Chapter III: Part 3

May I amidst a world of toil and care,
Still bear in mind my Shepherd's care for me,
Weep o'er my sin, each day for death prepare,
Sigh o'er thy name-stamp'd tool, and think on thee!

"WHO HATH BELIEVED OUR REPORT?"

Isaiah liii. 1.

"Who hath believed our report?"
The agonizing prophet cried;
Where do the wandering tribes resort,
For whom the King of Glory died?

His goodness doth before them pass,
The fairest of ten thousand He,
Yet sin bewilders, and alas,
In Him they can no beauty see.

His Kingly presence they deny,
While round their altars they resort,
Well might the grieved prophet cry,
"Who hath believed our report?"

"Away with such a one," they cry,
"Let timbrels sound, and damsels sing,
This strange impostor crucify,
For none but Cæsar is our King!"

Slain in the streets the martyrs lie,
Who strove His kingdom to support,
Well might the trembling prophet cry,
"Who hath believed our report?"

His ministers to make Him known,
Their time, and strength, and souls devote,
Yet oft in sorrow cry alone,
"Who hath believed our report?"

All we like sheep have gone astray,
From Him we have our faces hid,
We each have turn'd to his own way,
And done the things that were forbid.

His faithful servants all day long,
Do to repentance us exhort,
Yet nightly raise the mournful song,
"Who hath believed our report?"

It was for us He was accused,
Sank under sorrows not His own,
Was buffeted, chastis'd, and bruis'd,
To raise us rebels to a throne.

The nails, the hammer, and the spear,
And reed, with which His head was smote,
All cry in the deaf sinner's ear,
"Who hath believed our report?"

Yes! both the pulpit and the press,
The thunder of His power proclaim,
Commend His blood and righteousness,
And offer mercy in His name.

Yet some are always standing by,
Of holy things to make a sport,
And weeping preachers yet may cry,
"Who hath believed our report?"

Some have believed this report,--
To them He hath "His arm reveal'd;"
To Him their lives they now devote,
For "by His stripes their souls are heal'd!"

And on the last important day,
When all shall be to judgment brought,
Thrice happy those who then can say,
We have believed this report.

But woe to all ungodly men,
Who wonder how these things can be;
They'll wonder more, and perish then,--
Too late they will their folly see.

For them, alas, no joys remain,
The Lord of life will cut them short;
And they shall weep and wish in vain,
They had believed our report!

THE BEES

The Sun throws his ray on the lake,
The vessels are scudding along;
Before half the city's awake,
The air is all action and song!

The Bees haste away to the moors,
And eager their task to complete,
Extract from the bells of the flowers,
Their delicate essences sweet.

All cheerful they hurry along,
Their storehouse of food to increase,
Till Death puts an end to their song,
The citizen's table to grace.

Though few can their weapons withstand,
Or few can their forces defeat,
Yet Death with a torch at command,
Soon makes the wing'd armies retreat.

At once their anxiety droops,
In the grave they lie silent and still,
While strangers are draining the cup,
They made such exertions to fill.

O may I be bold as the Bee,
In work of a similar cast,
So faithful, industrious, and free,
And labour, and sing to the last!

CAUTION FROM LIMBER HILL.

(_Occasioned by a fall during a frost._)

'Twas a bit gone December,
As I well remember,
I met with a rubber, and got some advice;
What harbour to rest in,
What Friend to put trust in,
And how we may walk with slape shoes upon ice!

In coming down Limber,
Among the young timber,
My foot slipt, and falling, it was a take in,
The night being darkish,
And we a bit larkish,
Instead of a broom bush, I grasped a whin!

When my fingers were bleeding,
And pain was succeeding,
It set me a thinking,--of that you'll not doubt;
And but for the blunder,
Which lessen'd the wonder,
I else had been punish'd enough to sing out!

My views being muddy,
I quickly did study,
What things upon earth to compare with this whin;
After walking around 'em,
I very soon found 'em
To be a false friend, or the pleasures of sin!

A true Friend is precious,
His favour's delicious,
He'll give you a lift, when he sees you break down;
In conflicts distressing,
You'll find him a blessing,
He'll mark your oppressions, and call them his own!

But a false Friend will vary,
And vow quite contrary,
His heart to your grief will be hard as a stone;
In sorrow or sickness,
He'll pity your weakness,
But only plant under your pillow a thorn!

While your money is chinking,
He'll answer you winking,
He'll "_Master_," and "_Sir_" you, and come at your call;
But give him a pincher,
You'll find him a flincher,
Instead of a lift, he will fling you a fall!

So sin is deceiving,
Bewitching, bereaving;
'Twill pierce through the heart, and invite you to sing;
'Twill put on fair faces,
To woo your embraces,
But after you've grasp'd it, there follows a sting!

THE VILLAGE CHURCH IN RUINS!

(_A decayed Church, a faithful Minister, a Gospel Sermon, a
cold wind, a rainy day, and ten hearers!_)

Alas, for our mother, whom age hath o'ertaken,
Her champions are sleeping beneath the cold sod;
She seems both by lover and friend quite forsaken,
Her total dependance is now on her God!

By tribute to Cæsar her battlements crumble,
Her grey headed Elders may weep in despair;
Her once lovely fabric's now ready to tumble,
While no one arises her breach to repair!

Alas, for the spot where our ancestors bended,
In humble devotion, and brotherly love,
Where early petitions like incense ascended,
And blessings in answer came down from above.

Alas, for that spot where our tribes did assemble,
In youthful succession, both healthy and gay,
Which then did the Temple of Zion resemble,--
But briers and thorns have now choked up the way.

The voice of her Elders in prayer seems to falter,
And her bells ring dolefully over her dead,
Her priest may lament from the porch to the altar,
Her pews are deserted, her virgins are fled.

Among her old timber, the hollow winds whistle,
And carve out a track for the frost or the snow;
Her walls, while they preach her departing epistle,
Are cover'd with gloom, both above and below.

