289 



Pray, mortals, pray, in sickness or in pain, 



Not long nor blest to live, but pure from stain. 



A life of pleasure, and a life of woe, 



When both are past, the difference who can show ? 



But all can tell, how wide apart in price 



A life of virtue, and a life of vice. 



Then still, sad Irza, tread your thorny way, 

 Since life must end, and merits ne'er decay. 

 Wounded past hope, still prize the pleasure pure, 

 To heal those hearts which yet can hope a cure ; 

 Nor doubt, the soul which joys in noble deeds 

 Shall reap a rich reward when most it needs. 

 When comes that day to conscious guilt so dread, 

 Angels unseen shall bathe your burning head : 

 The prayers of orphans fan with balmy breath, 

 And widow's blessings drown the threats of death ; 

 Each sigh your pity hush'd shall swelling rise 

 In loud hosannas when you mount the skies ; 

 And every tear on earth to sorrow given, 

 Be precious pearls to wreathe your brows in heaven ! 



April 17. 



" Piansi i riposi di quest' umil vita, 

 E sospirai la mia perduta pace ! " 



1 regret the loss of our dead calm and our crawl- 

 ing pace of a knot and a half an hour ; for during 

 the last four days we have had nothing but gales 

 and squalls, mountainous waves, the vessel rolling 

 and pitching incessantly, and the sea perpetually 

 pouring in at the windows and down through the 

 hatchway. Into the bargain, we are now suffici- 

 ently towards the north to find the weather perish- 

 ingly cold, and we have neither wood nor coals 

 enough on board to allow a fire for the cabin. 



tJ 



