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See where man's voluntary facrifice

Bows his meek head, and God eternal dies!
Fixt to the Cross, his healing arms are bound,
While copious Mercy ftreams from ev'ry wound.
Mark the blood-drops that life exhaufting roll,
And the strong pang that rends the stubborn foul!
As all death's tortures, with fevere delay,
Exult, and riot in the noblest prey.

And can't thou, ftupid man, those forrows fee,
Nor share the anguish which He bears for Thee?
Thy fin, for which his facred flesh is torn,
Points ev'ry nail, and fharpens ev'ry thorn;
Can't thou ---while nature smarts in ev'ry wound,
And each pang cleaves the fympathetic ground!
Lo! the black fun, his chariot backward driv'n,
Blots out the day, and perishes from Heav'n:
Earth, trembling from her entrails, bears a part,
And the rent rock upbraids man's stubborn heart.
The yawning grave reveals his gloomy reign,
And the cold clay-clad dead, ftart into life again.

And thou, O tomb, once more shalt wide display,
Thy fatiate jaws, and give up all thy prey.
Thou, groaning earth fhalt heave, abforpt in flame,
As the laft pangs convulfe thy lab'ring frame;
When the fame God unfhrouded thou shalt fee,
Wrapt in full blaze of Power and Majesty,
Ride on the clouds; whilft, as his chariot flies,
The bright effufion ftreams thro' all the skies.

Then shall the proud diffolving mountains glow,
And yielding rocks in fiery rivers flow :
The molten deluge round the globe shall roar,
And all man's arts and labour be no more.
Then shall the splendors of th' enliven'd glass
Sink undiftinguish'd in the burning mafs.
And O! till earth, and feas, and Heav'n decay,
Ne'er may that fair creation fade away;

May winds and ftorms those beauteous colours fpare,

Still may they bloom, as permanent as fair,
All the vain rage of wafting time repell,

And his Tribunal fee, whofe Crofs they paint fo well.

A

FRAGMENT.

BY MR. MALLET.

FAIR

AIR morn ascends: fresh zephyrs breath Blows liberal o'er yon bloomy heath; Where, fown profufely, herb and flower, Of balmy smell, of healing power, Their fouls in fragrant dews exhale, And breathe fresh life in every gale. Here spreads a green expanfe of plains, Where, sweetly-pensive, Silence reigns: And there, at utmost stretch of eye, A mountain fades into the fky; While winding round, diffus'd and deep, A river rolls with founding sweep. Of human art no traces near,

I feem alone with Nature here!

Here are thy walks, O facred HEALTH! The Monarch's blifs, the Beggar's wealth; The seasoning of all good below; The fovereign friend in joy or woe.

O Thou most courted, moft defpis'd,
And but in absence duly priz'd!
Power of the soft and rofy face!
The vivid pulfe, the vermil grace,
The fpirits when they gayest shine,
Youth, beauty, pleasure, all are thine!
O fun of life! whofe heavenly ray
Lights up, and chears, our various day,
The turbulence of hopes and fears,
The ftorm of fate, the cloud of years,
Till Nature with thy parting light,
Reposes late in Death's calm night:
Fled from the trophy'd roofs of state,
Abodes of fplendid pain, and hate;

Fled from the couch, where, in fweet fleep,
Hot Riot would his anguish steep,

But toffes thro' the midnight fhade,
Of death, of life, alike afraid;
For ever fled to fhady cell,

Where Temperance, where the Mufes dwell;

Thou oft art feen, at early dawn,

Slow-pacing o'er the breezy lawn :

Or on the brow of mountain high,
In filence feasting ear and eye,

With fong and profpect, which abound

From birds, and woods and waters rouud.

But when the fun, with noon-tide ray, Flames forth intolerable day;

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While Heat fits fervent on the plain,
With Thirst and Langour in his train;
(All nature fickening in the blaze)
Thou, in the wild and woody maze,
That clouds the vale with umbrage deep,
Impendent from the neighbouring steep,
Wilt find betimes a calm retreat,

Where breathing Coolness has her feat,

There, plung'd amid the fhadows brown,
Imagination lays him down ;
Attentive in his airy mood,
To every murmur of the wood :
The bee in yonder flowery nook;
The chidings of the headlong brook ;
The green leaf fhivering in the gale;
The warbling hill, the lowing vale;
The diftant woodman's echoing ftroke;
The thunder of the falling oak.

From thought to thought in vifion led,
He holds high converse with the Dead;
Sages or Poets. See, they rife!
And shadowy skim before his eyes.
Hark! Orpheus ftrikes the lyre again,
That foften'd favages to men :
Lo! Socrates, the Sent of Heaven,
To whom its moral will was given.
Fathers and friends of human kind!
They form'd the nations, or refin'd,

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