Part 7

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.