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you, nor my fellow-travellers on your side the water, foi one day. I am, dear Sir, your dutiful Son in the Gospel of Chrift,
J. H- N
L E T T E R CXXXIV. [From the Hon. and Rev. W.S— y, to the Rev. J. Wesley.)
June, 18, 1760. Dear Sir, y Receive, with inexpressible joy, the relation you make of I the progress of the gospel in Ireland. May the remainder of your days be even more blest than the past. I think it is an observation of yours somewhere, “That the Irish are open enough to flight impressions of the truth, but not to very deep ones." I trust, however, that in this your expedition, you have found some depth of earth, and that the seed will remain, and will bring forth such fruit as will be to the honor of that kingdom, and will make a chief part in your crown of re. joicing at the last day.
I am very heartily concerned that there should be even three or four at Athlone, not yet convinced by you, how very wrong and unbecoming them it is to separate themselves from the service of the Church; and yet, I am still more grieved. that they have the least appearance of reason to urge on their fide.
Surely, surely we shall meet. I most ardently wish for it, as far as I dare wish for any thing in which I so much consult my own pleasure and advantage.
I cannot enough express what a warm affe&tion I bear you dear brother. It has been a peculiar blessing to me that I had him to advise with on many interesting points. I commend you to God's love; farewel, my dear Sir, and believe me with the greatest regard, Your affečtionate, though very unworthy Brother,
PO E T R Y.
[By the Rev. Mr.M— .]
CTRUCK with religious awe, and folemn dread,
I view these gloomy mansions of the dead;
Oh deign, some courteous ghost! to let us know
The clock strikes twelve-how solemn is the sound,
Whose tomb is this ? 'Tis lovely Myra's tomb,
Beneath that sculptur'd pompous marble stone,
Mark here the end of man, in Florio see,
There low in dust the vain Hortensio lies, Whose splendor once we viewed with envious eyes; Titles, and arms his pompous marble grace, With a long history of his noble race: Still after death his vanity survives, And on his tomb all of Hortensio lives. Around me as I turn my wandering eyes, Unnumber'd graves in awful prospect rise, Whose stones say only when their owners died, If young, or aged, or to whom allyéd. On others pompous epitaphs are spread In memory of the virtues of the dead : Vain waste of praise ! since, flattering or sincere, The judgment day alone will make appear, How silent is this little spot of ground ! How melancholy looks each ohject round! Here man dissolved in shattered ruin lies So fast alleep-as if no more to rise; 'Tis strange to think how these dead bones can live, Leap into form, and with new heat revive! Or how this trodden earth to life shall wake, Know its own place, its former figure take! But whence these tears ? when the last trumpet sounds Through heaven's expanse to earth's remotest bounds, The dead shall quit these tenements of clay, And view again the long-extinguished day : It must be so—the same almighty power From dust who formed us, can from dust restore. Cheared with these pleasing hopes, I safely trust Jehovah's power to raise me from the dust; On his unfailing promises rely, And all the horrors of the grave defy.
W ITH zeal to God and love to human-kind,
VV Nor cowed by danger, nor by place confined
A Letter to Mr. Charles WESLEY.
[By the fame.]
THOUGH neither are o'erstocked with precious time,
1 If I can write it, you may read my rhyme :
Say, does your christian purpose fill proceed