Part 6

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.