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[J. ScoTT.] There's grandeur in the sounding storm, That drives the hurrying clouds along, That on each other seem to throng, And mix in many a varied form; While, bursting now and then between, The moon's dim misty orb is seen, And casts faint glimpses on the green. Beneath the blasts the forests bend, And thick the branchy ruin lies, And wide the shower of foliage lies, The lake's black waves in tumult blend ; Revolving o'er, and o’er, and o'er, And foaming on the rocky shore, Whose caverns echo to their roar. The sight sublime enwraps my thought, And swift along the past it strays, And much of strange event surveys, What History's faithful tongue has taught Or Fancy form’d, whose plastie skill The page with fabled change can fill, Of ill to good, or good to ill. But can my sonl the scene enjoy That rends another's breast with pain? O helpless he who near the main, Now sees its billowy rage destroy. Beholds the foundering bark descend, Nor knows but what its fate
end The moments of his dearest friend.
YOUNG PERSON WITH A WATCH.
Thy reason let it warn;
That never must return.
The blessing can restore;
Of ev'ry mis-spent hour.
And soon its prospect ends ;
The space to virtue giv'n;
Secures an age in Heav'n.
[Cowper.] There is a fountain fill'd with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel's veins ! And sinners, plung'd beneath that food,
Lose all their guilty stains. The dying thief rejoic'd to see
That fountain in his day; And there may I, as vile as he,
Wash all my sins away.
Dear dying Lamb! thy precious blood
Shall never lose its pow'r,
Be sav'd, to sin no more.
Thy flowing wounds supply,
And shall be till I die.
Then in a nobler, sweeter song,
i'll sing thy power to save ;
Lies silent in the grave.
Unworthy though I be,
A golden harp for me!
SHORTNESS OF LIFE.
How short is the life of a man!
How soon bis frail life must decay! At best but the length of a span,
And fades like a short winter's day.
Of age, that's still hurrying on;
But ah! his best moments are gone!
His life is but labour and pain ;
He wishes for youth, but in vain.
Now, crush'd with the load of his sin,
He trembles at death's cold alarms, But just recollects where he's been,
And yields to the conqueror's arms. But reason no farther can go,
He stands at the bar of his God : Now sinks to the regions of woe,
Or heaven he makes his abode :
Since time makes so rapid a flight;
hail the approach of to-night.
ALAS! what hourly dangers rise,
What snares beset my way!
And lonely watch and pray.
My feeble soul invade;
Without my Saviour's aid.
Or fill my heart with dread,
To help in time of need.
My watchful soul possess;
My vigilance increase.
Help me to pray, and watch, and strive;
O bid the tempter flee!
From happiness and Thee!
(BEATTIE.] At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove : 'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar, A hermit his song of the night thus began, No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man. • Ah! why thus abandoned to darkuess and woe, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain ? For spring shall return and a lover bestow, And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet if pity inspire thee, ah, cease not thy lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn O soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass awayFull quickly they pass, but they never return. Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The moon balf extinguished, her crescent displays ; But lately I marked, when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendour again, But man's faded glory no change shall renew, Ab, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!