Whose hearts and hopes are fix'd on things above,
Whose chief delight is centred in the fame,
Of signs and wonders wrought through Jesus' name;--
All ye who virtue love, and evil hate,
Attend, while I a simple tale relate.
A preacher being to a village sent,
To warn and woo the people to repent;
Depending only on God's mighty grace,
His pious soul was looking for success.
For God, his people had a house prepared,
In which his arm had many times been bared,
And in that little village congregation,
Were found some earnest seekers of salvation.
Among the rest a noted Bruiser stood,
Whose hands had oft been stain'd with human blood;
A man of constitution so robust,
He oft had laid Goliaths in the dust.
He fully on the preacher fix'd his eye,
But scarcely could declare the reason why;
The subject, and the theme on which he dwelt,
Caught his attention, and its force he felt.
He thought the preacher all his actions knew,
His words, like arrows, pierc'd his conscience through;
His spirits fell, his heart was sick and sore,
Such anguish he had never felt before.
It seem'd to him as if an angel spoke,
He felt within as if his heart was broke,
He thought he heard mount Sinai's thunder roll,
Which shook the very centre of his soul!
Such mighty strokes soon humbled all his pride,
He sank condemn'd, and loud for mercy cried.
"What shall I do?" said he, "Nay, who can tell?
Oh! how shall I escape the pit of Hell?"
On bended knees he did salvation seek,
Big tears roll'd down his long undaunted cheek:--
The people pray'd, the sinner wept the more,--
This man, who till that hour, ne'er wept before.
After a time his mighty anguish ceas'd,
The Lord of life his captive soul releas'd!
The joy he felt he scarcely could contain,
The people sung--"a sinner's born again!"
Some time elaps'd--two of his mates had met,
As custom was, and in a tavern sat,
Conversing on events that daily pass'd,
Till one the other thus address'd at last.
"Heard you not what occurred the other day?
Old Sam has been converted, people say!"
"Old Sam!" the other says, with great surprise,
"What Sam, the Boxer?" "Yes!" the other cries!
"Depend upon't, though you may think it strange,
But in old Sam there is a wondrous change!"
"Nay,--he converted! Pshaw! 'tis all a whim;
They've just as much converted me as him;
And I can find a man, I have no doubt,
That soon will beat all his religion out."
"Perhaps not so," the other softly said,
"I think Old Sam 's of better mettle made,
I know that he was always bad to bend,
And on his firmness I will still depend."
The other rose, and would a wager bet,
Old Sam was not so far converted yet,
But that if pick'd at, he would turn again,
And still he would the bloody cause maintain.
To Sammy's door their way direct they took,
For he had now the tavern's haunts forsook;
They call'd a rebel out to lead the van,
To vex and aggravate the poor old man.
At length they reach'd, and rattled at the door,
Standing around, like lions to devour
His happy soul; but he had by his side,
King David's faithful Shepherd for his guide.
Old Sammy from his Bible reading rose,
And straightway forth to meet the rebel goes;
"Here's one," say they, "will fight for what you like!"
He stamp'd, and raged, and dared old Sam to strike;
Sam look'd and smiled, as he before him stood,
Then shook his head, thinking the cause not good;
At length his flaming passion to control,
He cries, "The Lord have mercy on thy soul!
Thy case I pity, O thou man of might,
Although this practice once was my delight;
Calm thy fierce rage, and to old Sam attend,
Before destruction prove thy awful end.
I clearly see the spirit thou art in,
For I myself oft in the same have been;
And many a one like thee I've made to bend,
And brought their boasting valour to an end.
'Tis well for thee that I'm another man,
Or thou wouldst rue the day that this began;
I soon should settle all thy boasts and brags,
And make thy bones fall rattling on the flags!
Thou mayst thank God, whose power and grace divine,
Have chang'd this proud, rebellious heart of mine;
The love I feel to thee forbids the blow,
Which soon would lay thy boasting prowess low.
Restrain thy passion, give old Sam thine hand,
Be thankful that thou dost before him stand;
Go tell the men whom once I did adore,
Their wager's lost, old Sam will fight no more;
Tell them to save their money for their wives,
Give up their folly, and reform their lives;
To go and seek salvation while they may,
Before the wrath of God drives them away!"
