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In scanty life eternity we taste,
OW silence reigns, and solemn darkness (preads,
Guilt trembles, and is seiz'd with sudden dread,
And, waits, with horror, the return of light. Light will return-but not to them retum
In whose dark souls no ray of virtue shines ; Not all the splendour of the sprightly morn,
Can clear the mist that clouds the guilty mind. Though fashion throws a veil before their crimes,
And guilt may pass conceal'd in pleasure's name: Yet conscience will be heard—remorse, at times,
Will hold a mirror that reveals their shame. The law of God's engrav'd upon our hearts,
Instinct -or reason-or some ray of sight, Which sacred wisdom to the mind imparts,
To teach us how to think, and act aright. Though conscience from the breast awhile may stray,
She never totally gives up her reign; But soon or late, she will resume her sway,
And bring remorse and anguish in her train. But darkness has no horrors to the mind,
Where virtue and the fear of God do dwell; Was chaos to return again, they'd find
An inward light that would its gloom dispel. Though forked lightnings from the heavens dart,
Or o'er their heads should awful thunder roll, It would not move the good and virtuous heart,
Nor give one terror to the guiltless soul.
S lately faunt'ring through the Hall,
And Anak's giant fons are seen,
The tradesman to the office flies;
Why, Fortune, play me such vile pranks, . “ To turn your wheel, and give me blanks ? “ Enrich'd with vast increase of store, “ I hop'd to keep my coach and four. “ All blanks! Alas! my bliss is flown, “ My money loft, my credit Home he returns; despairing, ties The halter round his neck, and dies
Such is the fate of many a fool,
BY CHARLES WATKINS, ESQ.
To staunch the tear which Anguish bids to roll;
And trustless Fear and dull-ey'd Doubt control,
And raise to ecstacy the grateful soul,
And how, with tranquil awe, their God adore ;
And future spheres—when woe shall be no more ; Thou canst alone those sacred aids bestow, Which calm the sorrowing soul thro' each sad scene below!
TO A LADY,
Who refused to accept of a KNIFE from the Writer.
SAID TO BE WRITTEN BY MR. SHERIDAN.
A Knife, dear girl! cuts love, they say:
Must cut your softness, worth, and spirit,
ON THE THIRTY-FIRST OF DECEMBER.
That o'er the ocean bends his brow severe;And, as I muse on TIME'S NEGLECTED FLIGHT,
Wait the last sunshine of the parting Year! Why do the winds so sadly seem to rave !
Why broods such solenn horror o'er the deep! Is it that FANCY points the yawning grave;
And, fick’ning, thudders at the pond'rous fleep? For, O! since LAST DECEMBE R's hoary head
Bow'd to oblivion's wave, and funk beneath, From this strange world what flutt'ring clouds are fled,
To throng the caverns of relentless Death. And ev'ry transitory shade is lost,
That, in its course, was fondly call’d“ To-Day!” Spring's sweets are gone! and Summer's flow'ry boasi!
And Autumn's purple honours pass’d away! And now, though Winter, in rude îmantle drest,
Extends his icy sceptre o'er the plain; Soon shall he fink on April's dewy breast,
And laughing May shall re-affume her reign! But Man, when once his bright day's flush is o'er,
And youth's too fleeting pleasures take their wing, Must on life's scene re-vegetate no more,
But leap its gulph, to find a second spring.