Part 5

When David's highly favour'd son, His temple first began, They from the mountains brought a stone, Which seem'd a pest to man: The masons view'd it o'er and o'er, But oft with haughty scorn, Rejected it, and roll'd aside This strange, unshapely stone!

From first to last it tumbling lay, An object of disdain, Till time, upon a certain day, The mystery did explain. The last, and loftiest pinnacle, To finish and adorn They sought, but none would do so well As this rejected stone!

A finer building ne'er was seen, By any mortal eye, The timbrels rung, and Israel sung, And old men wept for joy. And having thus their temple rear'd Themselves are forc'd to own, That which the builders once refus'd Is now the Corner Stone!

'Tis thus Jehovah's favour'd sons, With hearts by grace refined, Are all compar'd to living stones, For nobler ends design'd. Thus he the mighty structure rears, And perfects them in one, A glorious Church,--and JESUS is The chief, the corner stone!

A stone by Daniel was perceiv'd, And still the record stands, Which from the mountains should proceed, Cut out as without hands; Whose dignity should greater grow, And mighty Kings dethrone, Till all the earth be fill'd below, With this amazing stone!

So "in due time God sent his Son," According to His word, Whose sacred mission was begun, And seal'd with precious blood; Who, while He dwelt on earth below, Did make salvation known, And caus'd His heavenly love to flow In hearts once hard as stone!

But Pharisees and cruel Jews, Did seek from day to day, This holy person to abuse, To persecute and slay. But God did give his Angels charge, O'er his anointed one, Lest he at any time should dash His foot against a stone!

At length his faithfulness to prove, He for the world must die, And power was given to wicked men, The Lord to crucify. The sun was dark at that event, And with His dying groan, Earth trembled! and the rocks were rent,-- The rocks of solid stone!

His enemies still follow'd Him, When He lay in the grave Hewn in the rock, for Joseph's tomb, Who did His body crave: Lest He their projects should destroy, And they be overthrown, They shut him in, and set a guard, And seal'd the mighty stone!

But Roman bands could not confine The Saviour to His cell, He manifests His power divine, In spite of Earth and Hell: The Father "owns His suffering Son," Nor leaves Him then alone, For lo! "an Angel comes by night, And rolls away the stone!"

He rises to men's wond'ring view, And triumphs o'er His foes, And proves the blessed record true, Though sin and death oppose: In glorious majesty He reigns, On his exalted throne, And still He power on earth retains, To soften hearts of stone!

To those who overcome through Him, A stone, and a new name He gives, which none can read but they, Nor understand the same. And they shall share His joys divine, Seated on glittering thrones, And walk those streets whose pavements shine Like gold, or precious stones!

TO THE RISING SUN! ON A FROSTY MORNING.

Hail glorious Sun! bright regent of the day; Gladly I welcome thine all cheering ray: 'Midst frost and snow, a visit thus from thee, Sets each numb toe and frozen finger free!

Bright emblem of the Majesty on high, Who lives and reigns, the Lord of earth and sky! Before thy face the hailstones melt away, And thy glad light turns darkness into day.

Oft moving down the sloping dale I've eyed, Thy golden radiance from the mountain side; Have often long'd upon yon hills to be, To catch a comfortable ray from thee.

Now chill November's breath is cold and keen, The trees around have lost their lovely green, While horned cattle from the mountains roam, And for their masters low, to take them home.

The early plough boy stops to clap his hands, The tender female dances where she stands; While I, half starv'd, have thought thy coming long, But now I hail thee welcome with a song!

'Tis said in heathen lands they worship thee, When o'er the mountain tops thy light they see: But as thou here no homage dost receive, I to thy Maker all the glory give.

His face, like thine, the drooping sinner cheers, Oppress'd with guilt, and overwhelm'd with fears: A ray from thee, O uncreated Sun, Breaks up, and makes long frozen fountains run!

Thou, from thyself, the soul to purify, Dost pour the living water from on high, Which if it doth within the soul remain, The sinner's heart shall never freeze again!

