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The Frenchman, first in literary fame,
With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied,
Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and died ;
The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew
Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew;
An infidel in health, but what when sick ?
Oh—then a text would touch him to the quick :
View him at Paris in his last career,
Surrounding throngs the demigod revere,
Exalted on his pedestal of pride
And fumed with frankincense on every side,
He begs their flatt'ry with his latest breath,
And smother'd in't at last, is prais’d to death.

Yon cottager who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store;
Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the live-long day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding and no wit,
Receives no praise, but, though her lot be such
(Toilsome and indigent) she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more; her Bible true-
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;
And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

O happy peasant! oh unhappy bard ! His the mere tinsel, her's the rich reward ; He prais'd perhaps for ages yet to come, She never heard of half a mile from home; He lost in errors his vain heart prefers, She safe in the simplicity of hers.


Jesus, where'er thy people meet,
There they behold thy mercy-seat;
Where'er they seek thee thou art found,
And every place is hallow'd ground.
For thou within no walls confin'd,
Inhabitest the humble mind;
Such ever bring thee where they come,
And going, take thee to their home.
Dear Shepherd of thy chosen few,
Thy former mercies here renew;
Here to our waiting hearts proclaim
The sweetness of thy saving name.
Here may we prove the power


prayer, To strengthen faith and sweeten care, To teach our faint desires to rise, And bring all heaven before our eyes. Lord we are few, but thou art near, Nor short thine arm, nor deaf thine ear: Oh! rend the heavens, come quickly down, And make a thousand hearts thine own.


O Lord, my best desire fulfil

And help me to resign Life, health, and comfort, to thy will,

And make thy pleasure mine. Why should I shrink at thy command,

Whose love forbids my fears ! Or tremble at the gracious hand

That wipes away my tears ? No; rather let me freely yield,

What most I prize, to thee;
Who never has a good withheld,

Or wilt withhold, from me.
Thy favour, all my journey through,

Thou art engag'd to grant;
What else I want, or think I do,

'Tis better still to want. Wisdom and mercy guide my way;

Shall I resist them both ? А poor

blind creature of a day, And crush'd before the moth.

But ah! my inward spirit cries,

Still bind me to thy sway; Else the next cloud that veils my skies,

Drives all these thoughts away.


WEAK and irresolute is man;

The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan,

Tomorrow rends away.
The bow well bent, and smart the spring,

Vice seems already in;
But passion rudely snaps the string,

And it revives again.
Some foe to his upright intent

Finds out his weaker part;
Virtue engages his assent,

But pleasure wins his heart. 'Tis here the folly of the wise

Through all his art we view; And while his tongue the charge denies,

His conscience owns it true.
Bound on a voyage of awful length,

And dangers little known,
A stranger to superior strength,

Man vainly trusts his own.
But oars alone can ne'er prevail,

To reach the distant coast; The breath of heaven must swell the sail,

Or all the toil is lost.


The path of sorrow, and that path alone,
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;
No traveller ever reach'd that bless'd abode,
Who found not thorns and briars in his road.
The world may dance along the flowery plain,
Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain ;
Where nature has her mossy velvet spread,
With unshod feet they yet securely tread,
Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end.
But he, who knew what human hearts would prove,
How slow to learn the dictates of his love,
That, hard by nature and of stubborn will,
A life of ease would make them harder still;
In pity to the souls his grace design'd
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Call’d for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said, “Go, spend them in the vale of tears."
O balmy gales of soul-reviving air!
O salutary streams, that murmur there!
These flowing from the fount of grace above,
Those breathed from lips of everlasting love.
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys;
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys;
An envious world will interpose its frown,
To mar delights superior to its own;
And many a pang, experienced still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, sin:

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