Can life in them deserve the name, Who only live to prove For what poor toys they can disclaim An endless life above? Who, much diseased, yet nothing feel; ; Much menaced, nothing dread; Have wounds, which only God can heal, Yet never afk his aid? Who deem his houfe an useless place, Who trample order; and the day, And worship chance alone? If fcorn of God's commands, impreffed The better part of man, unbleffed With life that cannot die; Such want it, and that want uncured Till man refigns his breath, Speaks him a criminal, affured Of everlasting death. Sad period to a pleasant courfe! Yet fo will God repay Sabbaths profaned without remorse, And mercy caft away. INSCRIPTION FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTON. PAUSE here, and think: a monitory rhime Confult life's filent clock, thy bounding vein; And many a tomb, like HAMILTON's, aloud EPITAPH ON A HARE. HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, Nor e'er heard huntsman's hallo', Old Tiney, furlieft of his kind, Though duly from my hand he took His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite. His diet was of wheaten bread And milk, and oats, and straw; Thiftles, or lettuces instead, With fand to fcour his maw. On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, On pippins' ruffet peel, And, when his juicy falads failed, A Turkey carpet was his lawn, His frifking was at evening hours, For then he loft his fear, But most before approaching flowers, Or when a ftorm drew near. Eight years and five round-rolling moons. He thus faw fteal away, Dozing out all his idle neons, And every night at play. I kept him for his humour' fake, My heart of thoughts that made it ache, And force me to a smile. |