Yes! he who daily drinks of this pure wave, For sensual pleasure shall no relish have, But calm amidst the turbulence of life, Shall dwell for ever free from care and strife.

Shine, glorious Sun! thy blessings richly pour, And cheer our fallen world from hour to hour! With thy glad beams, O visit every vale, 'Till every starving soul thine influence feel!

LINES IN MEMORY OF THE REV. D. DUCK, CURATE OF DANBY.

Yes! Daniel, faithful Daniel's gone, His weeping flock lament their loss; No more they fix their eyes upon That zealous preacher of the cross!

No more he meets them at the gate, No breezes waft his silver'd hair, While o'er the dead, both small and great, His soul breathes out the ardent prayer!

Nor from his eye, when grave-scenes call, His streaming tears are seen to flow,-- Those tears, which to the earth did fall, And mingle with the dust below.

No more he at the altar stands, To bless, or break the hallow'd bread, While from his lips and lifted hands, Each hungry, holy soul is fed!

But mingled happy saints among, His ravish'd soul doth now ascend, To share that bliss which he so long, To others here did recommend.

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED CHILD.

My little boy! my lovely boy! Why in such haste away? Will no embrace, or tempting toy, Induce thy longer stay?

What prompted thee the day before, To climb thy Father's knee,-- Spring to the window or the door, With such unusual glee?

I wonder oft, with wakeful eye, And think it might be so, Some Spirit then was passing by, And beckon'd thee to go!

I recollect with other things, Which I have felt and fear'd, Once something like the sound of wings, Within the room was heard!

Hast thou in infant vision seen The city of our God? Or on those holy mountains been, By saints and angels trod?

Or hast thou heard the melody Which fills the courts above? Or has thy Saviour shown to thee The tokens of his love?

If so,--no wonder thou should'st look So light on all below;-- If thou hast tasted of the brook Where living waters flow!

No wonder thou with such delight, Didst view the rising sun: Then glance on us thine eye so bright, And flutter to be gone!

If thou hast seen among heaven's choirs, The crown that thou shalt wear, Forgive a parent's fond desires, To keep thee longer here.

If thou among earth's griefs and joys, Hadst any longer stayed, With other rude and wicked boys, Hadst into evil strayed;--

Hadst thou thy Saviour disobey'd, Who died thy soul to save, Thy parents' heads might have been laid, With sorrow in the grave.

If it be wrong to mourn for thee, The Lord that wrong forgive, And grant us grace each day, that we In him may walk and live.

O could our faith but pierce the gloom That hovers round our clay, We might prefer an early tomb, To one that's old and grey!

Could we but hear the songs they sing, Or see the robes they wear, 'Twould give our resolutions wing, With longings to be there.

To see those heavenly harpers young, Light up the sacred fires; To see their nimble fingers run Along the golden wires;

Would make a man forget his grief, His conflicts here below, And give a mother's soul relief, With languishings to go!

Would make us all forsake our sin, And Jesus Christ adore, And bring the resolution in, To grieve our God no more.

Would make us to His house resort, To weep, and watch, and pray, Until we gain that blissful port Where tears are wiped away.

ON THE FIRST TEXT HEARD SPIRITUALLY.

("My heart is fixed."--Psalm lvii. 7.)

By grace divine I sing, "My heart is fix'd!" (Fix'd on the corner stone in Zion laid:) He spoke, I wept, and heard the blessed text, And all my wavering, wandering thoughts were stay'd.

He to me spoke, as with an angel's voice, And all my fears at once like lightning fled! O how my troubled soul did then rejoice! I was as one new risen from the dead!

Thrice happy bard who wrote such words as these, So applicable to a case like mine; Such music surely never reach'd my ears, Nor words did ever with such lustre shine!

Though all who read, may not that beauty see, Nor feel the truths that sin sick hearts console, Yet, O, it was a blessed text to me, By which the Lord spoke peace unto my soul!