Dim through her old windows the daylight is peeping,
The damp floor hath driven the hearers away;
A drop through the roof seems as if it were weeping,
To think how her beauty is gone to decay.

Of her milk and her honey she still might have boasted,
And offer'd to all in abundance, and free,
But her funds by the drones are now nearly exhausted,
In craftily clipping the wings of the Bee.

Still thanks be to God, the Gospel is publish'd,
With precept on precept, and line upon line;
Still Ten there are found, who come to be furnish'd,
With heav'nly instruction, in lectures divine.

The Minister boldly the tidings reported,
And wisely distinguish'd the bad from the good;
Of the present or absent who die unconverted,
That worm eaten pulpit is clear of their blood!

POETICAL REFLECTIONS.

(_Composed during a visit from the West._)

Once more, my muse, resume thy wonted seat,
And ask permission of the wise and great,
To admit, as tribute due, thy warbling song,
In thy own land, and in thy mother tongue.

Once more the happy region I behold,
Where I have oft experienc'd joys untold;
Where cattle graze, and crystal fountains flow,
And rivers glide, and healthy breezes blow.

Here my enraptur'd fancy playful roves,
And walks 'mong flowery banks, or shady groves,
Or nimbly climbs the rugged mountain's height,
And views yon plains with ever new delight.

Sometimes in fertile orchards I attend,
Where mellow fruits the loaded branches bend;
Sometimes I see old Esk in fury roll,
Or fish, or walk, or swim the silent pool.

Here did I spend the morning of my days,
And learn'd by grace, to walk in wisdom's ways,
Its scenes can court my soul's affections yet,
Their charms are such they cannot be forgot.

O yes, the cottage once again I see,
Which oft has prov'd a safe retreat for me,
From wintry tempest, or my neighbour's frown,
From piercing frost, or scorching sun at noon:

Its walls my castle, and its roof a guard,
As from the cloud the forked lightning glared.
Here did I notice first with wond'ring eye,
The rainbow's beauty, and the bright blue sky;--

The morning sun, or the pale evening star,
The moon's eclipse, or comet's sign of war!
Here oft our little tribe have muster'd up,
And from each eye have wiped the crystal drop;--

Each other cheer'd when dark misfortune frown'd,
As we our little fire have circled round!
What each had read, or heard in times before,
Each eager open'd out his little store;--

Of fairy stories, stormy seas, or sands,
Rocks, woods, or caves, or dens in foreign lands,
Enchanted castles, weapons, sceptres, crowns,
Of friars, giants, hermits, smiles and frowns!

Thus oft our lonely evenings pass'd away,
Till glad we welcom'd in the morning ray;--
Ours might have been the cottage of content,
But we an absent Father did lament.

Now wide dispers'd whom nature so endear'd,
No evening song, no conversation's heard!
The garden walls we did so often climb,
Are desolated by the hand of time!

Oft on yon sunny bank our feet have been,
Or skimm'd the frozen pond upon the green;
Where I may wander now, and sigh alone,
O'er pleasures past, and never to return!

O Land belov'd! Thou still art dear to me!
I still behold a comeliness in thee,
Which to express I cannot language find,
Nor vent the deep emotions of my mind!

Though transient joys have ta'en their lasting flight,
In thee I see a permanent delight,--
A secret sympathy I can't express,
Which seems to feed the flame of happiness!

But what is best of all, religion thrives,
The desert sings, the work of God revives!
Cold, frozen hearts have felt the melting flame
Of Jesu's love, and spread abroad the same!

Sing on, ye tribes, sweet peace ye may secure,
Your wants supplied from field and fountain pure;
Live, and enjoy your privilege great,
Nor ever more forget the mercy seat!

No midnight revels here your door molest,
Nor wild confusion robs you of your rest;
Here you in silence may your eyelids close,--
On downy pillows find a sweet repose!

Here broad back'd mountains raise their heads immense,
And rocky bulwarks rise for your defence,
Whose silent caves present sublimer charms,
Than the shrill trumpet, or than war's alarms.

O happy man, who safe from winter's frown,
Lies anchor'd in a harbour of his own;
He whose chief treasure is a humble mind,
By truth enlighten'd and by grace refined!

Who suffers not his flock to go astray,
But early learns his tribes to sing and pray;
Though he but little knows of men and things,
Yet having this he needs not envy Kings!

Bend, O ye kings! and at God's altar bow,--
Your God hath left a brighter throne for you;
And costlier robes than yours He laid aside,
And in your stead, He suffer'd, bled, and died!

Be not deceiv'd, ye all must stoop as low
As a poor beggar, Jesu's love to know:
The beggar, or the king, that throne to gain,
Must know what's meant by being "born again!"

The number of the faithful, Lord, increase,
And fill their habitations with thy peace;
That all may know, e'en husband, child, and wife,
The benefits of a religious life.

O still ride on, thou mighty matchless King,
Till all thy favour feel, and praises sing;--
Thy favour, which alone true joy imparts,
Is thy law written on thy people's hearts.

By thine omnipotence o'ercome thy foes,
And make them dread thy name, and own thy laws;
O let not sin for ever them deceive,
But spare them breath to pray, repent, and live!

O may my scatter'd tribe thy voice attend,
And with thy ransom'd few their voices blend:
I long to see them with their names enroll'd
Among thy people, in thine earthly fold.

O God, 'tis thine, I leave the cause with Thee,
To give them ears to hear, and eyes to see,
And hearts to feel;--apply the sprinkled blood,
And purify, and make them sons of God!

The ties of Friendship cling around my heart,
While I from much lov'd scenes am forced to part,
And leave the beauties of my native home,
With weary step, far o'er yon hills to roam.

O may I gain a seat on Zion's hill,
Where I no more shall bid my friends farewell;
Nor mix with parting tears the morning dew,
Nor drop my pen, nor sigh my last adieu!

