfient, fickle, light, and gay,
Flatt'ring, only to betray;
What, alas, can life contain!
Life! like all its circles-vain.
Will the ftork, intending rest,
On the billow build her neft?
Will the bee demand his ftore
From the bleak and bladelefs fhore?
Man alone, intent to stray,
Ever turns from wifdom's way.
Lays up wealth in foreign land,
Sows the fea, and plows the fand,
Soon this elemental mass,
Soon th' incumb'ring world shall pass,
Form be wrapt in wafting fire,
Time be spent, and life expire.
Then, ye boafted works of men,
Where is your asylum then?
Sons of pleasure, fons of care,
Tell me, mortals, tell me where?
Gone, like traces on the deep,
Like a fceptre grasp'd in sleep,
Dews, exhal'd from morning glades,
Melting fnows, and gliding shades.
Pafs the world, and what's behind?
Virtue's gold, by fire refin'd;
From an univerfe deprav'd,
From the wreck of nature fav'd.
Like the life-supporting grain,
Fruit of patience, and of pain,
On the fwain's autumnal day,
Winnow'd from the chaff away.
Little trembler, fear no more,
Thou haft plenteous crops in ftore,
Seed, by genial forrows fown,
More than all thy fcorners own.
What tho' hoftile earth despise,
Heav'n beholds with gentler eyes;
Heav'n thy friendlefs fteps fhall guide,
Cheer thy hours, and guard thy fide.
When the fatal trump fhall found,
When th' immortals pour around,
Heav'n fhall thy return atteft,
Hail'd by myriads of the blefs'd.
Little native of the skies,
Lovely penitent, arife;
Calm thy bofom, clear thy brow, Virtue is thy fifter now.
More delightful are my woes Than the rapture pleasure knows: Richer far the weeds I bring, Than the robes that grace a king.
On my wars, of shortest date, Crowns of endless triumph wait; On my cares a period bless'd; On my toils, eternal reft
Come, with Virtue at thy fide, Come, be ev'ry bar defy'd, 'Till we gain our native fhore, Sifter, come, and turn no more.
DESCRIPTION of a PARISH POOR HOUSE. VISIT from the APOTHECARY.- -CLERGYMAN. The POOR MAN'S FUNERAL.
HEIR's is yon houfe that holds the parish poor,
Whofe walls of mud fcarce bear the broken
door;
There, where the putrid vapours flagging play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day;
There children dwell who know no parents' care,
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there;
Heart-broken matrons on their joylefs bed,
Forfaken wives, and mothers never wed;
Dejected widows with unheeded tears,
And crippled age with more than childhood-fears;
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they!
The moping idiot, and the madman gay.
Here too the fick their final doom receive,
Here brought amid the scenes of grief, to grieve;
Where the loud groans from fome fad chamber flow,
Mixt with the clamours of the crowd below;
Here forrowing, they each kindred forrow scan,
And the cold charities of man to man.
Whofe laws indeed for ruin'd age provide,
And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride;
But ftill that ferap is bought with many a figh,
And pride embitters what it can't deny.
Say ye, oppreft by fome fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repofe;
Who prefs the downy couch, while flaves advance
With timid eye, to read the diftant glance;
Who with fad prayers the weary doctor teaze
To name the nameless ever-new disease;
Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain, and that alone can cure;
How would ye bear in real pain to lie,
Defpis'd, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath,
Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?
Such is that room which one rude beam divides,
And naked rafters form the floping fides;
Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen,
And lath and mud is all that lie between;
Save one dull pane, that, coarfely patch'd, gives way
To the rude tempeft, yet excludes the day:
Here, on a matted flock, with duft o'erspread,
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;
For him no hand the cordial cup applies,
Nor wipes the tear that ftagnates in his eyes;
No friends with foft difconrfe his pain beguile,
Nor promife hope till fickness wears a smile.
But foon a loud and hafty fummons calls, Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls; Anon a figure enters, quaintly neat,
All pride and bufinefs, buftle and conceit;
With looks unalter'd by these scenes of woe,
With speed that, entering, fpeaks his hafte to go;
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