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 carried captive our judgements? The great maſter of language, and of ſong, is become ſilent as the night that ſurrounds him.—The pampered fleſh, ſo lately clothed in purple and fine linen, how is it covered rudely with clods of clay! There was a time when the timorouſly nice creature would ſcarce "adventure to ſet a foot upon the ground, for delicateneſs and tenderneſs, but is now enwrapped in clammy earth, and ſleeps on no ſofter a pillow than the rugged gravelſtones.—Here "the ſtrong men bow themſelves;" the nervous arm is unſtrung; the brawny ſinews are relaxed; the limbs not long ago the ſeats of vigour and activity, lie down motionleſs, and the bones, which were as bars of iron, are crumbled into duſt.

Here the man of buſineſs forgets all his favourite ſchemes, and diſcontinues the purſuit of gain. Here is a total ſtand to the circulation of merchandize, and the hurry of trade. In theſe ſolitary receſſes, as in the building of Solomon's temple, is heard no ſound of the hammer and axe. The winding-ſheet, and the coffin, are the utmoſt bound of all earthly devices; "Hitherto may they go, but no further."—Here the ſons of pleaſure take a final farewel of their dear delights. No more is the ſenſualiſt anointed with oil, or crowned with roſebuds; he chants no more to the melody of