Sam's noble speech so satisfied them all,
That not one there durst him a coward call.
"Although the wager 's fairly lost," say they,
"We all must own old Sam hath won the day!"
Now Sammy like a warrior stout and bold,
Seeks new companions, and forsakes the old;
While shouts of praise his ravish'd ears surround,
He hears, and understands, the joyful sound!
Yes, Sammy has a better master now,
And more substantial friends to deal with too;
Secure he leans on his Redeemer's breast,
And sweetly sings himself away to rest.
THOUGHTS ON GOOD FRIDAY:
Occasioned by seeing two "_Sinkers_" dragged out of a Coal Pit;
one of them killed, the other dreadfully wounded. At a short
distance, a busy crowd were preparing their tents and posts for
the approaching races, on Easter Monday and Tuesday. On
mentioning the fatal occurrence, and naming the day, a
bystander exclaimed, "O, Good Friday is nought!"
The morning sun shone dim, as if in pain,
To see that day by man so soon despised.
The feather'd choirs did heedless man reprove,
Who had more cause than they, with early song
To greet the morn, on which their Saviour bled.
Alas! that man should e'er forget his love!
Down, down the pit, the cheerful sinkers went,
Nor grief, nor fear through all the gloom appear'd;
Though at the bottom deep, grim death sat shrouded
In horrid features, measuring their minutes!
Foul was the air, and bad;--they saw him not,
Nor dream'd he was so near, nor held dispute,
On which the lot might fall, to be his victim:--
When suddenly, through wanton carelessness,
Or the just judgment of an angry God,
The kibble kick'd, brim full of splinter'd rock!
Down fell at once his ponderous instrument,
Full thirty fathom, whizzing as it went!
Beneath its heavy crash a victim fell,
And groan'd, nor ceas'd, till he had groan'd his last.
Then from behind the scene the monster stept,
And with his bony fingers hurl'd his dart:
Its point another touch'd, but not so deep.
Forth from the pit I saw the sufferers dragg'd,
I heard deep groans, and saw their mangled flesh.
The former then with grief was quick interr'd,
The other a poor halting cripple lives.
Where's now the man that says "Good Friday's nought?"
With accidents like this, God's swift judgments,
I could, if 'twere requested, fill these sheets;
But to the man who thinks, and judges right,
This may suffice. And is Good Friday nought?
Is that day nought on which our Saviour bled,
To buy our pardon, to save by suff'ring!
Open salvation's fount for crimson crimes,
And wash, and make us guilty lepers clean?
Alas for man! He sees, he feels it not!
Of old, men saw, and felt it, though far off.
The martyrs saw, own'd, and observ'd it too,
In fasting, prayer, and self-denial;
This made them march, when call'd, with holy joy,
To meet the dagger's point, or burning stake.
The earth once felt, and felt to her foundations;
The marble mountain felt, and quak'd, and shiver'd;
The sun felt, and grew dark; the heavens wept,
And hell beneath, in dismal groanings howl'd!
The serpent felt,--and still feels in his bruis'd head.
The Saviour!--Yes, the King of Glory felt,
In that sad cup his subjects should have drunk:--
Both in the temple, and the wilderness,
The street, the judgment hall,--in Pilate's scourge,
In cruel mockings, and the scarlet robe!
He felt it too beneath the rugged wood,
When He fatigued climb'd Calvary's steep brow!
He felt it in the hammer and the nails
That pierc'd his flesh, though he offended not!
He felt it in the reed, and crown of thorns!
He felt it in the hyssop, vinegar, and gall,
In strange upbraidings, and the soldier's spear!
He felt it in that mighty crush, which should,
And would have crush'd, his guilty murderers.
He felt it till his mortal part expir'd!
He feels it yet, and so do his disciples:
But the proud stiff-neck'd sinner feels it not;--
Perverse, he _will not_, yet one day he shall!
Though he at present, feast and garnish out
His wife's, or children's birth days, and his own,
With songs, and cards, and music, and the dance,
Yet this, like Job's day, shall be blotted out!
Though he _will not_, yet he shall regard it,
When God appears in majesty, and power,
Arm'd with thunder-bolts, and chariots of fire,
On all his foes to pour his vengeance!
