Thus death, in varied dreadful form,
Triumphant rides along the storm: 
With shocking scenes assails the sight,
And makes more sad the dismal night! 
How blest the man, whose lot is free
From such distress and misery;
Who, sitting by his blazing fire,
Is closely wrapt in warm attire;
Whose sparkling glasses blush with wine
Of mirthful might and flavour fine;
Whose house, compact and strong, defies
The rigour of the angry skies! 
The ruffling winds may blow their last,
And snows come driving on the blast;
And frosts their icy morsels fling,
But all within is mild as spring!

How blest is he!—­blest did I say? 
E’en sorrow here oft finds its way. 
The senses numbed by frequent use,
Of criminal, absurd abuse
Of heaven’s blessings, listless grow,
And life is but a dream of woe.

Oft fostered on the lap of ease,
Grow racking pain and foul disease,
And nervous whims, a ghastly train,
Inflicting more than corp’ral pain: 
Oft gold and shining pedigree
Prove only splendid misery. 
The king who sits upon his throne,
And calls the kneeling world his own,
Has oft of cares a greater load
Than he who feels his iron rod.

No state is free from care and pain
Where fiery passions get the rein,
Or soft indulgence, joined with ease,
Begets a thousand ills to tease: 
Where fair Religion, heavenly maid,
Has slighted still her offered aid. 
Her matchless power the will subdues,
And gives the judgment clearer views: 
Denies no source of real pleasure,
And yields us blessings out of measure;
Our prospect brightens, proves our stay,
December turns to smiling May;
Conveys us to that peaceful shore,
By raging billows lashed no more,
Where endless happiness remains,
And one eternal summer reigns.

VERSES SENT TO A LADY ON HER BIRTHDAY.

The joyous day illumes the sky
That bids each care and sorrow fly
      To shades of endless night: 
E’en frozen age, thawed in the fires
Of social mirth, feels young desires,
      And tastes of fresh delight.

In thoughtful mood your parents dear,
Whilst joy smiles through the starting tear,
      Give approbation due. 
As each drinks deep in mirthful wine
Your rosy health, and looks benign
      Are sent to heaven for you.

But let me whisper, lovely fair,
This joy may soon give place to care,
      And sorrow cloud this day;
Full soon your eyes of sparkling blue,
And velvet lips of scarlet hue,
      Discoloured, may decay.

As bloody drops on virgin snows,
So vies the lily with the rose
      Full on your dimpled cheek;
But ah! the worm in lazy coil
May soon prey on this putrid spoil,
      Or leap in loathsome freak.

Fond wooers come with flattering tale,
And load with sighs the passing gale,
      And love-distracted rave: 
But hark, fair maid! whate’er they say,
You’re but a breathing mass of clay,
      Fast ripening for the grave.