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,
Faith, want of common sense;
And ardour in the Chriftian race,
A hypocrite's pretence?

Who trample order; and the day,
Which God afferts his own,
Difhonour with unhallowed play,

And worship chance alone?

If fcorn of God's commands, impreffed
On word and deed, imply

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
Demands one moment of thy fleeting time.

Confult life's filent clock, thy bounding vein;
Seems it to say-" Health here has long to reign?"
Haft thou the vigour of thy youth? an eye
That beams delight? an heart untaught to figh?
Yet fear. Youth, ofttimes healthful and at ease,
Anticipates a day it never fees;

And many a tomb, like HAMILTON's, aloud
Exclaims," Prepare thee for an early throud."

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,
Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domeftic bounds confined,
Was ftill a wild Jack-hare.

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,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And fwing his rump around.

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,
For he would oft beguile

My heart of thoughts that made it ache,

And force me to a smile.