Yes! All men then will wish to be his friends.
E'en those who have his words and grace despis'd,
Will wish their lives were to begin again!--
"Whither, O, whither shall the guilty flee,
When consternation turns the good man pale!"
TO A WITHERED FLOWER!
Withering Flower, upbraid me not!
Why cast on me that look so pale?
Why dost thou my attention court,
To listen to thy mournful tale?
Why bow thy head? Why bend thy neck?
Why look so drooping, wan, and cold?
To give my careless thoughts a check,--
And tell me _I_ am getting old!
Fading Flower, upbraid me not!
Still nodding with the gentle breeze.
Or dost thou think I have forgot,
I too am wasting by degrees?
For scarce can I believe my sight,
Who lately saw thee fresh and gay;
That beauty could so early blight,
Or such fresh colours fade away!
Drooping Flower, upbraid me not!
But turn to Sol's enlivening ray.
I in some climate cold or hot,
Must also sicken and decay!
Nay, why dost thou shake off thy leaf,
And show thy heart so fair and clean?
But mine to smite with inward grief,--
To feel the many plagues within.
Weeping Flower, upbraid me still!
For half the conquest thou hast gain'd.
Yes! listen to thy tale I will,
Until its meaning be explain'd.
Fair emblem thou of human life;
In thee its changing tints are seen;
Our visit here, so frail and brief,
Is painted in those tints of thine!
When in thy bud so rich and gay,
Thou did'st escape the spoiler's hand
That would have reft thy charms away,
'Twas pity check'd--and let thee stand!
While cherish'd by the blushing fair,
And waving on thy hardy stem,
Thy fragrance rich, perfum'd the air,--
Thou'rt blasted now to me and them!
Unlike to thee, whose task is done,
When Man shall quit this vale of tears,
After this life's short glass is run,
Man shall exist in nobler spheres.
All earthly glories fade away,
So transient and so insecure;
With us, alas, how short's their stay!
Prefigur'd by a dying Flower!
Yet we have cause to bless the day,
If weary of a life mispent,
By this thy exit, any may
Be led to ponder, and repent.
Thou transient teller of the truth,
May he who bids, and thunders roll,
Forgive the follies of my youth,
And stamp thy lesson on My soul!
THE COUNTRY LOVE FEAST.
(_Held in an old Barn, Farndale, Yorkshire._)
Sing, O my muse, in praise of Zion sing,
In praise of those who her glad tidings bring,
In praise to Him who left the courts above,
To manifest to us his Father's love!
Celestial powers, my heart and voice inspire,
If such a worm as I can feel your heav'nly fire;
To such a theme, to such a noble song,
Sublimer strains than I can reach belong.
Glory to God, whose mercy and free grace,
Are not confin'd to either time or place,
To bless, and save the fallen sons of men,
To cleanse believers, and to pardon sin.
O what an humble, yet exalted place,
Where Christians meet, the great I AM to praise.
A Barn!--A Temple! what a place is this!
Emblem of heav'n, and type of future bliss!
An earthen floor serves us on which to tread,
The roof is cover'd with the spider's web:--
To such is man's best righteousness compar'd,
By which full many a lofty head's ensnar'd.
No crimson pews distinguish rich from poor,
No brass inscriptions glitter on the floor,
No marble monuments adorn the wall,
No polish'd altars where men prostrate fall,
No tapestry doth hang the pulpit round,
No costly vaults are in this temple found,
No pealing organ's note delights the ear,
But what is better far,--our God is here!
Wherever two or three sincerely meet,
Who have towards Zion's city turn'd their feet,
'Tis there our God himself vouchsafes to be,
To bind the strong, and set the prisoner free.
The world's applause we cheerfully disdain,
And shelter here from company profane.
For as we differ, 'tis by Jesus' grace,
And 'tis His presence dignifies the place.
Before us here the bread of life is spread,
Behind are stalls where now the ox is fed.
Like that in Bethlehem where Jesus lay,
This stable now beholds a glorious day!
Here Pilgrims meet their travels to relate,
And when, and where they enter'd mercy's gate.
They tell us how their eyes with tears did fill,
When unbelief was wilful of its will.
