Bliss! sublunary bliss! Proud words and vain!

What numbers, once in Fortune's lap high-fed, Solicit the cold hand of Charity! STE 25780 a sh To shock us more, solicit it in vain tedi sH

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wise touar to-day; tis madness to defer; Procrastination is the thief of time; the thief of time; o'er va Year after year it steals, fill all arened song th

fled,

And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal state. ; nevsed of rod yodi noası jedw

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'thirty man suspects himself a fool word bak

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Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Resolves; and re-resolves; then dies the same.
And why Because he thinks himself immortal.
All men think all men mortal, but themselves!
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate
Strikes through their wounded hearts. ' ydw

amit ni 18 to,duh wri-bow ow 'cili nd W Qtime than gold more sacred; more a'load' Than lead to fools! Its loss we dearly buy

Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more. : lioe bodarstw all to b'omens stom lite

Guard well thy thought; our thoughts are heard in heaven.

Life's cares are comforts: such by Heav'n design'd; He that has none, must make them, or be wretched.

The man who consecrates his hours

By vig'rous effort, and an honest aim,
At once he draws the sting of life and death.

'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them, what report they bore to heaven; And how they might have borne more welcome

news.

Their answers form what men experience call.

To hope the best is pious, brave, and wise!

Wishing, of all employments, is the worst:
Wishing, that constant hectic of a fool.

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour?
What tho' we wade in wealth, or soar in fame ?
Earth's highest station ends in-" Here he lies :"
And "dust to dust" concludes her noblest song.

Shall we, shall aged men, like aged trees,
Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling,
Still more enamour'd of this wretched soil?

Shall our pale wither'd hands, be still stretch'd out, Trembling, at once, with eagerness and age? With avarice and convulsions, grasping hard? Man wants but little; nor that little, long.

'Tis impious in a good man to be sad.

A CHRISTIAN is the highest stile of man :
And is there who the blessed cross wipes off,
As a foul blot, from his dishonoured brow?
If angels, tremble 'tis at such a sight.

Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.

Fondness for fame is avarice of air.

The world's infectious; few bring back at eve,
Immaculate, the manners of the morn.

We see, we hear, with peril; safety dwells
Remote from multitude.

Genius, too hard for right, can prove it wrong, And loves to boast, where blush men less inspir'd.

By night, an atheist half believes a GOD.

"Oh! let me die his death!" all nature cries; "Then live his life."-All nature falters there.

Tho' grey our heads, our thoughts and aims are

green;

Like damag'd clocks, whose hand and bell dissent; Folly sings six, while nature points out twelve

But peace begins just where ambition ends!
What makes man wretched? Happiness denied?
Lorenzodano: 'tis happiness, disdained.

She comes too meanly drest to win our smile,
And calls herself Content, a homely name!

LEA
Jedes' sida en espns al

Unknowing what our mortal state admits,
Life's modest joys we ruin, while we raise;
And all our ecstacies are wounds to peace:
Peace, the full portion of mankind below.

When such friends part, 'tis the survivor dies...

His nature no man can o'er-rate; and none
Can under-rate his merit.

If wanting worth, give infamy renown. giv

If

wrong our hearts, our heads are right in vain. Right ends and means make wisdom; worldlytwise

Is but half-witted at its highest praise.

Our hearts ne'er bow but to superior worth.

Consider man as an immortal being,
Intelligible all;-and all is great;
Consider man as mortal, all is dark

And wretched; Reason weeps at the survey.

Conscience of guit is prophecy of pain.

Admit a GOD, all other wonders cease:
Deny HIM-all is mystery besides !

If there is weight in an eternity,
Let the grave listen, and be graver still.

Life's little joys go out by one and one,
And leave poor man, at length, in perfect night.

I give him joy, that's awkward at a lie.

'Tis great, 'tis manly, to disdain disguise.

And some forgiveness needs the best of friends.

From purity of thought, all pleasure springs,
And from an humble spirit, all our peace.

Th' ALMIGHTY, from his throne, on earth surveys Nought greater than an honest humble heart.

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