'Tis mystery all! 'Tis like the wind that blows! I hear its sound, as it sweeps through the wood, I feel it come, but know not where it goes,-- And so is every one that's born of God!

Now I can sing, "My soul is sick of love!"-- Of love to God, and every one I see; Nor smiles, nor frowns, my happy soul can move, A friend or stranger is alike to me!

But will the Lord such rebels still receive? Can angels sing for such a wretch as I? Did Jesus die, that one so vile might live? So vile, so full of sin and misery!

Yes! He the sinner doth invite to come; For rich, for poor, for all his grace is free! Fly, sinners, fly to Christ, there yet is room For all who feel their guilt and misery.

The King is now my Friend, I cannot doubt, For he His witness doth to me impart; He'll bind the strong man arm'd, and cast him out, And pour the living stream into my heart!

O happy soul, when thus to life restor'd, Let folly end, where genuine hope begins; He finds a heaven, who truly finds the Lord, But he that finds this heaven, must lose his sins!

O may I learn to do the thing that's right, My love to God, by true obedience show; And read, and wrestle, strive, rebuke, and fight, And watch, and pray, and to perfection grow!

So when my warfare here on earth is past, And Death on me his chilling hand shall lay, God will receive my ransom'd soul at last, To live and reign with Him, in endless day!

TO A SQUIRREL IN A CAGE.

Little spinner, blithe and gay, Dancing thus thy life away! A King his palace might resign, For a couch as soft as thine!

Thou canst choose, as suits thee best, When to toil, and when to rest: Free from earthly care and strife, Merrily doth pass thy life.

Ere the day begins to dawn, Thou art at thy work alone; By the early riser seen, Turning round thy light machine.

Quick thou tip'st the slender wires, Which more art than strength requires;-- Be the weather foul or fair, Heart and foot are light as air!

Joyful in thy little jail, Thou dost spread thy bushy tail: Playing many a curious prank, Tumbling like a mountebank!

When awful thunders o'er thee break, And earth's foundations seem to shake, Free from terror and dismay, Thou heed'st it not, but spin'st away.

Separated now for good, From thy cronies of the wood, Thou no more dost wander free, Skipping light from tree to tree.

Though once with thee things better went, Thou seemest happy and content, If some kind friend supply thy lack, By giving thee a nut to crack.

And when thou hast it in thy paw, In face of either friend or foe, The beamings of thine eye impart The motions of a grateful heart.

Alone, confin'd within thy cage, Thou fearest not the battle's rage; Of courage bold, and action brave, Though in prison--thou'rt not a slave!

If life is spared, some other day, When I shall chance to come this way, A present unto thee I'll bring, Thou bonny, little woodland thing!

Little spinner, blithe and gay, Dancing thus thy life away! A Queen her palace might resign, For a pillow soft as thine!

TO A BIRD SINGING IN WINTER.

Why, why, little bird, so cheerfully sing, When all things around look so sad? The prospect at present, as touching the spring, Gives cause to be sorry, not glad!

Had April appear'd in loveliest hue, And made the green meadows look gay, Thou merrily might'st have mounted thy bough, And warbled thy minutes away.

But summer's far off, and still in the copse, The cold winter's snow doth descend, Fierce winds, and sharp frosts, may yet blast thy hopes, And bring thy sweet song to an end.

By craft of the boys, in bush, or in wood, Thy foot may be caught in a snare, And thou whilst seeking a morsel of food, Be a captive, ere thou art aware.

Why merrily sing, when thou hast no barn, In which to lay up thy grain? Why warble thy notes, while unthankful man, So often is heard to complain?

Why cheerfully sing when there are no flowers, Or sun in the valley to shine? 'Tis proof that thy prospects are brighter than ours, Thy heart more contented than mine!

PETCH'S ELEGY!

How short, how frail is our abode on earth! But yesterday it seems since we sprang forth: Life doth no sooner sparkle in our eye, Than we are subject to decline and die!

