Poetical recreations consisting of original poems, songs, odes, &c. with several new translations : in two parts
A Paraphrase on an HYMN Sung when the Corps is at the Grave.
HOW full of Troubles is the Life of Man!
Vain like a bubble, shorter than a span;
He springs and blossoms as an early Flower,
Whose silken Leaves the Frosts and Snow devour:
He, like the •leeting Shadow, hastes away,
Unable to continue in one stay;
It disappears, and can't survive the day.
The Noon-tide of our Life is plac'd in Death,
We're not secure of one light puff of Breath;
To whom, O God, can we for succour fly,
But unto thee, by whom we live and dye?
'Tis for our Sins thou dost employ this Sting,
Thou justly angry art, our God and King,
But takest no delight in punishing.
O Holy, Mighty Lord and Saviour,
Declare thy signal Mercies, and thy Pow'r;
Condemn us not unto the pains of Hell,
Where Horror reigns, and endless Torments dwell;
From whence no ransom ever can be made,
Since we our bless'd Redeemer have betray'd,
And both his Will and Laws have disobey'd.
Thou know'st the secret Closet of our Hearts,
Thy divine Presence fills our secret parts;
Therefore be mercifull unto our Pray'r,
Most worthy Iudge, thy wretched People spare.
Page 3Forsake us not when on our Death-beds thrown,
Lest through despair we deeply sigh and groan,
And Hell grow proud of the Dominion.