LVIII. THE NEW CONVERT.

THE new-born child of gospel grace,
Like some fair tree when summer's nigh,
Beneath Emmanuel's shining face

Lifts up his blooming branch on high.
No fears he feels, he sees no foes,

No conflict yet his faith employs, Nor has he learnt to whom he owes

The strength and peace his soul enjoys. But sin soon darts its cruel sting,

And comforts sinking day by day, What seem'd his own, a self-fed spring, Proves but a brook that glides away. When Gideon arm'd his numerous host,

The Lord soon made his numbers less; And said, "Lest Israel vainly boast1,

My arm procured me this success.' Thus will he bring our spirits down,

And draw our ebbing comforts low, That saved by grace, but not our own, We may not claim the praise we owe.

LIX. TRUE AND FALSE COMFORTS.

O GOD, whose favourable eye
The sin-sick soul revives,
Holy and heavenly is the joy
Thy shining presence gives.
Not such as hypocrites suppose,

Who with a graceless heart
Taste not of thee, but drink a dose
Prepared by Satan's art.
Intoxicating joys are theirs,

Who while they boast their light, And seem to soar above the stars, Are plunging into night.

Lull'd in a soft and fatal sleep,

They sin and yet rejoice;

Were they indeed the Saviour's sheep,
Would they not hear his voice!
Be mine the comforts that reclaim
The soul from Satan's power;
That make me blush for what I am,
And hate my sin the more.

"Tis joy enough, my All in All,
At thy dear feet to lie;
Thou wilt not let me lower fall,
And none can higher fly.

LX. A LIVING AND A DEAD FAITH.

THE Lord receives his highest praise
From humble minds and hearts sincere;
While all the loud professor says
Offends the righteous Judge's ear.
To walk as children of the day,

To mark the precepts' holy light,
To wage the warfare, watch, and pray,
Show who are pleasing in his sight.

1 Judges, vii. 2.

Not words alone it cost the Lord,

To purchase pardon for his own; Nor will a soul by grace restored

Return the Saviour words alone. With golden bells, the priestly vest,

And rich pomegranates border'd round, The need of holiness express'd,

And call'd for fruit as well as sound.

Easy indeed it were to reach

A mansion in the courts above,
If swelling words and fluent speech
Might serve instead of faith and love.
But none shall gain the blissful place,
Or God's unclouded glory see,
Who talks of free and sovereign grace,
Unless that grace has made him free!

LXI. ABUSE OF THE GOSPEL.

Too many, Lord, abuse thy grace
In this licentious day,
And while they boast they see thy face,
They turn their own away.

Thy book displays a gracious light

That can the blind restore;
But these are dazzled by the sight,
And blinded still the more.

The pardon such presume upon,
They do not beg, but steal;
And when they plead it at thy throne,
Oh! where's the Spirit's seal?

Was it for this, ye lawless tribe,
The dear Redeemer bled?
Is this the grace the saints imbibe
From Christ the living head?

Ah, Lord, we know thy chosen few
Are fed with heavenly fare;

But these, the wretched husks they chew,
Proclaim them what they are.

The liberty our hearts implore

Is not to live in sin;

But still to wait at Wisdom's door,
Till Mercy calls us in.

LXII. THE NARROW WAY.

WHAT thousands never knew the road!
What thousands hate it when 'tis known!

None but the chosen tribes of God
Will seek or chuse it for their own.

A thousand ways in ruin end,

One only leads to joys on high; By that my willing steps ascend, