Scorch'd by the sun's too fervid rays,
When every vernal grace recedes,
And Summer pours th' incessant blaze,
And decks in russet hue the meads;
Reclin'd beneath th' umbrageous wood,
When we the gelid breeze enjoy,
Or sportive lave the limpid flood,
No more the sultry beams annoy!
When Autumn rears his sickly head,
And vapours dank the day deform;
And earth, with falling leaves o'erspread,
Prognosticates a gathering storm;
The treasur'd grain exulting o'er,
That lately grac'd the fertile plains,
Or meek Pomona's luscious store;-
The tyrant's influence man disdains!
Ev'n Winter, whose rude breath destroys
What little beauty Autumn spares,
Can boast a round of native joys,
To soften his peculiar cares:
The festive hour, the mazy dance,
The circling tale, the fire-side bliss,
Domestic sweets that life enhance,
And social intercourse, are his!
As thus throughout the changing year,
In Summer, Winter, Autumn, Spring.
Nature, the human soul to cheer,
Delights some lenient grace to fling;
So through the varying scenes of life,
Some bliss appropriate e'er is giv'n,
To counterpoise its cares, and strife,
And aid the fost'ring views of heav'n!
Cease Damon, then, that Pow'r t'arraign
From whom existence we receive;
Nor rashly deem that cares and pain,
Are all this mortal state can give;
Heav'n's wise behests to rev'rence taught,
E'er keep this cheering truth in view—
"That though with pain and trouble fraught,
"Life sure possesses pleasures too!"
ON THE SUPERIORITY OF RELIGIOUS
BEWILDER'D in the devious ways,
This labyrinth of life displays,
Where Virtue oft appears
By sickness, cares, and ills deprest ;
While to the skies her haughty crest,
Triumphant, Vice uprears;
In vain the sage, whose clouded mind
No traits of Power Supreme can find,
The riddle strives t' explore;
In vain he prates of Virtue's charms,
If, clasp'd in Death's relentless arms,
Man sinks to rise no more!
Against th' attack of earthly ills,
Each truth the moralist instils,
How vain, how fruitless found! While they who wisdom's precepts slight, Oft revel in impure delight,
With worldly blessings crown'd!
And oft some lov'd, ingenuous youth,
For goodness justly priz'd, and truth,
The pangs of death must bear,
While hoary guilt exists secure ;—
So blasts that smite the fragrant flow'r,
The noisome nettle spare.
So late, cut off in early years,
While Virtue, o'er his corse, her tears,
In copious streams supplied;
To all her genuine friends endear'd,
For ev'ry Christian grace rever'd,
The pious RODWELL* died!
Lecturer of the Holy Trinity Church, Hull.
That man alone, with soul sedate,
The thick'ning shades can dissipate
Of this mysterious gloom,
Who from the sacred volume draws
Knowledge of an Almighty Cause,
And life beyond the tomb.
Tho' sickness, cares, or grief oppress,
And to his mental view, distress,
In awful form, appear;
Calmly he bears th' afflictive rod,
And fearing an omniscient God,
He feels no other fear.
Haply should Vice awhile succeed,
And snatch from Virtue's brow the meed
She only ought to wear;
Or worth, like RODWELL'S, early fall,
While crowds that guilty joys enthral,
Still breathe the vital air-
His faith unshaken still remains ;This pleasing truth his soul sustains— "Tho' not to Virtue giv'n
Unbroken bliss on earth to know, "Whate'er she loses here below,
"Shall be repaid in heav'n!"
Taught hence with fervour to disclaim
Each loose desire, each grov'ling aim,
That vicious souls enslave;
Endu'd with Faith's all-piercing eye,
He contemplates eternity,
And triumphs o'er the grave!
CECILIA! with foreboding sighs,
Thy cheeks of pallid hue,
The faded lustre of thy eyes,
And wasted form, I view !
And oft, the vassal of my fear,
My heart with sorrow swells, While Fancy of the shroud, the bier, The final parting, tells.
When erst perform'd the sacred rite
That link'd my fate with thine, How heav'd my bosom with delight To call Cecilia mine!
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