They tell us how their sins did them oppress,
And fill'd their inmost souls with deep distress;
And how the Lord their burden did remove,
Pardon'd their sins, and fill'd their hearts with love.
They all rejoice to see each other's face,
To hear each prospers in the work of grace.
With one consent their cheerful hearts aspire,
And ecstasies of joy their bosoms fire.
Such times as these we think too soon are gone,
Our happy souls cemented into one!
We pray, and part, each to his distant home,
And still we cry, "Lord, let thy kingdom come!"
Both far and near his Kingdom doth extend,
Temples are rising both by sea and land.
The Bethel flag, high waving in the air,
Calls seamen to engage in praise and prayer,
Whole streets, reform'd, the great assembly join,
Speak with new tongues, and sing in songs divine.
Poor trembling sinners wipe their watery eyes,
And lamentations pierce the bowing skies!
Blasphemers fall beneath the power of God,
And statesmen flock to hear his Holy Word;
While some of them a portion find to spare,
Waste Zion's walls and bulwarks to repair.
See golden prospects round us rise,
See the dejected raise their downcast eyes,
The liberated captives shout applause
To Zion's King, and his victorious cause!
ODE TO BRITAIN.
Shine, Britain! Shine! Thy virtues we commend;
Thy light to distant nations shall extend.
A city on a hill cannot be hid,
Nor can'st thou be, while Heav'n lifts up thy head.
Shine, Britain! Shine! O send the bible forth,
To each benighted corner of the earth;
Till all with joy its richest blessings taste,
And share with us the glorious Gospel Feast.
O happy people! Highly favour'd Isle!
Which shares the sunshine of Jehovah's smile.
The scenes thy sons and daughters have enjoy'd,
Kings have desir'd to see, but were denied.
We hope the sound of discord soon will cease,
And angels sing a universal peace!
When barren lands with plenty shall abound,
And Christ be worshipp'd the wide world around.
At thoughts of this the lonely desert sings,
To see his altars throng'd with prostrate Kings;
To see great men of honour and renown,
Cast off the coronet to wear a crown!
Hasten, O Lord, the long--long wish'd for day,
When favour'd with thy truth's enlightening ray,
Poor Hottentots shall raise the song divine,
And savage Turks, the heav'nly concert join.
When Blacks and Whites, a vast redeemed throng,
Shall all unite to swell the mighty song;
Worship one God, and hail Him Lord and King,
Through the whole world the Saviour's praises sing.
A VOICE FROM THE DEAD!
Written on being uncivilly treated, when erecting some
Tombstones in ---- Church Yard, where the Author was denied the
use of any part of the Church, Porch, or Stable; was forbidden
to Letter the Stone in the Church Yard, though it was more than
a mile from the Church to the nearest convenient place for such
a work; and was also denied the Keys of the Gate:--yet at that
very time, the parson's horse and cow, were feeding on the
grass, tearing up the graves, and breaking down the stones,
while none dared to complain! On seeing the horse's leg sink
into a grave up to the lisk, the following thoughts suggested
themselves.
What foot is that disturbs my rest,
Which through my coffin lid hath press'd,
And caus'd my bones the air to feel?--
It is the parson's horse's heel!
'Tis hard so much as there's to pay,
That corpses cannot quiet lay,
But are by cow or horse plough'd up,
For priests to reap a three-fold crop!
Through such a process they must pass,
The grave, the tombstone, and the grass,
And Easter Offering beside:--
These claims must never be denied!
What though they do the grass devour,
And leave their dung against the door!
Pay up,--say nought,--'What's that to thou?'
It is the parson's horse or cow!
I know the living dare not grumble,
Nor at the parson's conduct stumble!
And when the simple truth is told,
Of dead men they can get no hold.
We thought no hammer was to sound,
Upon this consecrated ground,--
Yet cow or horse may grind our bones
And rub their sides against the stones!
Some think things so are constituted,
That masons' tools are all polluted,
But that the parson's horse or cow,
Like th' Church, is consecrated too!
Thus they may gallop o'er our graves,
And split our coffins into halves;
In spite of widows tears and groans,
May pastime make of dead folks' bones!
This is too hard for flesh and blood!
A thing which cannot be withstood;
A thing which inward grief imparts
To pious minds and tender hearts.
