A SOLILOQUY, written in a Country Church-Yard.
TRUCK with religious awe, and folemn dread,
I view these gloomy mansions of the dead;
Around me tombs in mixed diforder rife,
And in mute language teach me to be wise.
Time was these afhes lived-a time must be
When others thus fhall ftand-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 undiftinguished throng:
Death conquers all, and time's fubduing hand,
Nor tombs, nor marble ftatues can withstand.
Mark yonder afhes in confusion spread!
Compare earth's living tenants with her dead!
How ftriking the resemblance, yet how just!
Once life and foul informed this mafs of duft:
Around these bones, now broken and decayéd,
The ftreams of life in various channels played:
Perhaps that skull, fo horrible to view!
Was fome fair maid's, ye Belles, as fair as you:
These hollow fockets, two bright orbs contained,
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:
Oh deign, fome courteous ghoft! 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 lectures teach,
In filence, louder than divines can preach;
Hear what it fays-ye fons 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 ftrikes twelve-how folemn is the found,
Hark, how the ftrokes from hollow vaults rebound.
They bid us haften to be wife, and show
How rapid in their courfe the minutes flow;
See yonder YEW-how high it lifts its head!
Around, the gloomy fhade the branches fpread.
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,
Plucked from the world in beauty's faireft bloom.
Attend ye fair, ye thoughtlefs, and ye gay!
For Myra died upon her nuptial day!
The grave, cold bridegroom, clafpèd her in its arms,
And the worm rioted upon her charms.
Beneath that fculptur'd pompous marble ftone,
Lies youthful Florio, aged twenty-one!
Cropt like a flower, he withered in his bloom,
Though flattering life had promifèd 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 fee,
What you, and all the fons of earth fhall be!
There low in duft the vain Hortenfio lies,
Whofe fplendor 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 furvives,
And on his tomb all of Hortenfio lives.
Around me as I turn my wandering eyes,
Unnumber'd graves in awful profpect rise,
Whose flones fay only when their owners died,
If young, or aged, or to whom allyẻd.
On others pompous epitaphs are spread
In memory of the virtues of the dead:
Vain waste of praife! fince, flattering or fincere,
The judgment day alone will make appear,
How filent is this little pot of ground!
How melancholy looks each object round!
Here man diffolved in fhattered ruin lies
So fast asleep-as if no more to rise;
'Tis ftrange to think how these dead bones can live,
Leap into form, and with new heat revive!
Or how this trodden earth to life fhall wake,
Know its own place, its former figure take!
But whence these tears? when the last trumpet founds
Through heaven's expanfe to earth's remoteft bounds,
The dead fhall quit these tenements of clay,
And view again the long-extinguished day :
It must be fo-the fame almighty power
From duft who formed us, can from dust restore.
Cheared with these pleasing hopes, I fafely trust
Jehovah's power to raise me from the duft;
On his unfailing promises rely,
And all the horrors of the grave defy.
3 Y 2
By the Rev. Mr. Samuel Wesley.
WITH zeal to God and love to human-kind,
Nor cowed by danger, nor by place confined
Good Berkley fails: but foon denied supplies,
Back to ungrateful Britain fad he flies.
To distant climes the Apostle need not roam;
Darkness alas! and heathens are at home.
Left wicked powers fhould thwart his aim again
Behold him preaching with his matchless pen.
Go on brave faint, thy heavenly miffion clear
Once more on earth, let miracle appear,
And spite of Walpole, plant the gospel here.
A LETTER to Mr. CHARLES WESLEY.
HOUGH neither are o'erstocked with precious time,
If I can write it, you may read my rhyme:
And find an hour to anfwer, I fuppose,
In verse harmonious or in humble profe,
What I when late at Oxford could not fay
My friends fo numerous and fo fhort my flay.
Say, does your christian purpose still proceed
To affift in every fhape the wretches need?
To free the prifoner from his anxious jail,
When friends forfake him and relations fail?
Or yet with nobler charity confpire
To snatch the guilty from eternal fire ?
Has
your fmall fquadron firm in trial flood, Without precifeness, fingularly good?
Safe march they on 'twixt dangerous extremes
Of mad profaneness and enthusiast dreams?
Conftant in prayer, while God approves their pains,
His fpirit chears them and his blood fuftains!
Unmoved by pride or anger, can they hear
The foolish laughter, or the envious fleer?
No wonder wicked men blafpheme their care,
The devil always dreads offenfive war.
Where heavenly zeal the fons of night pursues,
Likely to gain and certain not to lose.
The fleeping conscience wakes by dangers near,
And pours
the light in they so greatly fear.
But hold, perhaps this dry religious toil
May damp the genius, and the scholar spoil!
Perhaps facetious foes to meddling fools
Shine in the clafs and sparkle in the schools.
Your arts excel, your eloquence outgo,
And foar like Virgil, or like Tully flow!
Have brightest turns and deepest learning shown,
And proved your wit mistaken by their own!
If not the wights should moderately rail,
Whofe total merit fumméd from fair detail,
To fauntring, fleep, and fmoak, and wine, and ale!
How contraries may meet without defign!
And pretty gentlemen with bigots join!
One or two questions more before I end;
That much concern a brother and a friend.
Does John feem bent beyond his ftrength to go
To-his frail carcafe literally foe?
Lavish of health, as if in hafte to die,
And fhorten time to enfure eternity?
Does Mn weakly think his time mifpent?
Of his best actions can he now repent?
Others their fins with reafon juft deplore,
The guilt remaining when the pleasure's o'er:
|