Kitabı oku: «Watt's Songs Against Faults», sayfa 4

 
Nor do I know how soon 'twill come:
A thousand children, young as I,
Are call'd by death to hear their doom.
 
 
Let me improve the hours I have,
Before the day of grace is fled:
There's no repentance in the grave,
No pardon offer'd to the dead.
 
 
Just as a tree cut down, that fell
To north or southward, there it lies,
So man departs to heaven or hell,
Fix'd in the state wherein he dies.
 

SUMMER'S EVENING

 
How fine has the day been! how bright was the sun!
How lovely and joyful the course that he run;
Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun,
And there follow'd some droppings of rain:
But now the fair traveler's come to the west,
His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best;
He paints the skies gay as he sinks to his rest,
And foretells a bright rising again.
 
 
Just such is the Christian. His course he begins
Like the sun in a mist, while he mourns for his sins,
And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines,
And travels his heavenly way:
But when he comes nearer to finish his race