But men enthrall'd must never speak,
Nor for redress attempt to seek,
But with such creatures be content,
As Bishops have ordain'd and sent.
Like him who dwells upon the coast,
Who of the priesthood makes his boast,
Regardless what the flock endure,
"If he can but the fleece secure!"
His present residence and living,
Are of his earthly father's giving;
So none his title dare dispute,
For Bishops cannot turn him out!
Though life and conduct be profane,
He knows that men dare not complain;
Or soon he'd show them his degrees,
And take revenge in _tythes_ and _fees_!
Such workmen's labour is in vain
To keep their hands from bloody stain;
In vain they strive to show the road,
That leads to glory and to God!
No wonder if such Church decay,
If members leave it day by day,
Where tyrannising is the law,--
And till a change, it must be so.
The remedy will be unknown,
Till Priests are of the Spirit born;
Till they get hearts refin'd and pure,
Dissenters must their scorn endure!
TO THE MOOR BIRDS IN A STORM.
Ye birds of the Moor, I doubt you'll be poor,
The storm is quite likely to last;
The owl and the crow, are shelter'd below,
But you are expos'd to the blast!
The snow lies so deep, the hill is so steep,
My footsteps are feeble and slow,
O lend me your wings, ye dear little things,
To carry me over the snow!
Nay, I have no gun, so you need not run,
Nor cackle, nor spread out your tails;
No danger is near, you've nothing to fear,
The poacher is down in the dales.
The wind whistle's woe, through the valley below,
To the birds that are down in the wood;
You may hear by report, that the gun is afloat,
To scatter their feathers and blood.
If you'll be content, till the storm shall be spent,
And suffer no envy or strife;
No doubt but you may, on some future day,
Get fat, and escape with your life!
But if you encroach, or chance to approach,
The web-footed classes domain;
If wide you should stray, or fall out by the way,
A thousand to one but you're slain!
LINES ON RETURNING A BORROWED STICK OF SLENDERISH SIZE,
Which had been lent with a strict charge to take particular
care of it, and to return it as soon as done with.
To MR. WILLIAM HORNER, of Ripon.
Dear Billy, with thanks, I return thee thy switch,
Which has many times kept me out of the ditch.
I have found oft when stumbling o'er hillock or stone,
A slender supporter is better than none!
When the stars were beclouded and darkness prevail'd,
And the rain was descending, its aid never fail'd;
For it grop'd out my way, and assisted my sight,--
When my foot would have slipp'd, it kept me upright.
It never forsook me, or broke my command,
Unless it was when it slipt out of my hand;
Then myself it might blame, for not taking more care,
For when duty demanded it always was there.
It is rare upon earth to find such a friend,
On which one can always so safely depend;--
When help was most needed it paid most regard,
And never reprov'd me for using it hard!
THE THUNDER STORM.
The praise be thine, Almighty, matchless King,
Whose care and power, my muse presumes to sing;
Whose tender care protects, while thousands sleep,
The wakeful sea-boy on the mighty deep.
Thou dost from perils screen his naked head,
Which in a moment fill the world with dread;
Thou, while thy lightnings flash, and thunders roll,
Dost whisper secret peace into his soul!
The praise be thine, whose interposing power,
Protected us across yon lonely moor,
And through that night of terror and alarm,
Mysteriously preserv'd us all from harm!
That night of awful peril we record,
Ascribing all the glory to the Lord;
When from yon distant Meeting we return'd,
And pious friends at home our absence mourn'd!
The moon and stars at once withdrew their light,
And thus increas'd the horrors of the night,
Loud claps of thunder shook the sons of pride,
And female courage was severely tried!
The time pass'd on in conversation sweet,
While flaming lightning flash'd around our feet,--
Yet by the flash, in each believer's face
We read the sign of confidence and peace.
Some to our God did then devoutly pray,
While others sung that awful hour away;
A voice was heard, "Ye need not be afraid,
Whose hope is on the Rock of Ages stay'd!"
Our virgins trimm'd their lamps, and sweetly sung,
And tenderly around each other clung,
While, as through fire and flood they took their way,
Salvation was the burden of their lay.