THE TWO HOURS' TASK!

(_A congratulatory Address to the Lambs, on their appearance in
Spring._)

Welcome, little peaceful strangers,
To your fields and pastures green,
Fearless of surrounding dangers,
Since no dangers you have seen.

While the sun is on you beaming,
That you may new strength receive,
Sweet new milk is for you streaming,
That you may partake and live.

Spring, with all her charms, invites you,
Now to taste the tender blade;
Birds are singing to delight you,
Whether in the sun or shade.

Nature has with gladness crown'd you,
Woodlands echo at your birth,
Spreads a flowery carpet round you,
Bids you walk in freedom forth.

But beware of your destroyer,
Crafty Reynard stalks the plains,
To your shepherd cleave then closer,
Or he'll drain your little veins.

In your merry evening gambols,
Of surrounding foes beware,
Also in your distant rambles,
See you wander not too far.

Fell destruction round you hovers,
Therefore caution don't despise,
Croaking ravens wait in numbers,
To pick out your little eyes.

Go not forth without your shepherd,
Be not lifted up with pride,
For if peaceful you would slumber,
You must never leave his side.

Till your strength is perfected,
Keep within your master's ground,
You shall never be neglected,
If you thus are faithful found.

See yon lamb that now is bleating,
Him misfortune calls its own;
And mark'd out an early victim,
From the flock he strays alone.

See the little lonely mourner,
Like a bull-rush hangs his head,
Seeks a solitary corner,
And refuses to be fed.

Life to him appears a burden,
This his wailings testify,
Earth no pleasures can afford him,
He will shortly droop and die.

Ere he drink the crystal fountain,
Ere he dance the flowery plain,
Ere he bleat on yonder mountain,
He returns to earth again.

Emblem of that happy infant
Which was born the other day,
But before it knew bereavement,
From the earth was call'd away.

Call'd to more delightful regions,
Ere he learn'd his mother tongue,
There to speak a purer language,
There to sing a sweeter song.

On his Lord to wait attendant,
And to sing redeeming love,
Seated on a throne resplendent,
In a brighter world above.

Cheerful lambs around us caper,
Woodland songsters hail the morn;
But frail man is doom'd to labour,
Weep, and sweat, and sigh, and mourn.

Yet there is a higher station,
Man is born for nobler joys,
If he seeks and finds salvation,
He shall sing above the skies.

Though he be a fallen creature,
Subject here to droop and die,
The "Lamb of God" can change his nature,
And take all his sins away!

THE COUNTRY BLUNDER!

Some lines which I have lately penn'd
May prove a caution to a friend;
Indeed as such they are intended,
And to my friends are recommended.

But some, though caution'd night and morn,
Will not take heed, howe'er we warn,
But still to make their neighbours fun,
Will obstinately blunder on.

A servant man in Glazedale glen,
Did lately shoot a fine pea-hen:
Taking her for a pheasant good,
Lately stray'd from the neighb'ring wood.

But had he studied well the season,
He might have found sufficient reason,
To have convinc'd him, there and then,
'Twas neither pheasant, cock nor hen!

For is it common thus to see,
Where there is neither bush nor tree,
A pheasant pick, in open day?--
Much more upon the King's highway?

To view her well he did not fail,
Her rosy comb, and fine long tail,
And call'd her without more ado,
A pheasant,--and a fine one too!

But beast, or bird, it makes no matter,
He takes his gun and jingles at her;
And ere that bird his mercy begs,
She tumbles down, with broken legs!

He then did speedily run out,
And twin'd her slender neck about,
With pleasure sparkling in his eyes,
Thinking he'd got a famous prize!

But one whose senses were awake,
Did soon point out his sad mistake;
His countenance did alter, when
He found it was a fine _pea-hen_!

He thought his neighbours then would scoff,
And poets soon would take him off;
Too late he wish'd and strove in vain,
To bring his hen to life again!

Ye poachers all, both young and old,
If you don't think my pen too bold;--
Or may I say, kind gentlemen,--
Take warning by this same pea-hen!

Mind well what creatures you abuse;
They all were given by God for use:--
Lest you should make your neighbours fun,
Look well before you point your gun!

Or you by chance may shoot a horse;--
The other's bad,--this would be worse:
Yet such a thing was lately done,
And by a badly managed gun!

The thorns or thistles, stones or whins,
May prick your legs, or break your shins;
Yet those who'd buy instruction cheap,
Should always "look before they leap!"

If still my counsel you disdain,
I may hereafter write again;
And should you not mind what you do,
I may inform of some of you!

A SINNER SAVED BY GRACE.

Come, fellow sinner, lend an ear,
And listen while I now declare
What God hath done for me;
His word hath broke my stony heart,
My soul hath felt the piercing smart,
Of guilt and misery!

Long time I went about distress'd,
Nor day nor night could I find rest,
Till I his voice did hear,
Till I beheld Him on the Cross;--
My soul did then her burden lose,
And all its slavish fear!

To Him who doth my foes controul,
I look'd and He hath heal'd my soul,
And all my sins forgiven:
Hence may I turn my feeble sight
To yonder realms of peace and light,
And live and die for Heaven!

Oh hasten, sinners, to be wise;
While Jesu's mercy loudly cries,
Do you salvation take;--
But if you're stubborn to the last,
Then be assur'd you will be cast,
Into the burning lake!

Say you, "Where shall we find the Lord,
According to his Holy Word,
To heal our wounded mind?
While some say here, and others there,
We long to see the temple where
We may salvation find!"

Wherever two or three are met,
Whose faces Zion ward are set,
He's promis'd there to be;
O seek the Lord without delay,
And cry for mercy night and day,
Till you're from sin set free!

When you by grace are born again,
Then publish to the sons of men,
That you this path have trod;
That others may for mercy cry,
And saints may lift their voices high,
And glorify their God!

