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No more your blandishments my heart detain,
'Tis finish'd now, the great deciding part !
THE STATE OF OLD AGE.
HE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er,
So calm are we when passions rage no more ; Clouds of affection from our younger eyes, Conceals that emptiness which time descries. The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay’d, Lets in new light thro'chinks that time has made. Stranger by weakness wiser men become, As they draw nearer to their latest home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, Who stand upon the threshold of the new.
CHAP. VII. OF JOB, PARAPHRASED.
BY THE LATE MR. SAMUEL BOYSE.
AS not kind heaven, regarding human woe,
Set a fix'd period to our race below? Known to th' All-wise is our uncertain stay, And we, like hirelings, toil but by the day: Then when the busy tedious dream is o'er, We sink into the grave, and are no more. And is then death our slumber? our repose? Oh! when shall death JOB's weary'd eye-lids close! As with desiring eyes the harrass’d swain Expects the evening-shade to quit the plain; So with impatience to the grave I bend, And long to see my numerous sorrows end : For crush'd, O LORD! beneath thy powerful arm, What balm can cure my griefs ? what music charm? While in a thousand shapes thy wrath I know, And feel a strange variety of woe!
When will my long protracted troubles cease? And this tormented sufferer be at peace ! Each ling'ring night in agonies I lie, And oft I wish, but with in vain, to die; In filent woe I lengthen out the night, Then curse the gloom, and wait the dawning light: The dawning light returns---but not to me, And all but I its kindly aspect see :
To me no friendly seasons e'er return,
With-hold at length thy wrath, and set me free,
Each evening yields the sun to fable night,
for ever lies,
Oh! why should tortur'd job his fighs refrain ?
Forbid'ft me one short interval of rest,
Oft when alone, and in the ev’ning lhade,
Then humbly in thy fight I lay me down, At once thy justice and my crimes I own. To thee for mercy and relief I come; Oh take this late repenting rebel home. Oh let thy pity ease and set me free, And give me in destruction rest to see: So shall the voice of my complaining cease, And Job's last breath shall bless thee for his peace.
CHAP. III. OF JOB, TRANSLATED.
BY THE SAME.
VHUS JOB beganCurst be the fatal morn,
In which distinguish'd wretchedness was born! From the fair round of the revolving year Perish that day! nor let the night appear, In which this wretched being first began To swell to misery and promise man! Let darkness stain it o'er, no friendly ray Pierce thro' the gloom of that accursed day! But Thades of terror o'er its circuit spread, And fold it in the mantle of the dead ! May all its stars with rays diminish'd show, And thro' the dusky air obscurely glow! No glimpse of hope the dreadful scene adorn, Nor let it see the promise of a morn! Because it shut not up my mother's womb, Nor join'd at once my cradle and my tomb: Why dy'd I not? why did preventive care My destin'd life for future sorrows spare ? Then had I found that ease I seek in vain, Nor known this load of unexampled pain !
O grave! thou refuge of the soul distreft ! When shall I fink into thy downy rest? There kings and mighty ones neglected rot, In their own mould'ring monuments forgot: