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Lays the rough paths of peevith nature ev'ris
And opens in each heart a little heaven.

Each other gift, which God on man bestows,
Its proper bounds, and due reflection knows :
To one fix'd purpose dedicates its power;
And finishing its act, exists no more.
Thus in obedience to what heaven decrees,
Knowledge shall fail, and prophecy shall cease
But lasting CHARITY's more ample sway,
Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay,
In happy triumph shall for ever live,
And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive.

As thro' the artist's intervening glass,
Our eye observes the distant planets pass;
A little we discover ; but allow,
That more remains unseen, than art can show; .
So whilst our mind its knowledge would improve
(Its feeble eye intent on things above)
High as we may, we lift our reason up,
By faith directed, and confirm'd by hope:
Yet are we able only to survey
Dawnings of beams, and promises of day.
Heaven's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled fight;
Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light.

But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispelld,
The sun shall then be face to face beheld,
In all his robes, with all his glory on,
Seated sublime on his meridian throne.

Then constant faith, and holy hope shall die;
One loft in certainty, and one in joy:

Whilst thou, more happy power, fair CHARITY;
Triumphant sister, greatest of the three,
Thy office, and thy nature still the same;
Lafting thy lamp, and unconsum'd thy flame,
Shalt still survive
Shalt stand before the host of heaven confeft;
For ever blessing and for ever blest.

THE FOLLY OF LAUGHING AT SIN,

BY THE LATE MR. JOSEPH STÉNNETT.

FOOLS MAKE A MOCR AT SIN.

PROVERBS XIV. IX.

HOlaughs at fin, laughsathis Maker's frowns; sword

: Laughs at the great Redeemer's tears and wounds, Who but for fin had neither wept nor bled.

Who laughs at fin, laughs at the num'rous woes That have the guilty world so oft befel ; Laughs at the whole creation's groans and throes; At all the fpoils of death and pains of hell.

Who laughs at fin, laughs at his own disease, Welcomes approaching torments with his fmiles ; Dares at his soul's expence his fancy please, Affronts his GOD, himself of bliss beguiles.

Who laughs at fin, sports with his guilt and shame, Laughs at the errors of his fenseless mind; For so abfurd a fool there wants a name, Expressive of a folly so refin'd.

N

PART

PART OF VI. CHAP. MATTHEW,

PARAPHRASED BY MR. THOMSON.

WHE

HEN my breast labors with oppressive care,

And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear,
While all my warring passions are at strife,
Oh, let me listen to the words of life!
Raptures deep-felt his doctrine did impart,
And thus he rais'd from earth the drooping heart.

Think not, when all your scanty stores afford,
Is spread at once upon the sparing board;
Think not, when worn the homely robe appears,
While, on the roof, the howling tempeft bears;
What farther shall this feeble life sustain,
And what shall cloath these shiv'ring limbs again.
Say, does not life its nourishment exceed?
And the fair body its investing weed?

Behold! and look away your low despair
See the light tenants of the barren air:
To them, nor stores, nor granaries belong,
Nought, but the woodland, and the pleasing song;
Yet, your kind heavenly Father bends his eye
On the least wing that fits along the sky.
To him they fing, when spring renews the plain;
To him they cry, in winter's pinching reign;
Nor is their music, nor their plaint in vain :
He hears the gay, and the distressful call,
And with unsparing bounty fills them all.

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Observe the rising lily's snowy grace;
Observe the various vegetable race;
They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow,
Yet see how warm they blush! how bright they glow!
What regal vestments can with them compare !
What king so shining ! or what queen so fair!

If, ceaseless thus the fowls of heaven he feeds,
If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads ;
Will he not care for you, ye faithless, say!
Is he unwise ? or, are ye less than they?

A THOUGHT AT WAKING.

TTEND, my foul, the early birds inspire

Thy grov'ling thoughts with pure celestial fire; They from their temp'rate sleep awake, and pay Their thankful anthems, for the new-born day. See how the tuneful lark is mounted high, And, poet like, salutes the eastern sky; He warbles thro' the fragrant air his lays, And seems the beauties of the morn to praise : But MAN! more void of gratitude, awakes, And gives no thanks for that sweet reft he takes; Looks on the glorious sun's new-kindled Aame, Without one thought of Him from whom it came; The wretch unhallow'd does the day begin, Shakes off his SLOTH, but shakes not off his sin.

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KNOW

YOURSEL F.

BY THE LATE DR. ARBUTHNOT.

WHAT

HAT am I? how produc'd? and for what end?

Whence drew I being? to what period tend? Am I the abandon'd orphan of blind chance; Dropt by wild atoms in disorder'd dance? Or from an endless chain of causes wrought? And of unthinking substance, born with thought? By motion which began without a cause, Supremely wise, without design or laws ? Am I but what I feem, mere flesh and blood; A branching channel, with a mazy food ? The purple stream that through my vessel glides, Dull and unconscious flows like common tides : The pipes through which the circling juices stray, Are not that thinking I, no more than they : This frame compacted with transcendent skill, Of moving joints obedient to my will, Nurs'd from the fruitful glebe, like yonder tree, Waxes and wastes; I call it mine, not me: New matter still the mould'ring mass sustains, The mansion chang'd, the tenant still remains : And from the fleeting stream, repair'd by food,

Distinct, as is the swimmer from the flood. ? What am I then ? sure, of a nobler birth By parents right: I own as mother, earth;

But

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