A brother Mason now a victim lies To Death, whose icy hand hath closed his eyes! He sleeps, forgetful of his toil and care; In prime of life, no more his voice we hear.

No more the chisel moves within his hands, The sounding axe no more his skill demands: But silence reigns,--his spirit's gone to rest, His ransom'd soul is number'd with the blest!

His sins and follies here he did bemoan, A heavy burden, grievous to be borne; When lo, the Lord, a week before he died, Dispers'd the gloom, and all his wants supplied

In the Redeemer's blood he did believe, And God his pardoning love to him did give: Such depth of mercy fill'd us with surprise, And tears of gratitude flow'd from our eyes!

He boldly triumph'd in God's pardoning grace, With love and patience beaming in his face; Till fainting in the icy arms of death, He praised his God with his departing breath

How oft have we in health, and free from pain, Joyful to labour, cross'd the dewy plain, Before the morning stars had disappear'd, Or early harmony the woodlands cheer'd!

How oft have we been partners through the day, Or sung in hymns our nightly hours away! Alas! my partner's gone! Can I forbear To welcome down my cheek the rolling tear?

No more on earth his voice shall mix with mine, In social converse, or in songs divine! Be it my chief concern to be prepar'd, Like him to die, and meet my just reward.

False witnesses did raise a vile report, And laid things to his charge that he knew not: But now he's gone to be with Christ on high, Where he is safe, and may their power defy.

Now slander and reproach at once may cease; No more can they disturb our brother's peace! Their arrows keen can never pierce his soul, He is departed, and hath reach'd the goal!

Farewell! but Oh! we hope to meet again, And join our voices in a nobler strain, Where Jesus our great Prophet, Priest, and King, In everlasting majesty doth reign!

REFLECTIONS ON PETCH'S TOMB.

Dear Petch belov'd! Thy endless portion's fix'd! As death hath left thee, so shall judgment find: Thy spirit, with a world of spirits mix'd, Hath left its mouldering tenement behind!

Sprightly and active, thou the other day, Didst fill thy station in this world of cares; In life's fair morn, thy soul hath slipt away, From its delusions, and a thousand snares!

Thy cheeks a more than common bloom did wear, Thy voice with music sweetly did agree; Thy heart was lively, thy complexion fair:-- Had I chose one for life, I'd chosen thee!

Perhaps thy mind dwelt on some future scene, Anticipating more than was allow'd, When pale affliction drew a veil between, And death appointed thee an early shroud!

Methinks I hear thee, while I thus survey The dreary place where thy remains are laid, Crying, "Prepare for the great judgment day! That day which shall thy destiny decide!

There's no repenting in the gloomy grave, Nor in that world in which I now exist; Christ died, that he from hell thy soul might save,-- Keep his commands, or thou wilt ne'er be blest!"

Here I should faint, reflecting on my theme, And recollecting thy great sins now past, Had not the grace of God, thy passport been, Had not heaven deign'd to smile on thee at last!

Hadst thou not given some proof of penitence, Had I not witness'd oft the bless'd effect, I might have fear'd, through disobedience, That Heaven for ever would thy soul reject.

But Oh, the saving power of grace divine, Which reach'd the dying thief upon the cross, Had visited that troubled soul of thine, Which else had mourn'd its everlasting loss!

Disrob'd of all his terrors, Death drew nigh,-- Behind, a band of shining seraphs stood, He pointed toward the opening sky, And dipt his dart in the atoning blood!

His humble victim felt the stingless wound, And to his God resign'd his fleeting breath; He view'd Heav'ns portals through the gloom around, And shouted "Victory!" in the arms of Death!

Go, blooming youth, and share the rich reward, Purchas'd for such as thee with blood divine; Thank God, He ever did thy prayer regard, And caus'd the light of life on thee to shine!

May all the household of thy kindred dear, Hear and regard the caution thou hast given; Repent, and turn to God, with hearts sincere, And have, like thee, the earnest of their Heaven!

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!