Can length of years on God himself exact,
Or make that fiction which was once a fact?
No-marble and recording brafs decay,
And like the graver's mem'ry pass away;
The works of man inherit, as is just,
Their authors frailty and return to dust;
But truth divine for ever stand secure,
Its head as guarded as its bafe is fure,
Fixt in the rolling flood of endless years
The pillar of th' eternal plan appears,
The raving ftorm and dafhing wave defies,
Built by that architect who built the fkies.
Hearts may be found that harbour at this hour,
That love of Chrift in all its quick'ning pow'r,
And lips unftained by folly or by ftrife,
Whose wisdom drawn from the deep well of life,
Taftes of its healthful origin, and flows
A Jordan for th' ablution of our woes.
Oh days of heav'n and nights of equal praife,
Serene and peaceful as thofe heav'nly days,
When fouls drawn upward in communion fweet,
Enjoy the ftillness of fome clofe retreat,
Difcourfe as if releafed and fafe at home,
Of dangers paft and wonders yet to come,
And spread the facred treasures of the breast
Upon the lap of covenanted reft.
What always dreaming over heav'nly things,
Like angel-heads in ftone with pigeon-wings?
Canting and whining out all day the word
And half the night? fanatic and absurd!
Mine be the friend lefs frequent in his pray'rs,
Who makes no buftle with his foul's affairs,
Whose wit can brighten up a wintry day,
And chafe the fplenetic dull hours away,
Content on earth in earthly things to fhine,
Who waits for heav'n e'er he becomes divine,
Leaves faints t' enjoy thofe altitudes they teach,
And plucks the fruit plac'd more within his reach.
Well spoken, Advocate of fin and fhame,
Known, by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name.
Is sparkling wit the world's exclufive right,
The fixt fee-fimple of the vain and light?
Can hopes of heav'n, bright profpects of an hour
That comes to waft us out of forrow's pow'r,
Obfcure or quench a faculty that finds
Its happiest foil in the ferenest minds?
Religion curbs indeed its wanton play,
And brings the trifler under rig'rous sway,
But gives it usefulness unknown before,
And purifying makes it fhine the more.
A Chriftian's wit is inoffenfive light,
A beam that aids but never grieves the fight,
Vig'rous in age as in the flush of youth,
'Tis always active on the fide of truth,
Temp'rance and peace infure its healthful state,
And make it brightest at its latest date.
Oh I have feen (nor hope perhaps in vain
E'er life go down to fee fuch fights again)
A vet'ran warrior in the Chriftian field,
Who never saw the sword he could not wield;
Grave without dulnefs, learned without pride,
yet not precife, though meek, keen-eyed, A man that would have foiled at their own play,
A dozen would-be's of the modern day :
Who when occafion juftified its use,
Had wit as bright as ready, to produce,
Could fetch from records of an earlier age,
Or from philofophy's enlighten'd page
His rich materials, and regale your ear
With strains it was a privilege to hear;
Yet above all his luxury fupreme,
And his chief glory was the gofpel theme;
There he was copious as old Greece or Rome,
His happy eloquence feem'd there at home,
Ambitious, not to fhine or to excel,
But to treat juftly what he lov'd fo well.
It moves me more perhaps than folly ought,
When some green heads as void of wit as thought, Suppofe themselves monopolifts of fenfe,
And wifer men's ability pretence.
Though time will wear us, and we must grow old,
Such men are not forgot as foon as cold,
Their fragrant mem'ry will out laft their tomb,
Embalmed for ever in its own perfume:
And to say truth, though in its early prime,
And when unftained with any groffer crime,
Youth has a fprightliness and fire to boast,
That in the valley of decline are loft,
And virtue with peculiar charms appears
Crown'd with the garland of life's blooming years;
Yet age by long experience well informed,
Well read, well temper'd, with religion warmed,
That fire abated which impells rash youth,
Proud of his fpeed to overfhoot the truth,
As time improves the grape's authentic juice,
Mellows and makes the fpeech more fit for use,
And claims a rev'rence in its fhort'ning day,
That 'tis an honour and a joy to pay.
The fruits of age, lefs fair, are yet more found,
Than thofe a brighter feafon pours around,
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