Sunk in the emphasis of grief,

Nor can he feel, nor dares he ask relief.

Thou, fair Religion, wast design'd,
Duteous daughter of the skies,

To warm and chear the human mind,
To make men happy, good, and wise.

To point where sits, in love
array'd,
Attentive to each suppliant call,
The God of universal aid,

The God, the Father of us all.

First shewn by thee, thus glow'd the gracious scene, 'Till Superstition, fiend of woe,

Bade doubts to rise, and tears to flow,

And spread deep shades our view and heaven be

tween.

Drawn by her pencil the Creator stands,
(His beams of mercy thrown aside)

With thunder arming his uplifted hands,

And hurling vengeance wide.

Hope, at the frown aghast, yet ling'ring, flies,

And dash'd on Terror's rocks, Faith's best dependence lies.

But ah too thick they croud,-too close they throng,

Objects of pity and affright !—

Spare farther the descriptive song

Nature shudders at the sight.

Protract not, curious ears, the mournful tale,

But o'er the hapless groupe, low drop Compassion's

veil.

ODE XXX.

ΤΟ

MELANCHOLY.

BY MRS. CARTER.

COME, Melancholy! silent power,
Companion of my lonely hour,
To sober thought confin'd;
Thou sweetly sad ideal guest,
In all thy soothing charms confest,
Indulge my pensive mind.

No longer wildly hurried thro'
The tides of mirth, that ebb and flow
In folly's noisy stream:

I from the busy crowd retire,

To court the objects that inspire
Thy philosophic dream.

Thro' yon dark grove of mournful yews

With solitary steps I muse,

By thy direction led:

Here, cold to pleasure's tempting forms, Consociate with my sister-worms,

And mingle with the dead.

Ye midnight horrors! awful gloom !
Ye silent regions of the tomb !

My future peaceful bed:

Here shall my weary eyes be clos'd,
And every sorrow lie repos'd

In death's refreshing shade.

Ye pale inhabitants of night,
Before my intellectual sight

In solemn pomp ascend :
O tell how trifling now appears
The train of idle hopes and fears
That varying life attend!

Ye faithless idols of our sense,

Here own how vain your fond pretence,

Ye empty names of joy !

Your transient forms like shadows pass, Frail offspring of the magic glass, Before the mental eye.

The dazzling colours, falsely bright,
Attract the gazing vulgar sight

With superficial state :

Thro' Reason's clearer optics view'd,
How stript of all its pomp, how rude
Appears the painted cheat.

Can wild Ambition's tyrant power,
Or ill-got Wealth's superfluous store,
The dread of death controul?

Can Pleasure's more bewitching charms
Avert or soothe the dire alarms
That shake the parting soul?

Religion! e'er the hand of Fate
Shall make Reflection plead too late,
My erring senses teach,

Amidst the flattering hopes of youth,
To meditate the solemn truth,
These awful relics preach.

Thy penetrating beams disperse

The mist of error, whence our fears

Derive their fatal spring:

'Tis thine the trembling heart to warm,

And soften to an angel form

The pale terrific king.

When sunk by guilt in sad despair, Repentance breathes her humble prayer, And owns thy threatenings just :