Nay, from the very tree we're under, I'll prove that Providence can blunder.' Quoth Will, Through thick and thin dash, ་ He griev'd such vanity possest her, And thus in serious terms address'd her : youMadam, the usual spendid feast, With which our wedding day is grac'd, With you I must not share to-day For business summons me away. Of all the danties I've prepar'd, I beg not any may be spar'd; Indulge in ev'ry costly dish, Enjoy, 'tis what I really wish; Only observe one prohibition, Nor think it a severe condition; On one small dish which cover'd stands, You must not, dare to lay your hands: Go-Disobey not on your life, I shudder Jack, at words so rash ; I trust to what the Scriptures tell, He hath done always all things well.' Quoth Jack, 'I'm lately grown a wit, And think all good a lucky hit. To prove that Providence can err, Not words, but facts, the truth aver. To this vast oak lift up thine eyes, Then view that acorn's paltry size; How foolish on a tree so tall, To place that tiny cup and ball. Now look again, yon pompion* see, It weighs two pound at least. nay three; Yet this large fruit, where is it found? Why, meanly trailing on the ground. Had Providence ask'd my advice, I would have chang'd it in a trice; I would have said at Nature's birth, Let Acorns creep upon the earth; But let the pompion, vast and round, On the oak's lofty boughs be found.' He said-and as he rashly spoke, Lo! from the branches of the oak, A wind, which suddenly arose, Beat show'rs of acorns on his nose; Oh! oh:' quoth Jack, I'm wrong I see, And God is wiser far than me. For did a show'r of pompions large, Thus on my naked face discharge, I had been bruis'd and blinded quite, What heav'n appoints I find is right; Whene'er I'm tempted to rebel, I'll think how light the acorns fell; Whereas on oaks had pompions hung, My broken skull had stopp'd my tongue. A Gourd. · THE LADY AND THE PYE: A WORTHY Squire of sober life • Man had not fall'n, nor woman died; The squire, some future day at dinner, Resolv'd to try this boastful sinner; Or henceforth you're no more my wife.' O here it is yet not for me! I care not for the sumptuous treat; To know what's there I merely wish. If I'm betray'd, my husband's favour. 6 John, you may go-the wine's decanted, cries. John hears not; but to crown her shame, THE PLUM-CAKES: OR, THE FARMER AND HIS THREE SONS. Was bent on giving them good learning ; Where his young sons might well be taught. Most properly his themes or verses; And school the temper, mind, and heart; 6 "Twas just before the closing year, When Christmas holidays were near, The farmer call'd to see his boys, And ask how each his time employs. Quoth Will, There's father, boys, without, He's brought us something good," no doubt.' The father sees their merry faces, With joy beholds them, and embraces. Come, boys, of home you'll have your fill.' 'Yes, Christmas now is near,' says Will; 'Tis just twelve days-these notches see, My notches with the days agree.' Well,' said the sire, again I'll come, And gladly fetch my brave boys home! You two the dappled mare shall ride, Jack mount the pony by my side; Meantime, my lads, I've brought you here No small provision of good cheer.' Then from his pocket strait he takes. A vast profusion of plum-cakes; He counts them out, a plenteous store, No boy shall have or less or more; Twelve cakes he gives to each dear son, When each expected only one; And then, with many a kind expression, He leaves them to their own discretion; Resolv'd to mark the use each made Of what he to their hands convey'd. This made me mourn my rich repast, And though the boys all long'd to clutch 'em, Well, Tom,' the anxious parent cries, Not hoarding much, nor eating fast, These tales the father's thoughts employ ; And Tom has gain'd his father's love.' APPLICATION. The twelve days past, he comes once more, So when our day of life is past, And brings the horses to the door; The boys with rapture see appear The poney and the dappled mare; Each moment now an hour they count, And crack their whips and long to mount. Says Will, Dear father, life is short, And all are fairly judg'd at last; How each misus'd the gifts assign'd: TURN THE CARPET : OR, THE TWO WEAVERS. IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN DICK AND JOHN. As at their work two weavers sat, Beguiling time with friendly chat; They touch'd upon the price of meat, So high, a weaver scarce could eat. • What with my brats and sickly wife,' Quoth Dick, I'm almost tir'd of life; So hard my work, so poor my fare, 'Tis more than mortal man can bear. 'How glorious is the rich man's state! His house so fine! his wealth so great! Heav'n is unjust, you must agree; Why all to him? why none to me? • In spite of what the Scripture teaches, In spite of all the parson preaches, This world (indeed I've thought so long) Is rul'd, methinks, extremely wrong. 'Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 'Tis all confus'd, and hard, and strange ; The good are troubled and oppress'd And all the wicked are the bless'd.' Quoth John: Our ign'rance is the cause Why thus we blame our Maker's laws; Parts of his ways alone we know, 'Tis all that man can see below. 'See'st thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun ? Behold the wild confusion there, So rude the mass it makes one stare! 