Say, from the low delights of time
Thy best affections have they won?
Inciting thee with zeal sublime
Earth's fleeting pilgrimage to run?
If not, how vain the band to join
Who toward the house of God repair,
To pour the song of praise divine
Or kneel in pharasaic prayer;
And ah! how vain when Death's cold hand
Shall sternly reap time's ripen'd field,
How worse than vain when all must stand
The last, the dread account to yield.
ON READING THE "REMAINS" OF REV. EDMUND D. GRIFFIN.
Son of Wyoming's classic vale,
By early Genius strongly mov'd,
Whom lofty science bow'd to hail,
And virtue from the cradle lov'd,
Thou of high soul, and radiant brow
Of manly beauty, where art thou?
Not near a mother's cherish'd side,
Not by a sister's love carest,
Nor listening to the parent-guide,
Nor in fraternal converse blest,
Still doth thy home the vestments wear
Of Eden,—but thou art not there.
