3. The very turf on which we tread, once liv'd; To cover our own offspring:-In their turns 'Tis here all meet. The shiv'ring Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor; And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Christian. And celebrated masters of the balance, Deep read in stratagems and wiles of courts. Now vain their treaty-skill! Death scorns to treat. 5. Here the o'erloaded slave flings down his burden From his gall'd shoulders;-and when the cruel tyrant, With all his guards and tools of power about him, Is meditating new unheard-of hardships, 6. Mocks his short arm; and, quick as thought, escapes Here friends and foes Hears not the voice of mirth.-The shrill tongu'd shrew, LESSON LIII. The same continued. 1. But know, that thou must render up thy dead, And with high int'rest too. They are not thine; But only in thy keeping for a season, Till the great promis'd day of restitution; 2. Then must thy gates fly open, and reveal 3. 4. That twice has stood the torture of the fire, The Son of God, thee foil'd. Him in thy pow'r He mounted up to heav'n. Methinks I see him Climb the aerial heights, and glide along Athwart the severing clouds; but the faint eye, Heaven's portals wide expand to let him in; Will soon go off. Besides, there's no by-road To bliss.-Then, why, like ill-condition'd children, Start we at transient hardships in the way That leads to purer air, and softer skies, And a ne'er setting sun?-Fools that we are! We wish to be where sweets unwith'ring bloom; But strait our wish revoke, and will not go. 6. So have I seen, upon a summer's even, Fast by the riv'let's brink, a youngster play: How wishfully he looks to stem the tide! This moment resolute, next unresolv'd: At last he dips his foot; but as he dips, His fears redouble, and he runs away From th' inoffensive stream, unmindful now Of all the flowers that paint the further bank, And smiled so sweet of late. 7. Thrice welcome death! That after many a painful bleeding step Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe On the long wish'd for shore.-Prodigious change! Our bane turn'd to a blessing! Death, disarm'd, Loses his fellness quite.-All thanks to him Who scourg'd the venom out.-Sure the last end Of the good man is peace! How calm his exit! Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground, Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft. 8. Behold him in the evening tide of life, A life well spent, whose early care it was His riper years should not upbraid his green: By unperceiv'd degrees he wears away; Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting. (High in his faith and hopes) look how he reaches After the prize in view! and, like a bird That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away; Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded To let new glories in, the first fair fruits Of the fast coming harvest. 9. Then! O then! Rests too in hope of meeting once again Make up the full account; not the least atom BLAIR. LESSON LIV. On the Importance of Religion to the Young. 1. It is a common prejudice, arising from very erroneous views of the nature of religion, to think that it is chiefly intended for the aged, the miserable, and the sick, and not for the young, the vigorous, and the happy. Religion is designed for our consolation, it is true; but it is also intended for our guidance and restraint; for the enlargement and direction of our views, and the progressive purification and exaltation of our natures. 2. But all these objects are as necessary, and ought to be as interesting, to the young, as to the mature. When, indeed, do we feel the necessity of all our good principles to restrain and guide us most? Is it in the advance of life, when the first warmth of our wishes is cooled, and a sober selfishness, if nothing else, will preserve us from all wild excess? Or is it not at that season when passion rolls her impetuous tides through our veins; when desires, yet unpalled by gratification, are rebels to our reason; and when the bitter consequences of guilt have not taught us to shun it? 3. If, too, you admit that any alteration ought to be made in our plans of life, in consequence of believing that there is a world of retribution to follow it, what season so proper for the exertion of this influence as that when our plans may be so arranged, that they shall need no alteration? How far better must it be, to set out in the career of life originally right, than to suffer the pain and mortification of being compelled to retrace our steps. 4. How important, also, is it to our happiness, to be early taught by religion to estimate the world at its proper value; to regard it as a school of virtue, more than a festival of pleasure; a scene of high duties, not of unmingled gratifications; to be warned beforehand, that we shall have much to suffer, as well as to enjoy; and thus to be preserved from those cruel disappointments, which sadden the days of those, who have indulged such extravagant hopes of felicity, as this state was never intended to realize. 5. In short, unless you are prepared to say, that the ardour of youthful passion needs no restraint; that the extravagance of youthful hopes needs no correction; and that the arrangement of life is not to be affected by the views which religion gives of its true design, you must admit, that religion is never more necessary than in the season of youth. 6. Another consideration is, that religion may be most easily and permanently engrafted on the mind in youth. The soul is not yet filled with the cares of the world, and the deceitfulness of riches. It is not yet torn by ambition, and tortured by envy. It is not yet agitated by the tempests of politics, or swallowed up in the whirlpool of fashionable dissipation, 7. It is not yet so bound down to the pursuits of the world, as to leave it no leisure for the thought of heaven. Those sublime views which religion reveals, if permitted to enter the mind, will not find the place, which they ought to possess, preoccupied by merely terrestrial cares. The soul is yet white, and fair, and unsullied. Seize, then, this precious moment, to engrave on it the everlasting characters of celestial truth. 8. But not only is the mind most open to religion in youth; the heart, also, is then most susceptible of its sacred influence. The fetters of habit are not yet bound around us. That tendency of our nature to settle in the course which we have long pursued, not only does not yet |