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Our night is dreary, and dim our day,
And if thou turnest thy face away,
We are sinful, feeble, and helpless dust,
And have none to look to, and none to trust.
Thy aid, O mighty One! we crave,
Not shortened is thy arm to save;
Alas, from thee we now sojourn,
Return to us, O God, return !

THE

PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.

[CARTER.]
The midnight Moon serenely smiles

O’er Nature's soft repose;
No low'ring cloud obscures the sky,

No ruffling tempest blows.
Now every passion sinks to rest,

The throbbing heart lies still;
And varying schemes of life no more

Distract the lab’ring will.
In silence hush'd, to Reason's voice

Attends each mental power;
Come, dear Amelia, and enjoy

Reflection's favourite hour!
Come! while the peaceful scene invites,

Let's search this ample round!
Where shall the lovely fleeting form

Of Happiness be found ?
Does it amid the frolic mirth

Of gay assemblies dwell;
Or hide beneath the solemn gloom,

That shades the hermit's cell?

How oft the laughing brow of Joy

A sick’ning heart conceals; And thro’ the cloister's deep recess

Invading Sorrow steals! In vain, thro' beauty, fortune, wit,

The fugitive we trace; It dwells not in the faithless smile

That brightens Clodia's face. Perhaps the joy to these denied,

The heart in friendship finds; Ah! dear delusion, gay conceit

Of visionary minds!
Howe'er our varying notions rove,

Yet all agree in one,
To place its being in some state

At distance from our own.
O blind to each indulgent aim

Of power supremely wise, Who fancy Happiness in aught

The hand of Heaven denies! Vain is alike the joy we seek,

And vain what we possess,
Unless harmonious Reason tunes

The passions into peace.
To temper'd wishes, just desires,

Is Happiness confin'd;
And, deaf to Folly's call, attends

The music of the mind.

THE

RESURRECTION.

[COWLEY.] Not winds to voyages at sea, Nor showers to earth more necessary be (Heaven's vital seed cast on the womb of earth

To give the fruitful year a birth)

Than Verse to Virtue ; which can do The midwife's office and the nurse's too; It feeds it strongly, and it clothes it gay,

And, when it dies, with comely pride Embalms it, and erects a Pyramid

That never will decay,

Till heaven itself shall melt away, And nought behind it stay. Begin the song, and strike the living lyre; Lo ! how the years to come, a numerous and well-fitted All hand in hand do decently advance, [quire, And to my song with smooth and equal measures dance; Whilst the dance lasts, how long soe'er it be, My music's voice shall bear it company;

Till all gentle notes be drown'd

In the last trumpet's dreadful sound :
That to the spheres themselves shall silence bring,

Untune the universal string :
Then all the wide-extended sky,
And all th' harmonious worlds on high,

And Virgil's sacred work, shall die.
And he himself shall see in one fire shine
Rich Nature's ancient Troy, tho' built by bands divine.

Whom thunder's dismal noise,
And all that prophets and apostles louder spake,
And all the creatures' plain conspiring voice

Could not, whilst they liv'd, awake,
This mightier sound shall make

When dead † arise;

And open tombs, and open eyes,
To the long sluggards of five thousand years!
This mightier sound shall make its hearers ears.
Then shall the scatter'd atoms crowding come

Back to their ancient home.
Some from birds, from fishes some,
Some from earth, and some from seas,
Some from beasts, and some from trees,
Some descend from clouds on high,

Some from metals upwards fly,
And where th'attending soul naked and shivering stands,

Meet, salute, and join their hands; As dispers’d soldiers, at the trumpet's call,

Haste to their colours all.

Unhappy most like tortur'd men,
Their joints new set, to be new rack'd again;

To mountains they for shelter pray,
The mountains shake, and run about no less confus’d

than they.
Stop, stop, my Muse! allay thy vigorous heat,

Kindled at a hint so great;
Hold thy Pindaric Pegasus closely in,

Which does to rage begin, And this steep hill would gallop up with violent course; "Tis an unruly and a hard-mouth'd horse,

Fierce and unbroken yet,

Impatient of the spur or bit;
Now prances stately, and anon flies o'er the place;
Disdains the servile law of any settled pace,
Conscious and proud of his own natural force,

'Twill no unskilful touch endure,
But Alings writer, and reader too, that sits not sure

NIGHT.

(NOEL.) WHEN restless on my bed I lie, Still courting sleep, which still will fly, Then shall reflection's brighter power Illume the lone and midnight hour. If hush'd the breeze and calm the tide, Soft will the stream of memory glide, And all the past, a gentle train, Waked by remembrance, live again. Perhaps that anxious friend I trace, Belov'd till life's last throb shall cease, Whose voice first taught a Saviour's worth, And future bliss unknown on earth.

His faithful counsel, tender care,
Unwearied love, and humble prayer;
O these still claim the grateful tear,
And all my drooping courage cheer.

If loud the wind, the tempest high,
And darkness wraps the sullen sky,
I muse on life's tempestuous sea,
And sigh, O Lord, to come to thee.
Toss’d on the deep and swelling wave,
O mark my trembling soul, and save;
Give to my view that harbour near,
Where thou wilt chase each grief and fear.

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