When retrospection casts a guilty eye On crimes of youth and days of lawless sport, Blessings abus’d, and time profusely squander’d; Th’ Almighty’s image in the human breast Polluted, and false deities ador’d; What solid satisfaction can the joys, The glittering trifles of this life afford? --Not regal splendour, nor enormous heaps Of shining ore, nor reputation earn’d By smooth hypocrisy, nor pleasures strain’d By art’s device, to satiate the sense Beyond the bounds of reason, can afford Aught of serenity or peace of mind. In vain invention furnishes new schemes To drown reflection: these abortive prove, And leave unadvocated and abash’d, At the dread bar of Conscience, him who late Defy’d her power and spurned her admonitions. --Now prostrate falls the culprit in the dust, While thund’ring through his soul the awful voice Shatters his stubborn will, and breaks the bands Which tie his darling vices to his heart. Nor is this call the signal of destruction-- ’Tis but the voice of love omnipotent, Once speaking in a still small voice, but now Rising with power t’ accuse and to deride; Which once intreated, now commands attention, And wretched, doubly wretched is the man Who still endeavours to evade its influence. VIATOR. NEW-YORK _Sept. 15, 1796_. * * * * * THE SHIELD OF SORROW. _By W. P. Carey._ When Heav’n dissolves the sacred tie Which binds two faithful souls in one, Where shall the sad survivor fly, The arrows of despair to shun? Oh! can the musing hours of grief A pause from keen remembrance know? Or rooted sorrow find relief From empty forms of outward woe? Can fortune’s smile his peace recall? Or can the sprightly song and dance, Where pleasure’s festive train in all The mazy rounds of joy advance? Ah no!--this world no cure bestows; In vain is ev’ry human art; From pure religion only flows A balm to heal the wounded heart. * * * * * _On a Lady putting a White Rocket in her Bosom._ When the sweet scented Rocket so fair, To her breast, dear Sophia applied, Overcome with soft whiteness there; It drooped, lost its beauty and died. NEW-YORK: _+Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane._ * * * * * * * * * * * * * * _UTILE DULCI._ THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository. +Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, September 28, 1796.+ [+No. 65.+ _THE LADIES’ MONITOR._ Addressed to Every Fair Reader, Whether Single or Married.