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lovely wreath. Whenever our ſouls are poured out, with paſſionate importunity, after any inferior acquiſition; it may be truly ſaid, in the words of our divine Mafter. Ye know not what ye aſk—Does Providence with hold the thing that we long for? It denies in mercy; and only with holds the occaſion of our miſery, if not the inſtrument of our ruin. With a ſickly appetite, we often loath what is wholeſome, and hanker after our bane. Where imagination dreams of unmingled ſweets, there experience frequently finds the bitterneſs of wo.
Here a ſmall and plain ſtone is placed upon the ground; purchaſed, one would imagine, from the little fund, and formed by the hand of frugality itſelf.
I perceive, upon a cloſer inſpection, that it covers the remains of a father; A religious father: ſnatched from his growing offspring, before they were ſettled in the world, or ſo much as their principles fixed by a thorough education.
This, ſure, is the moſt complicated diſtreſs, that has hitherto come under our conſideration. The ſolemnities of ſuch a dying chamber are ſome of the moſt melting and melancholy ſcenes imaginable.—There lies the affectionate huſband; the indulgent parent; the faithful friend; and the generous maſter. Here lies, in the laſt extremities, and on the very point of diſſolution. Art
