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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,




A SOLILOQUY, written in a Country Church-Yard.

[By the Rev. Mr.M— .]

CTRUCK with religious awe, and folemn dread,

I view these gloomy mansions of the dead;
Around me tombs in mixed disorder rise,
And in mute language teach me to be wise.
Time was these ashes lived—a time must be
When others thus shall stand-and look at me:
Alarming thought!, no wonder 'tis we dread
O'er these uncomfortable vaults to tread;
Where blended lie the aged and the young,
•The rich and poor, an undistinguished throng:
Death conquers all, and time's subduing hand,
Nor tombs, nor marble statues can withstand.
Mark yonder ashes in confusion spread !
Compare earth's living tenants with her dead!
How striking the resemblance, yet how juft!
Once life and soul informed this mass of duft:
Around these bones, now broken and decayéd,
The streams of life in various channels played :
Perhaps that skull, so horrible to view!
Was some fair maid's, ye Belles, as fair as you :
These hollow sockets, two bright orbs containéd,
Where the loves sported and in triumph reigned ;
Here glowed the lips; there white, as Parian stone,
The teeth disposed in beauteous order shone.
This is life's goal—no father can we view,
Beyond it all is wonderful and new :

3 Y

Oh deign,

Oh deign, some courteous ghost! to let us know
What we must shortly be, and you are now!
Sometimes you warn us of approaching fate;
Why hide the knowledge of your present state?
With joy behold us tremblingly explore
The unknown gulph, that you can fear no more?
The grave has eloquence—its lełłures teach,
In silence, louder than divines can preach;
Hear what it says-ye sons of folly hear!
It speaks to you—Oh give it then your ear!
It bids you lay all vanity aside,
Oh what a lecture this for human pride!

The clock strikes twelve-how solemn is the sound,
Hark, how the strokes from hollow vaults rebound.
They bid us hasten to be wife, and show
How rapid in their course the minutes flow;
See yonder Yew-how high it lifts its head!
Around, the gloomy shade the branches spread.
Old and decayed it still retains a grace,
And adds more folemn horror to the place,

Whose tomb is this ? 'Tis lovely Myra's tomb,
Pluckéd from the world in beauty's fairejt bloom.
Attend ye fair, ye thoughtless, and ye gay!
For Myra diéd upon her nuptial day!
The grave, cold bridegroom, clasped her in its arms,
And the worm rioted upon her charms.

Beneath that sculptur'd pompous marble stone,
Lies youthful Florio, aged twenty-one!
Cropt like a flower, he withered in his bloom,
Though flattering life had promised years to come :
Ye filken fons, ye Florio's of the age,
Who tread in giddy maze life's flowery stage.


Mark here the end of man, in Florio see,
What you, and all the sons of earth shall be!

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.

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W ITH zeal to God and love to human-kind,

VV Nor cowed by danger, nor by place confined
Good Berkley fails: but soon denied supplies,
Back to ungrateful Britain sad he flies.
To distant climes the Apostle need not roam;
Darkness alas! and heathens are at home.
Left wicked powers should thwart his aim again
Behold him preaching with his matchless pen.
Go on brave faint, thy heavenly mission clear
Once more on earth, let miracle appear,
And spite of Walpole, plant the gospel here.

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 :
And find an hour to answer, I suppose,
In verse harmonious or in humble prose,
What I when late at Oxford.could not say
My friends so numerous and so fhort my stay.

Say, does your christian purpose fill proceed
To assist in every shape the wretches need ?
To free the prisoner from his anxious jail, .
When friends forsake him and relations fail?
Or yet with nobler charity conspire
To snatch the guilty from eternal fire ?
Has your small squadron firm in trial stood,
Without preciseness, singularly good ?


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