THE PORTION OF THE JUST.

How blessed a thing Hallelujah to sing,
When time shall with us be no more:--
At the Judge's right hand all the faithful shall stand,
His goodness to see and adore!

In that heavenly place in the light of his face,
They in mansions of glory shall dwell;
No more the big tear on their face shall appear,
For to sorrow they've bid a Farewell!

Above and below rich clusters do grow,
Of the grapes of that Canaan so pure;
His welcome so sweet makes the banquet complete,
And they sing of His mercy secure!

Death vanquish'd, they sing, and spoil'd of his sting,
Of Hell conquer'd by Christ from above;
On the plains of delight with thousands in white,
They shall walk and converse of His love!

But the wicked, alas, when their sentence shall pass,
Shall at once into darkness be driven,
Fierce pains to endure with spirits impure,
Who were hurl'd from their places in heaven!

Oh, if thou dost crave above all things to have
A seat with thy Saviour divine,
No longer delay, nor rest night nor day,
Till a scriptural title is thine!

THE HAPPY CHOICE!

Jesus! thy name to me hath charms,
Outvieing all beneath the sun;
Thy secret love my bosom warms,
And in my soul 'tis heav'n begun!

No peace like that thy presence brings,
No joys like those thou dost impart;
Anon, with healing in thy wings,
Thou com'st to heal the broken heart!

Thy footsteps may I always see,
Under thy shadow may I dwell!
I give my life, my all to thee,
And triumph o'er the powers of Hell!

Thou dost my soul with rapture fill,
No more for mammon I contend;
I glory in the joys I feel,
While thou dost comfort and defend!

O let thy name be always sweet
As honey, from the rock, that flows;
So shall I gladly turn my feet,
Where'er my blessed Master goes!

ON THE DEATH OF JOHN MORLEY.

"Heard you that groan? 'Twas from a dying man!
A man just gone into Eternity!"
"Redeem thy time! Thy life is but a span!"
That language,--Hark! It speaks to you and me!

A man of health, and strength, and spirits gay,
The solemn call seem'd distant to his view;
But, lo, how soon the victim's snatch'd away
By Death's rude hand, and bids the world adieu!

Fearless of danger, he, twelve days before,
Went to the field to share the common lot,
With the sharp scythe to cut the grass or flower,
But, ah, the secret lesson he forgot!

"_All flesh_ is grass, or like the flowery field,
So soon 'tis faded, wither'd, or cut down;
To time's embrace its charms are forc'd to yield,
The winds pass over it, and it is gone!"

When heated by the sun's meridian ray,
And parch'd with thirst, to drink he felt inclin'd,
Dropping his scythe, poor Morley took his way,
In hopes some cool, refreshing stream to find!

To yonder river to receive his death,
With sweat, like dewdrops, hanging on his brow,
He hastes--nor thinks he must resign his breath,
And to the lonely church-yard shortly go!

Thus bathed in sweat the river's bank he gains,
And drinks, and washes in the crystal flood;
When lo! an icy coldness chills his veins,
Affects his senses, and inflames his blood!

He medical assistance quickly sought,
Excessive pain depriv'd his eyes of sleep;
Physicians soon their powerful medicines brought,
But ah! the fatal dart had pierc'd too deep!

The fever rages, not a limb is free,
It mocks the power of remedies applied;
Friends weep, and wish for his recovery;--
Alas! their warmest wishes are denied.

His fate seems hard, but yet Heav'n sees it fit,
And Heaven's will is best, we must agree;--
Sooner or later we must all submit
To Death's loud call,--to nature's stern decree!

The surgeon blushes while his patient bleeds,
All hope soon vanishes of life below;
With hasty step the monster Death proceeds,
Lifts his fell dart, and strikes the fatal blow!

His wife distracted doth her loss deplore,
His children weep as though their hearts would break;
They shrieking cry, "Our father is no more!
O where shall we our lonely refuge seek?

Where shall we find so true, so kind a friend?
Where shall we find a sharer in our grief?
Where shall we find a Father to attend,--
To wipe our tears, or point us to relief?"

O haste! O haste! the house of prayer attend,
And plead your cause, bow'd at your Saviour's feet;
To Heaven daily let your prayers ascend,
And there a Friend, and Father you shall meet!

Poor Morley's dead! the startled village cries!
His wife, a widow, has in tears to grieve!
While he, outstretched, now pale and silent lies,
Nor tongue, nor eye, nor hand a motion give!

No more his whistle echo's through the grove,
Nor clashing gates pursue his loaded steed;
No more he through the fields doth rove,
To play the flute, or blow the rustic reed!

No more the rolling flood's at his controul,
Nor willing servant runs when he shall bid;
But mournfully I hear the death bell toll,
To hail him welcome to his lonely bed!

But Oh, the soul! That ever during spark,
Kindled in him by the Almighty's breath,
Still lives, though we her passage cannot mark!--
She lives, though she hath pass'd the vale of death!

Where has she fled? What is her portion now,
While I upon his death thus meditate?
'Tis mystery this we mortals must not know,--
And cries, "Prepare ye, for a future state!"

Her portion's that for which she was prepar'd;--
Though suddenly remov'd from earth below,
No more can she reject her just reward,
She shares eternal happiness, or woe!

To trace her flight might but insult her King,
Since He for guilty sinners once did bleed!--
The muse in silence drops her feeble wing,
Refusing any further to proceed!

THE SERVANT'S ADDRESS TO HIS MASTER;

_On deriding him for becoming a Methodist!_

Master, I beg you'll pardon, while I speak,
The liberty I now presume to take;
And trust the brief apology you'll hear,
Will please, if you will please to lend an ear.

"Wilt thou forsake the Church?" did you not say?
"And strive to get to Heaven some nearer way?
A better way perhaps by you believ'd:--
But 'twill be well if you are not deceiv'd?"

