BALLADS AND TALES.

THE

FOOLISH TRAVELLER;

OR, A GOOD INN IS A BAD HOME.

THERE was a Prince of high degree,
As great and good as Prince could be;
Much power and wealth were in his hand,
With Lands and Lordships at command.

One son, a favourite son, he had,
An idle, thoughtless kind of lad,
Whom, spite of all his follies past,
He meant to make his heir at last.

The son escaped to foreign lands,
And broke his gracious Sire's commands;
Far, as he fancied, from his sight,
In each low joy he took delight.

The youth, detesting peace and quiet,
Indulged in vice, expense, and riot;
Of each wild pleasure rashly tasted,
Till health declined, and substance wasted.
The tender Sire, to pity prone,
Promised to pardon what was done;
And, would he certain terms fulfil,
He should receive a kingdom still.

The youth the pardon little minded,
So much his sottish soul was blinded;
But though he mourn'd no past transgression,
He liked the future rich possession.

He liked the kingdom when obtain❜d, But not the terms on which 'twas gain'd; He hated pain and self-denial,

Chose the reward, but shunn'd the trial.

He knew his father's power how great,
How glorious too the promised state!
At length resolves no more to roam,
But straight to seek his father's home.

His Sire had sent a friend to say,
He must be cautious on his way!
Told him what road he must pursue,
And always keep his home in view.

The thoughtless youth set out indeed,
But soon he slacken'd in his speed;
For every trifle by the way
Seduced his idle heart astray.

By every casual impulse sway'd,
On every slight pretence he stay'd;
To each, to all, bis passions bend,
He quite forgets his journey's end.

For every sport, for every song,
He halted as he pass'd along:
Caught by each idle sight he saw,
He'd loiter e'en to pick a straw.

Whate'er was present seized his soul,
A feast, a show, a brimming bowl;
Contented with this vulgar lot,
His father's house he quite forgot.

Those slight refreshments by the way,
Which were but meant his strength to stay,
So sunk his soul in sloth and sin,
He look'd no farther than his Inn.

His father's friend would oft appear
And sound the promise in his ear;
Oft would he rouse him,' Sluggard come!
This is thy Inn, and not thy home.'

Displeased he answers, Come what will,
Of present bliss I'll take my fill!
In vain you plead, in vain I hear,
Those joys are distant, these are near.'
Thus perish'd, lost to worth and truth,
In sight of home this hapless youth;
While beggars, foreigners, and poor,
Enjoy'd the father's boundless store.

APPLICATION.

My Fable, reader, speaks to thee,
In God this bounteous father see;
And in his thoughtless offspring trace,
The sinful, wayward human race.

The friend, the generous father sent,
To rouse, and to reclaim him, meant;
The faithful minister you'll find,
Who calls the wandering, warns the blind.

Reader, awake! this youth you blame-
Are not you doing just the same?
Mindless your comforts are but given
To help you on your way to heaven.

The pleasures which beguile the road,
The flowers with which your path is strew'd,
To these your whole desires you bend,
And quite forget your journey's end.

The meanest toys your soul entice,
A feast, a song, a game at dice;
Charm'd with your present paltry lot,
Eternity is quite forgot.

Then listen to a warning friend,

Who bids you mind your journey's end;
A wandering pilgrim here you roam;

This world's your Inn, the next your Home.

THE

IMPOSSIBILITY CONQUERED;

OR,

LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOUR AS YOURSELF.

In the Manner of Sir Walter Raleigh.

THE OBJECTOR.

EACH man who lives, the Scriptures prove,
Must as himself his neighbour love;
But though the precept's full of beauty,
'Tis an impracticable duty:

I'll prove how hard it is to find

A lover of this wondrous kind.

Who loves himself to great excess,
You'll grant must love his neighbour less;
When self engrosses all the heart,
How can another have a part;

Then if self-love most men enthrall,
A neighbour's share is none at all.

Say, can the man who hoards up pelf
E'er love his neighbour as himself?
For if he did, would he not labour
To hoard a little for his neighbour?

Then tell me, friend, can hoarding elves
E'er love their neighbour as themselves?

The man whose heart is bent on pleasure
Small love will to his neighbour measure:
Who solely studies his own good,

Can't love another if he would.

Then how can pleasure-hunting elves
E'er love their neighbour as themselves?

Can he whom sloth and loitering please
E'er love his neighbour like his ease?
Or he who feels ambition's flame,
Loves he his neighbour like his fame?
Such lazy, or such soaring elves

Can't love their neighbour as themselves.

He, whose gross appetites enslave him,
Who spends or feasts the wealth God gave him;
Full pamper'd, gorged at every meal,
He cannot for the empty feel.

How can such gormandizing elves
E'er love their neighbour as themselves?

Then since the man who lusts for gold,
Since he who is to pleasure sold;
Who soars in pride, or sinks in ease,
His neighbour will not serve or please;

Where shall we hope the man to find
To fill this great command inclined?

I dare not blame God's holy word,
Nor censure Scripture as absurd;
But sure the rule's of no avail
If placed so high that all must fail;
And 'tis impossible to prove

That any can his neighbour love..

THE ANSWERER.

Yes, such there are of heavenly mould,
Unwarp'd by pleasure, ease, or gold:
He who fulfils the nobler part
By loving God with all his heart;

He, only he, the Scriptures prove,
Can, as himself, his neighbour love.

Then join, to make a perfect plan,
The love of God to love of Man;
Your heart in union both must bring,
This is the stream, and that the spring;

This done, no more in vain you'll labour,
A Christian can't but love his neighbour.