'A stranger, ign'rant of the trade, Would say, no meaning's there convey'd ; For where's the middle, where's the border? Thy carpet now is all disorder.' Quoth Dick, My work is yet in bits, THE TRUE HEROES: OR, THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS. You who love a tale of glory, Are the heroes I shall bring. Saints and martyrs grace my page. Greater far, themselves subdu'd. Fearful Christian! hear with wonder, Of the saints of whom I tell ; Some were burnt, some sawn asunder, Some by fire or torture fell; Some to savage beasts were hurl'd, One escap'd the lion's den; Was a persecuting world Worthy of these wond'rous men? Some in fiery furnace thrown, Yet escap'd, unsing'd their hair; Those who scorn'd and hated fell; How he rails with impious breath! But still in ev'ry part it fits; As when we view these shreds and ends, But when we reach that world of light, And view those works of God aright, Then shall we see the whole design, And own the workman is divine. What now seem random strokes, will there All order and design appear; Then shall we praise what here we spurn'd, For then the carpet shall be turn'd.” Thou'rt right,' quoth Dick, no more I'll grumble That this sad world's so strange a jumble; HYMNS. Then observe converted Paul, Oft in perils, oft in death. 'Twas that God, whose sov'reign pow'r, Did the lion's fury 'swage, Could alone, in one short hour, Still the persecutor's rage. E'en a woman-women hear, In their short but bright career; Prov'd their faith and love sincere. Though their lot was hard and lowly, Though they perish'd at the stake, Now they live with Christ in glory, Since they suffer'd for his sake. Fierce and unbelieving foes But their bodies could destroy ; Short though bitter were their woes Everlasting is their joy. A CHRISTMAS HYMN. O how won'drous is the story Hear with transport, ev'ry creature, To declare the Saviour's birth, They had brought the pardon needed, Had our warmest hopes exceeded : If some prophet had been sent With Salvation's joyful news, Could their warmest love refuse? Given to us a Prince of Peace. Could redeem from sin and hell; None but He could reinstate us In the rank from which he fell. Had he come, the glorious stranger, Deck'd with all the world calls great; Had he liv'd in pomp and grandeur, Crown'd with more than royal state; Still our tongues with praise o'erflowing, On such boundless love would dwell; Still our hearts, with rapture glowing, Feel what words could never tell. But what wonder should it raise Thus our lowest state to borrow! O the high mysterious ways, God's own Son a child of sorrow! 'Twas to bring us endless pleasure, He our suff'ring nature bore; Send the hungry good supplies. Had not where to lay his head. Learn of me, thus cries the Saviour, If my kingdom you'd inherit; Sinner, quit your proud behaviour, Learn my meek and lowly spirit. Come, ye servants, see your station, Freed from all reproach and shame; He who purchas'd your salvation, Bore a servant's humble name. See he looks with pity down! A HYMN OF PRAISE, FOR THE ABUNDANT HARVEST OF 1796, AFTER A YEAR OF SCARCITY. GREAT God! when famine threaten'd late O did we learn from that dark fate Or own the chastisement divine Though the bright chain of Peace he broke, Yet who regards the Lord? Can, in a moment, if he please, And for a time withheld supplies, He, when he brings his children low, And when he strikes the heaviest blow, Now Frost, and Flood, and Blight* no more, See what an unexampled store As when the promis'd harvest fail'd They lov'd as brothers should. Like the rich fool, let us not say, To feed the hungry poor. Let rich and poor, on whom are now And while his gracious name we praise To give the bread of heav'n. In that blest pray'r our Lord did frame, We ask that Hallow'd be his name,' * These three visitations followed each other în quick succession. For grace he bids us first implore, HERE AND THERE: OR, THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT. BEING SUITABLE THOUGHTS FOR A NEW YEAR. HERE bliss is short, imperfect, insincere, There infinite duration is our date. Here Satan tempts, and troubles e'en the best. and fear, Here wants or cares perplex my anxious But spirits there a calm fruition find. of thorns, But there no failure can I ever prove, God cannot disappoint, for God is love. Here Christ for sinners suffer'd, groan'd, and bled, [head: But there he reigns the great triumphant Here, mock'd and scourg'd, he wore a crown A crown of glory there his brow adorns. Here error clouds the will, and dims the There all is knowledge, purity and light. sight, Here so imperfect is this mortal state, If blest myself I mourn some other's fate. At ev'ry human wo I here repine, The joy of ev'ry saint shall there be mine. Here if I lean, the world shall pierce my Here love of self my fairest works destroys, Here on no promis'd good can I depend, But there that broken reed and I shall part. There love of God shall perfect all my joys. But there the rock of Ages is my friend. Here things, as in a glass, are darkly shown, Here if some sudden joy delight inspire, There I shall know as clearly as I'm known. The dread to lose it damps the rising fire; Frail are the fairest flow'rs which bloom be-But there whatever good the soul employ, But love and pardon shall be perfect there. sight. low, There freshest palms on roots immortal grow. THE HONEST MILLER Or all the callings and the trades As can on earth be found. Or else what corn could grow? And though no wealth he has, except The thrasher he is useful too To all who like to eat ; Unless he winnow'd well the corn, The chaff would spoil the wheat. heart, The thought that 'tis eternal, crowns the joy. BALLADS. But vain the squire's and farmer's care, And vain would be the ploughman's pains And vain, withont the miller's aid, VOL. I. And such a miller now I make This miller lives in Glo'stershire, For those who seek the praise of God, In last hard winter-who forgets To make the matter worse, the mills Which flow'd amain when others froze, The clam'rous people came from far This favour'd mill to find, Both rich and poor our miller sought, For none but he could grind. His neighbours cry'd, Now miller seize Since thou of young and helpless babes For folks, when tempted to grow rich, Oft make their num'rous babes a plea |