Deceiv'd, or not, we are resolv'd to go;
If Christ be with us, all is well we know!
He is our Leader, He marks out the way,
Inviting all to come, and none to stay!

The Church, or doctrine, we've no cause to blame,
'Tis to ourselves that we ascribe the shame!
The way to heav'n was certainly made plain,
When told to "run so that we might obtain."

Our prayers and praises were so faint and few,
We thought one day in seven would surely do,
To praise Him who is worthy of more praise,
Than our best powers are qualified to raise!

Oft when we did approach the throne of grace,
Our hearts and thoughts were in some other place.
O shameful truth! And yet it is most true!
But conscience told us this would never do!

The nearest way to Heaven that we can go,
Is cleaving close to Christ while here below;
'Tis He that can our sinking footsteps stay,
And vain the man who seeks another way!

The man who truly has this race begun,
Will see no time to stand, but strive to run;
The night is coming, and will soon be here,
He'll therefore oft betake himself to prayer:

Lest strength should fail, or he should grow luke-warm,
And his weak soul, the enemy disarm!
That Book declares, whose Author is "The Truth,"
The careless soul, "He'll spew out of his mouth!"

Hence, doth he see he must be cold or hot;
Must either have the Spirit of Christ, or not:--
If on examination he lacks this,
God's Book declares that "he is none of His!"

If not a child of God, a child of hell,
And dying thus, he must with devils dwell;--
And when his earthly hopes have taken flight,
Be then shut up in everlasting night!

A sinner when he sees himself aright,
Sees that his brightest day is turned to night;
The things that once were his delight and joy,
Do all his fondest hopes at once destroy!

God's Book like Sinai's mount to him appears,
Its sentences like thunder stun his ears!
He strives to soothe himself, but strives in vain,
Till God, to him the secret doth explain.

He sees and feels the awful load of sin,
Nor can aught ease the grief that he is in,
Until he hears God's cheering, still small voice,
Which calms his fears, and bids his soul rejoice!

A man must know his sins on earth forgiven,
Or he'll not read his title clear for Heaven;
If this you think too strong to be believ'd,
I'm sure, in death, that you will be deceiv'd!

I am resolv'd a pilgrim now to be,
Let worldly men say what they will of me;
And through the grace of God, though Hell resist,
I'll live and die a faithful Methodist!

I see the pilgrim's life is far the best,
Scorn'd by the world, but yet by Jesus blest!
When death shall come, the Heav'nly land in view,
In peace, I'll bid this world of sin Adieu!

SABBATH MORNING MUSINGS.

"_I was glad when they said unto me, Let us go into the house
of the Lord._" Psalm. cxxii. 1.

How do I love thy courts, O Lord!
What glories they unfold:
The joys they do to me afford,
More precious are than gold!

The very gates through which I pass,
Are beautiful to me!
What numbers here beneath the grass,
In silent slumber lie!

While I approach this solemn ground,
My thoughts I will controul;--
The tolling bell, with mournful sound,
Affects my inmost soul!

While musing o'er the silent dead,
What wonders do I see!
The very dust on which I tread,
Once liv'd, and mov'd like me!

Here things mysterious I perceive,
Things which I can't explain;--
Wak'd by that voice which Heav'n shall give,
This dust shall "rise again!"

Then some to everlasting life,
Exultingly shall rise;
While some to everlasting death,
Shall go with weeping eyes!

Such as we sow, that shall we reap;
The sowing time is now:--
O may I watch, and faithful, keep
My station at the plough!

O what's this world with all its joys,
But a delusive dream;
The dead, as speaking witnesses,
All testify the same.

They preach in lectures loud and plain,
Though silent, cold, and deep;
They tell me, if the earth remain,
I soon like them shall sleep!

They cry to all, "Repent, believe,
And you shall pardon'd be;
Unless that blessing you receive,
You're lost eternally!"

The dial faithful to its task,
The sun in yonder sky,
Both show to us without a mask,
How swift the moments fly!

"Redeem thy time!" they seem to say,
"Thy life is but a span;
For what are three score years and ten?
And that's the age of man!"

Here on a level all are laid,
Here none the conquest have!
The robes that once the rich array'd,
Are tarnish'd by the grave!

The cheek which blossom'd like the rose,
Has lost its lovely charms;
That beauteous form the lover chose,
Is clasp'd in Death's cold arms.

All earthly hopes, and earthly joys,
And prospects must decay;--
But they who serve their God aright,
Shall live in endless day!

How wondrously the scene is chang'd!
How lovely they appear!
I view them in their state arrang'd,
With more delight than fear!

Ah! once the scene was not so fair,
I scarce could read a stone!
But grace can conquer slavish fear,--
With joy I look thereon!

The opening grave oft spoil'd the hinge,
On which my fancy play'd;
The skulls and bones would make me cringe,
While I their forms survey'd.

Chill horror used to haunt my breast,
While sin therein remain'd;--
But Jesu's name be ever blest,
I have his favour gain'd!

'Tis faith perfumes destruction's breath,
Our Jesu's strong to save;
'Tis faith removes the sting of death,
The terrors of the grave!

How oft have I in giddy maze,
This sacred passage trod!
Not thinking 'twas so pure a place,
Much less the house of God!

His mercy doth preserve me still,
He doth not always chide;
But waits that all His love may feel,
Since he for all hath died.

Behind some lofty pillar here,
In silence let me steal;
And tread His courts with humble fear,
And low before him kneel.

With fearful, trembling, broken heart,
To him I lift mine eyes;
And wait till He his love impart,
And conscience bid me rise!

Then will I praise Thee, O my God,
When in my heart it glows!
And gladly wait to hear thy Word,
And catch it as it flows!

Then may I keep thy sabbaths pure,
And still thy house attend;
Until that sabbath shall commence,
Which never hath an end!

LINES ON LEAVING FRYUP, IN SEARCH OF WORK.