'Midst dismal darkness the black clouds were driven,
With all the fearful majesty of heaven;
And then as if an angel cleft the cloud,
And show'd to man the glowing wrath of God,
More quick than either thought, or sight of man,
From north to south the flaming fluid ran;
The east and west burst into a blaze,
And guilty man beheld it with amaze!
It seem'd to warn the world against that day,
When earth and sky shall melt, and pass away!
The distant mountains seem'd to own his nod,
And cried to man, "Prepare to meet thy God!"
All glory be to our eternal King,
Who brought us all safe home His praise to sing.
May we both hear and keep his Holy Word,
And so fulfil the royal law of God!
THE MISER'S AWAY!
The miser's away, and he'll never come back,
Any more his rusty old guineas to crack,
By his niggardly fare, of potatoes and fish,
His successor enjoys a more plentiful dish.
I once had occasion to pass by his door,
Whose threshold so seldom was cross'd by the poor,
A kitten came out in its innocent play,
And pleasantly three-thrumm'd--"The Miser's away!"
The way weary traveller, to shorten the mile,
Sometimes has occasion to go by the style;
The gain that he gets, his spirit revives,
He cuts off an elbow, and sooner arrives.
Through one of his fields the pathway doth lie,
And very few 'scap'd the dint of his eye.
The gate as it opens and creaks, seems to say,
'Pass stranger, and welcome'--"The Miser's away!"
In his ancient old Intake, long kept without fence,
And without cultivation, for fear of expence,
By the plough, or the spade, the rough is made plain,
And the hopeful young husbandman scatters the grain.
Where the bones of the gimmer decay'd on the ground,
And nettles and briars were every where found,
Fine corn is now growing, all smiling and gay;
It had not been so, but--"The Miser's away!"
The birds haste away to the green holly bush,
The blackbird now tries to outrival the thrush;
They tip the tall branches on fluttering wing,
Make nearer approaches, and merrily sing.
The flowers in the garden around the bee-hive,
With unwonted freshness begin to revive,
To each new beholder their beauties display,
And whisper in perfume--"The Miser's away!"
Here among his old books his Sabbaths he spent,
On logic and physic sat making comment;--
He thought it would be the best method to use,
To save both his carcase, his money, and shoes;--
He'd be his own doctor, and preacher likewise,
And his old yellow heap, like a mountain would rise!
The riches he heap'd up, by night and by day,
Another has found, for--"The Miser's away!"
THE MISTAKE:
Containing a Moral for high looks, and forward folks.
Ye sportsmen bright of skill, and sight,
Who range o'er hill and dale;
Awhile give ear, and you shall hear,
A true and homely tale.
Ye friends at home, who seldom roam,
Much farther than the mill,
Be sure you're wise, and mind your eyes,
Or let your guns lie still.
It happen'd where, as you shall hear,
A building was erected,
That to complete its breadth and height,
Some workmen were collected.
One morning chill, before yon hill
Was gilded with the sun,
Or adze, or axe, or mallet had,
Their battering begun;
Two favourite ducks, had 'scaped the fox,
Well fed, and feather'd too;
In sportive play, aspiring they
Took wing, and off they flew.
With airy wheel, they quick did scale,
The lofty wall unscar'd,
The trees they topt, and down they dropt
A gun-shot from the yard.
A joiner ran, to fetch a gun
The wild ducks to secure,--
The gun he brought, with which he thought,
To make at least one fewer.
Through mist and dew, the contents flew,
A duck began to cry,
And one took flight, and left our sight,
Nor could we it espy.
This done, the man full swiftly ran,
To gather up his game,--
Both fore and aft, the people laugh'd,
To see his _wild_ duck _tame_!
He set her down, she gaz'd around,
Wond'ring at such abuse,--
But for her weight, or else she might
Have pass'd for a wild goose.
In friendship sweet, the ducks soon meet,
And talk their frolic o'er,
And in their play, they seem to say,
They'll fly so high no more.
Our thoughts oft may, our skill betray,
But actions they speak louder;
If he'd been still, he'd saved his skill,
Likewise his shot and powder!
THE BROKEN SEAL.
To sing of Southcotes clouded fame,
My muse presumes and tries to soar;
Though some may say, "Blot out her name,
Let it be seen or heard no more,"
I have a secret to reveal,
Effected by a broken Seal!