While his great works in Amory's pages shine,
And while he proves his essence all divine,
The Atheist sure no more can boast aloud
Of chance, or nature, and exclude the God;
As if the clay, without the potter's aid,
Should rise in various forms and shapes self-made,
Or worlds above, with orb o'er orb profound,
Self-moved, could run the everlasting round.
It cannot be—unerring Wisdom guides
With eye propitious, and o'er all presides.
Still prosper, Amory! still may'st thou receive
The warmest blessings which a Muse can give,
And when this transitory state is o'er,
When kingdoms fall, and fleeting Fame's no more,
May Amory triumph in immortal fame,
A nobler title and superior name!
ON THE DEATH OF J. C.—AN INFANT.
No more the flow'ry scenes of pleasure rise,
Nor charming prospects greet the mental eyes,
Smiling, disportive, flushed with every grace.
The tear of sorrow flows from every eye,
Groans answer groans, and sighs to sighs reply;
What sudden pangs shot through each aching heart,
When Death, thy messenger, despatched his dart!