I'm sorry, Fryup! thee to leave,
But thou deniest what I crave,
Though I have ask'd with tears!
Oft have I drunk at thy pure rills,
And labour'd 'mongst thy moorland hills,
For many toilsome years!

'Twas oft to me a painful task,
Thine aid in time of need to ask,
So often sought before;
And many times my small demand,
Was torn, as with a trembling hand,
Reluctant from thy store!

Oft have I rang'd thy verdant woods,
Where roses bursting from their buds,
Have struck my wondering eye!
And oft have I thy woodbines cropt:--
While from my hand the sweet flowers dropt,
I've thought,--I too must die!

Here, with each morning's early dawn,
I lov'd to walk the flowery lawn,
To hear thy warblers sing!
Or when at eve their songs were mute,
I've sooth'd my fancy with my flute,
And made thy woodlands ring!

I've seen thy mountains clad with snow,
While shelter'd in the vale below,
'Midst hospitable friends!
For all their kindnesses to me,
May Heav'n bless every family,
And make them full amends!

But trade is now so dull and dead,
A man can hardly earn his bread,
In winter's frost and snow:
So I must take my staff in hand,
And travel to some distant land,
Till here more plenty grow!

I grieve to leave the Sunday School,
Where I with gratitude of soul,
Have taught with great delight,
The youthful, rising sons of men,
To steer safe past the gulf of sin,
By glorious gospel light.

With men of understanding heart,
I always joy'd to act my part,
Where I may teach no more:--
Where I, myself have oft been taught,
And blessings gain'd beyond my thought,
From Heaven's bounteous store!

As when the sailor points the keel,
For ancient Greenland's icy field,
So I my course must steer!
I need assistance at the helm,
Lest life's rough sea should overwhelm
My soul,--no harbour near!

For quicksands and contrary winds,
And enemies as well as friends,
I still expect to find:
There is a Friend who lives above,
To all who do His precepts love,
He proves both true and kind!

To Him I will address my prayer;
My little bark unto His care,
With confidence I'll trust!
A steady course, O may I steer,
And if to Him I prove sincere,
He'll land me safe at last!

THE SWALLOW!

(_On being deprived of her nest by some Sparrows._)

A Swallow one evening was sweeping along,
'Mongst such as against her were spiteful,
An impudent Sparrow requested a song,
Affirming her voice was delightful!
The innocent Swallow consented,
But afterwards sadly repented;
For the nest she had been at such pains to erect,
She was soon from enjoying prevented!

To the ridge of the barn they hurried along,
As fast as their feathers could speed them,
Where she tweedled and sung, in her African tongue,
Her favourite anthem on Freedom!
While she was this Sparrow amusing,
The rest were her labours abusing;--
They had taken possession both of garret and floor,
And were in her best chamber carousing!

When the Sparrow beheld by the flood in her eye,
How much this bad treatment did grieve her,
With contempt in his manner he bade her good by
Nor pitied, nor tried to relieve her!
Still her sweet little song did not alter,
Her delicate voice did not falter;
But she tweedled and sung what was next to be done,
As though she alone was the faulter!

Reproving the Sparrows she then seem'd to say,
"To you we are surely no strangers;
To pay you this visit, in crossing the sea,--
We encounter a great many dangers.
O Sparrows! why have you betray'd us?
'Tis cruelty thus to invade us!
We bring summer with us, take nothing away,
O Sparrows! why have you betray'd us?"

A CALL TO THE CARELESS!

Awake! O ye sleepers, awake!
Or soon you will smart 'neath the rod!
Be thankful you're not in the lake,
That burns with the anger of God!

Your life as a vapour will prove,
Your days as a shadow will flee;
Then seek to have treasure above,
And struggle from sin to be free!

O sinners! be honest and yield
To the Spirit of God when He strives;
Or you will be slain in the field,
When He with His army arrives!

This Jesus shall conquer the world!
The proud and the lofty subdue!
With terrible banners unfurl'd,
Shall sift both believers and you:--

The poor, not because he is poor,
Nor the rich for his riches regard;
But thoroughly purging His floor,
Appoint unto each his reward!

Believers! who wish to be whole;--
A fountain long open hath been,
To wash out the spots of the soul,--
O hasten to wash and be clean!

When sin shall experience its death,
Then you the grand secret shall know;
Shall Heaven enjoy upon Earth,
And be happy and useful below!

TO A HORSE, DYING ALONE!

Poor, hapless beast, thus left by all below,
Amongst the noblest of God's creatures, thou,
Once free from pain,
Didst trip the plain;
But Oh! how much thy case is alter'd now!

Thy groom and master seem to stand aloof!
Is it, because of thee they've had enough?
Is it respect,
Or sheer neglect,
That of their care thou hast no stronger proof?

Perhaps they do not like to hear or see
Thy last deep groan, thy dying agony!
The grass upspurn'd,
Thine eye upturn'd,
Bespeak its weight to heedless passers by!

That hoarse deep sigh, the sad effect of sin,
Proclaims the depth of agony within!
On man and beast,
Greatest and least,
Grim Death doth feed, and glad his victim win!

The blue shade gathers on thy glassy eye,
So sternly fix'd upon the evening sky;
Once full of light,
Through darkest night,
It proved its master's guide to home and family!

Thy lovely form, once beauteous to behold,
For which thy master parted with his gold;
And this thy dappled hide,
Though once its owner's pride,
Now for a thing of nought will soon be sold!

That ear through which the slightest sound inspir'd
Vigour, when pressing business oft requir'd;
Already cold as clay,
Doth now inactive lay,
Nor startles at that gun which now is fired!

Thy frolics and thy gambols now are past,
Thy last stage is run;--thou art dying fast:
Perhaps ere I,
At home shall be,
Thou unattended wilt have breath'd thy last!

The stall is vacant where thou lov'dst to be,
The curb and saddle now are nought to thee!
The whip and spur,
Thou car'st not for,
But leav'st to others as thy legacy!

