XXIII. DEATH. HICH is the happiest death to die? With bright celeftial views. Mine were a lingering death without pain, And mark how bright and sweet would be "Fain would I catch a hymn of love "No," said another; "fo not I; Nor hear the quivering lips that bless me, "So would I die All blifs without a pang to cloud it, Oh! how bright were the realms of light, Even fo, I long to go, These parting hours how fad and flow!" His voice grew weak, and fixed was his eye, The hue of his cheek and lips decayed, His fpirit had fled: Painless and fwift as his own defire, The foul undreffed from her mortal vest, Were the realms of light, Bursting at once upon the fight! EDMESTON. H XXIV. MAN. OW poor, how rich, how abject, how auguft, How complicate, how wonderful is man! How paffing wonder He who made him fuch! Who centred in our make fuch ftrange extremes ! Triumphantly diftreffed! what joy! what dread! What can preferve my life? or what destroy? YOUNG. L XXV. WOMAN. THOU! by Heaven ordained to be The miftrefs of man's destinyFrom whofe fond lips one gentle figh, One look from whofe approving eye, Can raise or bend him to thy will, To virtue's nobleft heights, or worst extremes of ill: And let not paffion's lawless tide For woe awaits the lucklefs hour That leads to man's annoy thy Heaven-entrufted power. Woman! 'tis thine to cleanse his heart From every grofs unholy part; Thine in domeftic folitude To teach him to be wife and good. His pattern guide and friend to be, To give him back the Heaven he forfeited for thee. XXVI. WOMAN. JONOUR to women! entwining and braiding Life's garland with rofes for ever unfading, In the veil of the graces all modeftly kneeling, Love's band with sweet spells have they wreathed, have they bleffed, And tending with hands ever pure have careffed The flame of each holy, each beautiful feeling. Ever truth's bright bounds outrages The restless phantom of his dream. But the glances of women, enchantingly glowing, Their light woos the fugitive back, ever throwing A link round the prefent, that binds like a spellIn the meek cottage home of the mother prefiding, All graces, all gentleness, round them abiding, As nature's true daughters, how fweetly they dwell! |