Religious and Moral Poems | Page 5

whole human race by
sin had fall'n,
He deign'd to die that they might rise again,
And
share with him in the sublimest skies,
Life without death, and glory
without end.
Improve your privileges while they stay,
Ye pupils, and each hour
redeem, that bears
Or good or bad report of you to heav'n.
Let sin,
that baneful evil to the soul,
By you be shun'd, nor once remit your
guard;
Suppress the deadly serpent in its egg.
Ye blooming plants
of human race divine,
An Ethiop tells you 'tis your greatest foe;
Its
transient sweetness turns to endless pain,
And in immense perdition
sinks the soul.
TO THE KING'S MOST EXCELLENT
MAJESTY. 1768.
YOUR subjects hope, dread Sire--
The crown upon your brows may
flourish long,
And that your arm may in your God be strong!
O may

your sceptre num'rous nations sway,
And all with love and readiness
obey!
But how shall we the British king reward!
Rule thou in peace, our
father, and our lord!
Midst the remembrance of thy favours past,

The meanest peasants most admire the last*
May George, beloved by
all the nations round,
Live with heav'ns choicest constant blessings
crown'd!
Great God, direct, and guard him from on high,
And from
his head let ev'ry evil fly!
And may each clime with equal gladness
see
A monarch's smile can set his subjects free!
0. The Repeal of the Stamp Act.
On being brought from Africa to America.
'TWAS mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted
soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:

Once I redemption neither fought now knew,
Some view our sable
race with scornful eye,
"Their colour is a diabolic die."
Remember,
Christians, Negroes, black as Cain,
May be refin'd, and join th'
angelic train.
On the Death of the Rev. Dr. SEWELL,
1769.
ERE yet the morn its lovely blushes spread,
See Sewell number'd
with the happy dead.
Hail, holy man, arriv'd th' immortal shore,

Though we shall hear thy warning voice no more.
Come, let us all
behold with wishful eyes
The saint ascending to his native skies;

From hence the prophet wing'd his rapt'rous way
To the blest
mansions in eternal day.
Then begging for the Spirit of our God,

And panting eager for the same abode,
Come, let us all with the same
vigour rise,
And take a prospect of the blissful skies;
While on our
minds Christ's image is imprest,
And the dear Saviour glows in ev'ry
breast.
Thrice happy faint! to find thy heav'n at last,
What
compensation for the evils past!

Great God, incomprehensible, unknown
By sense, we bow at thine
exalted throne.
O, while we beg thine excellence to feel,
Thy sacred
Spirit to our hearts reveal,
And give us of that mercy to partake,

Which thou hast promis'd for the Saviour's sake!
"Sewell is dead." Swift-pinion'd Fame thus cry'd.
"Is Sewell dead,"
my trembling tongue reply'd,
O what a blessing in his flight deny'd!

How oft for us the holy prophet pray'd!
How oft to us the Word of
Life convey'd!
By duty urg'd my mournful verse to close,
I for his
tomb this epitaph compose.
"Lo, here a man, redeem'd by Jesus's blood,
"A sinner once, but now
a saint with God;
"Behold ye rich, ye poor, ye fools, ye wise,
"Not
let his monument your heart surprise;
"Twill tell you what this holy
man has done,
"Which gives him brighter lustre than the sun.

"Listen, ye happy, from your seats above.
"I speak sincerely, while I
speak and love,
"He fought the paths of piety and truth,
"By these
made happy from his early youth;
"In blooming years that grace
divine he felt,
"Which rescues sinners from the chains of guilt.

"Mourn him, ye indigent, whom he has fed,
"And henceforth seek,
like him, for living bread;
"Ev'n Christ, the bread descending from
above,
"And ask an int'rest in his saving love.
"Mourn him, ye
youth, to whom he oft has told
"God's gracious wonders from the
times of old.
"I too have cause this mighty loss to mourn,
"For he
my monitor will not return.
"O when shall we to his blest state arrive?

"When the same graces in our bosoms thrive."
On the Death of the Rev. Mr. GEORGE
WHITEFIELD. 1770.
HAIL, happy saint, on thine immortal throne,
Possest of glory, life,
and bliss unknown;
We hear no more the music of thy tongue,
Thy
wonted auditories cease to throng.
Thy sermons in unequall'd accents

flow'd,
And ev'ry bosom with devotion glow'd;
Thou didst in strains
of eloquence refin'd
Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind.

Unhappy we the setting sun deplore,
So glorious once, but ah! it
shines no more.
Behold the prophet in his tow'ring flight!
He leaves
the earth for heav'n's unmeasur'd height,
And worlds unknown
receive him from our sight.
There Whitefield wings with rapid course
his way,
And sails to Zion through vast seas of day.
Thy pray'rs,
great saint, and thine incessant cries
Have pierc'd the bosom of thy
native skies.
Thou moon hast seen, and all the stars of light,
How he
has wrestled with his God by night.
He pray'd that grace in ev'ry heart
might dwell,
He long'd to see America excell;
He charg'd its youth
that ev'ry grace divine
Should with full lustre in their conduct shine;

That Saviour, which his soul did first receive,
The greatest gift