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And the harp and the viol, the tabret and pipe and wine are in their feasts : but they regard not the work of the Lord, neither consider the operation of his hands.
Isaiah, ch. V., ver. 12.
How calm is the night—how serene !
Scarce a voice or a sound can be heard
To awake the repose of the scene,
But the notes of the night-warbling bird.
The day is sunk deep in the west,
And with us will be present no more;
It has left us a season for rest;
Its pains and its pleasures are o'er.
Ye Great! (that deserve not the name
Who in riot and luxury live)
Suppress not the blush of your shame,
Nor turn from the lessons they give.
They welcome the morn with delight,
As the shadows of night wear away;
But ye would illumine the night,
And shun the refulgence of day.
They drink the same stream as the rose,
To health and to beauty benign;
Ye drink of the cup that o'erflows
With the feverish juice of the vine.
'Midst pleasure's intemperate rounds,
Your heedless career is begun;
And nought will determine its bounds
But th' intrusive return of the sun.
How many now wait to receive
The praise due to grandeur and style;
How many are ready to give
The false, ever-flattering smile.
The epicure amply regald,
On oblivion's fond couch is reclin'd;
The drunkard's full cups have prevailid
To make him the jest of mankind.