While I string up my rhymes to make them chord,
And thus thy melancholy fate record,
Perhaps near thee,
In some old tree,
The lonely night bird sings thy funeral ode!

MORAL.

Some while their cup is full can laugh at Death,
And light esteem that power which lends them breath;
But be that far,
As yon pale star,
From him who now its progress witnesseth!

Did men but see how near is his approach,
They would with morning sun, or nightly torch,
Themselves prepare,
And search with care,
And strictly watch each avenue and porch!

Nor would they rest, at business or in bed,
Till every foe was found, and captive led;
Till all the soul,
From stains most foul,
Was wash'd, or till the contrite tear was shed!

A fountain from the mount of God doth flow,
For all who will take time and pains to go,
Whose healing stream,
Doth freely teem,
To wash polluted sinners white as snow!

A soul thus wash'd shall joyful rise again,
By Death unscar'd, and on angelic wing,
Shall mount above,
To Him whose love
And power deprive the monster of his sting!

MUSINGS DURING AFFLICTION;

OR

THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS.

"_He shall fly away as a dream._" (Job. xx. 8.)

While here I sit musing alone,
Not sharing the toils of the day,
My spirit doth inwardly groan,
At the symptoms I feel of decay.

My care burden'd mind can't be still,
Though the external fabric be maim'd;
Some part must be working the will
Of Him who that fabric hath framed.

The merchant looks over his books,
And hopes well to finish the day;
So life hath some corners and nooks,
It might not be wrong to survey.

If the morning of life we behold,
When all seems delightful and bright,
The rosebud doth scarcely unfold,
But 'tis gone as a dream of the night!

If to youth our attention we turn,
When all is enchanting and free;
When very few know how to mourn,
And all things seem pleasant and gay.

A something we sought in the fields,--
Alas! as oft sought it in vain!
The joys that such scenery yields,
Are such as we cannot retain.

We sought in the meadows and groves,
In the woods, by the rivers and streams;
But all our vain hopes and our loves,
Were like wood to the furnace's flames!

The old pathway still puts us in mind,
Though its stones are forsaken and green,
Of youthful affections, so kind,
Though now scarce a vestige is seen!

We long have been wandering abroad,
And have learn'd to sorrow and weep;
While some have been lost on the road,
And others have sunk in the deep!

In the fire-side circle we sought,
But found by the glimmering light,
That soon as the shadows we caught;
They fled like a dream of the night!

There were some whom we knew in the flesh,
Seem'd happy, and healthy, and strong;
But before they obtain'd their wish,
They, alas! in a moment were gone!

'Twas gloomy and dark at their end,
No light in their death did appear;
That happiness would them attend,
Was hoped--but hope turn'd to despair!

Alas! how neglectful they lived,
How sad an example they set,
How many fair youths were deceiv'd,
Who are not yet free from the net!

They surely had time to repent,
To weep, and to sorrow, and pray;
But time that should thus have been spent,
Was wantonly squander'd away.

They quick were cut off at a stroke,
Were hurried away from our sight;
The bonds of their friendship all broke,
They fled like a dream of the night.

Though long in the grave they have lain,
And long since have gone to decay,
Remembrance can raise them again,
As fresh as they were in life's day.

We remember the look of the face,
The language that glanc'd from the eye,
The cough, or the laugh, or some grace,
By which we their forms can descry.

How short our acquaintance appears,
Our pleasures, how swift was their flight!
Before we could number their years,
They fled as a dream of the night!

In manhood we sought it abroad,
And mix'd with the mirthful and gay,
When liberty lengthen'd the cord,
And tempted our feet far astray.

Then away to the races and fairs,
When seasons and friends did invite;
To the shows, to the stalls, and their wares,
And to music and dancing at night!

We sought it by land and by sea,--
Where'er we directed our eyes,
All said, "Pleasure is not in me!
My beauty is all a disguise!"

O Happiness! where dost thou dwell?
O where shall we search with success?
From the court to the cottage or cell,
All seem the abodes of distress!

Oft have we reflected with pain,
And fancied while counting the cost,
If restor'd to childhood again,
We'd recover the thing we had lost.

Then happiness seem'd to be ours,--
We roved by the river or glen;
The birds, and the bushes, and flowers,
Appear'd as a paradise then!

Yon hill, and the stone on the plain,
Remind us whenever we pass,
Where we in a fairy-like train,
Have scamper'd about on the grass!

Gone by are our childhood and youth,
And gone is each transient delight;
They told us,--who told us the truth,--
They'd pass as a dream of the night.

By the faithful discourse of a friend,
We were told, whether cloudy or bright,
This life, long or short, in the end,
Would depart as a dream of the night:--

That in vain among shadows and flowers,
We sought satisfaction within;
True pleasure could never be ours,
Till the heart had been broken for sin

The heart, until such was the case,
Was so puff'd up with pride and deceit,
That no matter how splendid the feast,
That root bitter'd every thing sweet!

He would prove by the sacred page,
And by men of experience too,
It had been so in every age,
And continues so, even till now!

Until sin was expos'd to the light,
In the glass of the Gospel was view'd,
We could not enjoy true delight,--
Till the heart had been chang'd and renew'd.

Nor need we now ask any more,
Why a thing which so many pursue,
And to gain will all things explore,
Should be truly possess'd by so few.

In all earth's extensive domain,
'Midst all the sweet breezes that blow,
In mountain, or forest, or plain,
Where Eden like luxuries grow;--

Amid all the fair branches and free,
Inviting their clusters to share,
One tree, and only one tree,
This heav'nly manna will bear.

That tree of celestial seed,
By heav'nly culture doth rise;--
That man from his sins might be freed,
'Twas sent as a gift from the skies!

But many the tree did deride,
And oft of its fruit did complain,
Since to gain it they often had tried,
But return'd to their folly again!

