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POETRY.

MR. EDITOR,

BY way of refcuing the name of a pious and ftudious man from oblivion, I fend you the following pieces of Poetry, written by Mr. John Lagniel, of Sandwich in Kent, who died in 1728. He left behind him a large quantity of poerical writings, none of which have ever yet appeared in print. Many of them (tranfcribed from the originals) were lately entrusted to my hands, from which I have felected feveral pretty pieces; and, by the confent of the friend who favoured me with them, I defign to tranfmit copies of them for the Evangelical Magazine. Take the following as a specimen for the prefent, which I hope you will infert, and you will oblige

Your's,

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When distempers oft annoy it,

Can we hope for quiet here? When grim Death will foon destroy it,

Can we think its end not near?

When new troubles daily vex us,

Can we hope for rest on earth? When our guilt does more perplex us,

Can we melt our hearts in mirth?

If we fancy'd Death ftill by us,

Should not we for Death prepare? If we ftill thought troubles nigh us, Should not we then better bear? If the world we rightly prized, Should not we its joys difdain? If we once the world defpifed, Should we of its frowns complain? If we then would live contented, Should not we expect the worst? If we would not die tormented, Should not death be minded first? J. LAGNIEL

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J. LAGNIEL.

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INTERROGATIONS.

HEN our life's a lighted taper, Can we wonder it fhould wafte? When it is but like a vapour, Can we fancy it should laft?

SPRING.

EVIVING Spring once more appears To chafe the colds and damps away, To dry up Nature's wintry tears,

And clothe the trees in bloffoms gay: The fun each day his fmile prolongs, And every grove is fill'd with fongs.

Now fporting on the fcented gale

The infect tribes their chase purfue,

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Or creeping o'er the flow'ry dale,

Collect their fweets, and fip the dew. And fpangled bright, the finny broods Repeople the translucent floods.

Their vig'rous fhoots the herbage raise,

And paint with flowers the filvan fcene, While flocks and herds the pafture graze,

And feaft upon the living green:
Each grain shoots through the moisten'd foil,
And hope repays the farmer's toil.

Now fpringing from their new-trimm'd beds,
And ting'd with nature's varied bloom,
The garden's beauties lift their heads,
And fill the zephyrs with perfume.
Now men and beafts with joy repair
From wintry holds to rural air.

Oye! whofe lot is mean and low,
Whofe ftate is winter all the year:
Who is it makes the grafs to grow,
Or bids the lily's bloom appear
?
Lift up to him the tearful eye,
He knows, and, will your wants, fupply.

O ye! who doubt the facred page

When faith expects a rifing morn,
Who, proud of Reason's boafted age,
Reject the Chriftian's hope with fcorn,
In nature, your own book, perceive
How God can make the dead to live.

O ye! whofe weeping spirits mourn
Your abfent fun, your wintry ftate,
Soon thall his cheering beams return,

And a new joyful spring create:
The precious feed bedew'd with tears,
At length abundant harvest bears.

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Thought pleasure's courfe was just begun, Nor dreamt how foon life's glafs is run. Child like, he's pleas'd with gilded toys, Beast like, he lives on fenfual joys; Nor eye, nor heart to heav'n is bent, Solely on earth and fin intent.

"Long fhall I live," he vainly cries,
"T' enjoy my luft, and feast my eyes;
Of pleasure's bowl I'll drink my fill,
Nor dream of care, or worldly ill,”
When lo! from heaven a voice proclaims,
"Thou fool, give o'er delusive dreams;
Thy day of grace is now expir'd,
This very night thy foul's requir'd."

This call admits of no delay;
'Tis vain to mourn, 'tis vain to pray ;
So lives, fo dies the graceless fool,
Who loves the world, and damns his foul.

J. T. B.

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THE

Evangelical Magazine,

FOR SEPTEMBER, 1797.

BIOGRAPHY.

MEMOIRS OF THE REV. MR. SHRUBSOLE

TH

[CONCLUDED.]

HE former part of the Memoir of Mr. Shrubfole, in the preceding Magazine, was concluded with a recital of the failure both of his bodily health and mental energy; but it was obferved, that his inner-man was greatly renewed and invigorated, and that his defire to depart and to be with his Divine Mafter, was cordial, conftant, and animating. Thefe obfervations, it is prefumed, will be exemplified in the following extracts of letters, which are the laft written memorials of his life, and which were addreffed to his Son in London.'

On the 28th of December, 1796, he thus wrote: “I find the negotiations for peace are quite ruptured: This gives me great concern, and looks very frowning on the nations. I know not how fatal the event may be, but I am happy to think that I fhall not long abide in this Mefec, nor continue my habitation in these tents of Kedar. How defirable is the Chriftian's hope at fuch a time as this! I often anticipate my future company and enjoyments, with unspeakable delight. O may I much more anticipate and realize the great and glorious fcenes before me! I know whom I have believed, and am difposed to submit to his will, whenever he fhall command me hence. I have nothing to live for, but to fee Chrift's kingdom come with power, and that will be beft feen from above."

During the month of January, 1797, his health fluctuated; but, upon the whole, he feemed better than he

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