The New Hampshire Gazette

The following VERSES were composed by a pious Clergyman in Virginia, who preaches to seven Congregations, the nearest of which meets at the Distance of five Miles from his House, as he was returning home in a very gloomy and rainy Night.

COME, heav'nly pensive Contemplation, come.
Poise my Soul, and solemn Thoughts inspire.
The sacred Hours, that with too swift a Wing
Incessant hurry by, nor quite elapsed.
Demand a serious Close. Then be my Soul
Sedate and solemn, as this Gloom of Night.
That thickens round me. Free from Care, composed
Be all my Soul, as this dread Solitude,
Thro' which with gloomy Joy I make my Way.
Above these Clouds, above the spacious Sky,
In whose vast Arch these cloudy Oceans roll,
Dispensing Fatness to the World below ;
There dwells The Majesty whose single Hand
Props universal Nature, and who deals
His lib'ral Blessings to this little Globe,
The Residence of Worms ; where Adam's Sons,
Thoughtless of Him, who taught their Souls to think.
Ramble in vain Pursuits. The Hosts of Heav'n,
Cherubs and Seraphs, Potentates and Thrones,
Array'd in glorious Light, hover on Wing
Before his Throne, and wait his sovereign Nod :
With active Zeal, with sacred Rapture fir'd,
To his extensive Empire's utmost Bound
They bear his Orders, and his Charge perform.
Yet He, ev'n He, ( ye Ministers of Flame,
Admire the Condescension and the Grace !)
Employs a Mortal form'd of meanest Clay,
Debas'd by Sin, whose just Desert is Hell ;
Employs him to proclaim a Saviour's Name,
And offer Pardon to a rebel World.
This Day my Tongue, the Glory of my Frame,
Enjoy'd the Honour of his Advocate :
Immortal Souls, of more transcendent Worth
Than Ophir, or Peru's exhaustless Mines,
Are trusted to my Care. Important Trust !
What if some wretched Soul, ( tremendous Thought ! )
Once favour'd with the Gospel's joyful Sound,
Now lost, for ever lost thro' my Neglect,
In dire infernal Glooms, with Flaming Tongue;
Be heaping Execrations on my Head,
Whilst here secure I dream my Life away !
What if some Ghost, cut off from Life and Hope,
With fierce despairing Eyes up turn'd to Heav'n,
That wildly stare, and witness Horrors huge,
Be roaring horrid, " Lord; avenge my Blood
On that unpitying Wretch, who saw me run
With full Career the dire enchanting Road
To these devouring Flames, yet warn'd me not,
Or faintly warn'd me : and with languid Tone;
And cool Harangue: denounc'd Eternal Fire,
And Wrath Divine ?" At the dread shocking Thought
My Spirit shudders. all my inmost Soul
Trembles and shrinks. Sure, if the plaintive Cries
Of Spirits reprobate can reach the Ear
Of their Great Judge, they must be Cries like thine:
But if the meanest of the happy Choir,
That with eternal Symphonies surround
The heav'nly Throne, can stand, and thus declare,
"I owe it to his Care that I am here,
Next to Almighty Grace : His faithful Hand.
Regardless of the Frowns he might incur,
Snatch'd me, reluctant, from approaching Flames,
Ready to catch, and burn unquenchable :
May richest Grace reward his pious Zeal
With some bright Mansion in this World of Bliss. "
Transporting Thought ! Then blessed be the Hand
That form'd my elemental Clay to Man,
And still supports me. Tis worth while to live
If I may live to Purposes so great.
Awake my dormant Zeal ! for ever flame
With gen'rous Ardors for immortal Souls :
And may my Head and Tongue, and Heart, and all.
Spend and be spent in Service so divine.