They made it a matter of doubt,
That it had been planted for them:--
Repentance, and Faith were the root,
And Holiness grew on the stem!

Some as they pass'd by gave a glance,
Made remark on the wilderness bare;
And affirm'd with eye all askance,
No semblance of beauty was there.

Though to plant it the Saviour of men
Hath sorrow'd, and suffer'd, and bled;
And His Spirit pour'd out as a stream,
Hath His heav'nly influence shed.

You see, when the secret is told,
And the riddle's expounded to all,
It was planted in Eden of old,
But had been torn up by the fall!

So Christ hath in love to His church,
Thus rear'd this plant of renown,
To screen when the sun's rays might scorch,
And to cheer when our spirits are down.

Whoe'er of its produce partakes,
Whatever objections arise,
Through the Cross, and the choice that he makes,
Shall be holy, and happy, and wise!

Then we to His temple shall run,
And worship with joy and delight;
Our trials while under the sun,
Will pass as a dream of the night!

THE PLAY!

On being solicited to attend a Theatre, by two young women, who
urged their entreaties by the argument, "There is no harm in
attending the Play!"

Ye daughters of Albion's flourishing isle,
Come listen awhile to my lay;
Defending your morals, you say with a smile,
"There's no harm in attending the Play!"

Ye Theatre gallants, and deep witted men,
Whose counsels so many obey,
Come lend a poor ignorant rustic a pen,
And he'll help you to plead for the Play!

If you are not immortal, but end when you die,
As some have the courage to say,
Why need you look out for a mansion on high,
You've nothing to fear from the Play!

If you are immortal, yet free from the fall,
And never have wander'd astray;
If you have no sin to repent of at all,
You've nothing to fear from the Play!

If Christ in His word, has left no command,
For people to watch and to pray,
If an house cannot fall that is built on the sand,
There's no harm in attending the Play!

Not calling in question your baptismal vow,
If life's like a long summer's day,
And you have not to reap such fruit as ye sow,
There's no harm in attending the Play!

If the Christian's creed from the truth be reverse,
And the fair crown of life can decay;
If the Bible be false, and Religion a farce,
There's no harm in attending the Play!

Should a visit from Death come and put you in mind
Of your frail habitation of clay,
You may try to obstruct the unwelcome design,
With the transient delights of the Play!

If a faithful reproof you should happen to meet,
You can soon turn your faces away,
And pass by the blind and the lame in the street,
And carry your cash to the Play!

But if Parsons themselves so often attend,
Then surely their followers may;
And no wonder that they so well can defend,
The moral effects of the Play.

If Wesley and Whitfield have pleaded in vain,
And led their disciples astray;
Let Simpson and Hervey in silence remain,
You've nothing to fear from the Play.

If you of your time have to give no account,
At the last, the great Judgment day,
The troubles of life you may quickly surmount,
By clapping them off at the Play.

If safe 'midst seduction and ruin you roam,
You may laugh at the stoppers away,
Who sit pining and pulling long faces at home,
And are missing the joys of the Play.

Should the roof be crush'd in, and you kill'd we'll suppose,
Why some angel would bear you away,
To some distant region of milder repose,
Where your spirit might dream of the Play.

Having no tribulation, no robe wash'd in blood,
Nor tears that need wiping away,
You might sing in those realms to the praise of your god,
How oft you had been at the Play.

THE REMOTE CHRISTIAN.

Deep in a glen, remote and wild,
And far from affluence,
A cottage stood, and heaven smil'd,
Upon that residence.

A couple liv'd there many years,
In love and unity;
Who careful in this vale of tears,
Had rear'd a family.

No costly goods their cot adorn,
No shining liveries wait;
For them no huntsman sounds his horn,
No carriage at the gate.

A simple, honest peasant, free,
Not with much learning stored;
Though thus remote, yet happily,
Had sought and found the Lord.

Where neither moth nor rust can harm,
Nor thieves can ere invade,
Beyond the reach of human arm,
Was his heart's treasure laid.

Around his farm, or in his field,
The moor birds hatch'd and fed;
And when at work, the lapwing cried,
And flutter'd o'er his head.

While thus his little field he drain'd,
Or temper'd the wild sod,
His household too with care were train'd,
To love and fear their God.

The field, the garden, and the tree,
For him their produce bore,
His table too, the bee supplied,
From her delicious store.

The Lord who thus his substance blest,
Did all his wants supply;
And pleasantly to quench his thirst,
A brook ran murmuring by.

I saw him on his dying bed,
When strength began to fail,
I saw him lift his languid head,--
And heard his happy tale.

He then began to bless the day,
His sins had been made known,
When he began to weep and pray,
And look'd to Christ alone.

He bless'd that Book his heart had cheer'd,
And tried its worth to tell;
He bles'd that Blood which once was shed,
To save his soul from hell.

Yes! Christ to him was precious then,
His company was sweet;
He said, His love was in his heart,
The world beneath his feet.

This, when the monster Death arriv'd,
Did solid comfort bring;
That blood he felt had quite depriv'd
The monster of his sting.

"This body chang'd, shall soon," said he,
"With saints and angels join,
And sing to all eternity,
The depths of Love Divine!"

SOLITARY REFLECTIONS!

(_Occasioned by the death of a newly married pair, who drowned
themselves, after living together three weeks._)

On Esk's old bank the watery willows weep,
Where wife and husband launch'd into the deep;--
And from their cottage sought an early grave,
To end their jarring, in the peaceful wave

Ah, hapless pair! who can withhold the tear,
When he the melancholy place draws near!
The dire event to future times will prove,
The short enjoyment of your wedded love!

How apt are earthly prospects to deceive,
And leave her disappointed sons to grieve!
How oft will trifling things the mind perplex,
Where grace doth not her influences mix!

The morning shines,--to church they haste away,
And noisy guns proclaim the wedding day;
Within three weeks to the dark grave they're borne,
To slumber till the Resurrection morn!