The downward road, how fearful steep,
The upward cliff, how hard to climb,
He only knows, whose records keep
The nameless countless grades of crime.
Scorn not the sinner, thou whose heart
In purpose pure is garner'd strong;
Claims penitence with thee no part?
Doth pride to mortal man belong?
By all thy follies unforgiven,
Wert thou at death's dread hour accus'd
Even thou might at the gate of heaven,
In terror knock, and be refus'd.
BURIAL OF ASHMUN, AT NEW-HAVEN, AUG. 1828.
Whence is yon sable bier?
Why move the throng so slow?
Why doth that lonely mother's tear
In bursting anguish flow?
Why is the sleeper laid
To rest in manhood s pride?
How gain'd his cheek such pallid shade?
I ask'd, but none replied.
Then spake the hoarse wave low,
The vexing billow sigh'd,
And blended sounds of bitter woe
Came o'er the echoing tide,
