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Spring hangs her infant bloffoms on the trees,
Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze;
Summer in hafte the thriving charge receives
Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves,
Till autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews
Dye them at laft in all their glowing hues-
'Twere wild profufion all, and bootless waste,
'Pow'r mifemploy'd, munificence misplac'd,
Had not its Author dignified the plan,
And crown'd it with the majesty of man.

Thus form'd, thus plac'd, intelligent, and taught, Look where he will, the wonders God has

wrought,

The wildeft fcorner of his Maker's laws

Finds in a fober moment time to pause,

To prefs th' important question on his heart,
"Why form'd at all, and wherefore as thou
art ?"

If man be what he seems, this hour a slave,
The next, mere dust and ashes in the grave;
Endu'd with reafon only to defcry

His crimes and follies with an aching eye :
With paffions just that he may prove, with pain,
The force he fpends against their fury, vain;
And if, foon after having burnt, by turns,
With ev'ry luft with which frail nature burns,
His being end where death diffolves the bond,
The tomb take all, and all be blank beyond;

Then

Then he, of all that nature has brought forth,
Stands felf-impeach'd the creature of least worth,
And useless while he lives; and when he dies,
Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies.
Truths that the learn'd pursue with eager
thought,

Are not important always as dear-bought,
Proving at laft, though told in pompous strains,
A childish waste of philofophic pains ;

But truths on which depends our main concern,
That 'tis our fhame and mis'ry not to learn,
Shine by the fide of ev'ry path we tread
With fuch a luftre, he that runs may read.
'Tis true, that if to trifle life away
Down to the fun-fet of their latest day,
Then perish on futurity's wide shore
Like fleeting exhalations, found no more,
Were all that Heav'n requir'd of human kind,
And all the plan their destiny defign'd,

What none could rev'rence all might juftly

blame,

And man would breathe but for his Maker's

fhame,

But reafon heard, and nature well perus'd,

At once the dreaming mind is difabus'd.
If all we find poffeffing earth, fea, air,
Reflect his attributes who plac'd them there,
Fulfil the purpose, and appear defign'd
Proofs of the wisdom of th' all seeing mind,

"Tis

'Tis plain, the creature whom he chose t' invest
With kingship and dominion o'er the reft,
Receiv'd his nobler nature, and was made
Fit for the power in which he stands array'd,
That first or laft, hereafter if not here,

He too might make his Author's wisdom clear,
Praise him on earth, or, obftinately dumb,
Suffer his juftice in a world to come.
This once believ'd, 'twere logic mifapplied
To prove a confequence by none denied,
That we are bound to caft the minds of youth
Betimes into the mould of heav'nly truth,
That taught of God they may indeed be wife,
Nor ignorantly wand'ring miss the skies.
In early days the confcience has in most
A quicknefs, which in later life is loft,
Preferv'd from guilt by falutary fears,
Or, guilty, foon relenting into tears.
Too careless often, as our years proceed,
What friends we fort with, or what books we

read,

Our parents yet exert a prudent care

To feed our infant minds with proper care,
And wifely store the nurs'ry, by degrees,
With wholefome learning and acquir'd with
eafe.

Neatly fecur'd from being foil'd or torn,
Beneath a pane of thin translucent horn,

A book

A book (to pleafe us at a tender age

'Tis call'd a book, though but a fingle page) Presents the pray'r the Saviour deign'd to teach, Which children ufe, and parfons-when they preach.

Lifping our fyllables, we fcramble next
Through moral narrative, or facred text,
And learn with wonder how this world began,
Who made, who marr'd, and who has ranfom'd

man.

Points, which unless the Scripture made them

plain,

The wifeft heads might agitate in vain.
Oh thou, whom borne on fancy's eager wing
Back to the feafon of life's happy fpring,
I pleas'd remember, and while mem❜ry yet
Holds faft her office here, can ne'er forget,
Ingenious dreamer, in whofe well told tale
Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail,
Whofe hum'rous vein, ftrong fenfe, and fimplé
ftyle,

May teach the gayeit, make the gravest smile,
Witty, and well employ'd, and like thy Lord,
Speaking in parables his flighted word,
I name thee not, left so despis'd a name
Should move a fneer at thy deserved fame;
Yet ev'n in transitory life's late day,
That mingles all my brown with fober grey,

Revere

Revere the man, whose Pilgrim marks the road,
And guides the Progrefs of the foul to God.
'Twere well with most, if books that could engage
Their childhood, pleas'd them at a riper age;
The man, approving what had charm'd the boy,
Would die at laft in comfort, peace, and joy,
And not with curfes on his art who ftole
The gem of truth from his unguarded foul.
The ftamp of artless piety imprefs'd

By kind tuition on his yielding breast,

The youth now bearded, and yet pert and raw, Regards with fcorn, thouge once receiv'd with

awe,

And, warp'd into the labyrinth of lies,
That babblers, call'd philofophers, devife,
Blafphemes his creed, as founded on a plan
Replete with dreams, unworthy of a man.
Touch but his nature in its ailing part,
Affert the native evil of his heart,

His pride resents the charge, although the proof*
Rife in his forehead, and seem rank enough;
Point to the cure, defcribes a Saviour's cross
As God's expedient to retrieve his lofs,
The young apoftate fickens at the view,
And hates it with the malice of a Jew.

* See 2 Chron. ch. xxvi. ver. 19.

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