 | The miscellaneous essays and occasional writings of Francis Hopkinson, Esq |  |
104
AN EVENING HYMN.
At length the busy day is done,
And yon bright orb, the glorious sun,
Deep in the west reclines his head,
Where misty curtains shroud his bed.
And yon bright orb, the glorious sun,
Deep in the west reclines his head,
Where misty curtains shroud his bed.
Oh! God of hosts! with this day's close,
How many sleep in death's repose?
And with the sinking sun's decline,
To thee their fleeting souls resign.
How many sleep in death's repose?
And with the sinking sun's decline,
To thee their fleeting souls resign.
Hark! 'tis the tolling bell I hear,
And slow and dull it strikes mine ear:
E'en whilst I tune my pensive song,
The solemn fun'ral moves along.
And slow and dull it strikes mine ear:
E'en whilst I tune my pensive song,
The solemn fun'ral moves along.
He whom this night th' expecting tomb,
Shall wrap within its dreary gloom,
At yester-morn, devoid of care,
Up rose and breath'd the healthful air.
Shall wrap within its dreary gloom,
At yester-morn, devoid of care,
Up rose and breath'd the healthful air.
Gay Hope o'er look'd the present day,
Prospects of years before him lay;
He hasten'd to distant joys meet,
Nor saw the grave yawn at his feet.
Prospects of years before him lay;
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Nor saw the grave yawn at his feet.
Ambition, stop thy mad career,
Look on that corse and drop a tear;
E'en when thy hand would grasp the prize,
The stroke is giv'n, and glory dies.
Look on that corse and drop a tear;
E'en when thy hand would grasp the prize,
The stroke is giv'n, and glory dies.
Let Av'rice, feeble, grey and old,
Whilst his broad palm protects his gold,
Lift up his eyes, and sighing say,
Death is a debt we all must pay.
Whilst his broad palm protects his gold,
Lift up his eyes, and sighing say,
Death is a debt we all must pay.
Let thoughtless youth, too often found,
In sensual joy's enchanting round,
Behold, and as he trembling stands,
Let Pleasure's cup fall from his hands.
In sensual joy's enchanting round,
Behold, and as he trembling stands,
Let Pleasure's cup fall from his hands.
And thou my soul thy thoughts employ,
On God thy glory, wealth and joy:
Virtue alone is stable here,
Nought but religion is sincere.
On God thy glory, wealth and joy:
Virtue alone is stable here,
Nought but religion is sincere.
When mortal pangs his frame shall seize,
And the chill'd blood begins to freeze;
When my fixt eyes must roll no more,
And life escapes thro' ev'ry pore.
And the chill'd blood begins to freeze;
When my fixt eyes must roll no more,
And life escapes thro' ev'ry pore.
Ah! what shall cheer my drooping heart.
Shall worldly honours joy impart?
Can sensual pleasure sweeten death,
Or wealth redeem one parting breath?
Shall worldly honours joy impart?
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Or wealth redeem one parting breath?
Therefore, my soul, thy thoughts employ,
On God, thy Glory, wealth and joy:
Virtue alone is stable here,
Nought but religion is sincere.
On God, thy Glory, wealth and joy:
Virtue alone is stable here,
Nought but religion is sincere.
| The miscellaneous essays and occasional writings of Francis Hopkinson, Esq | |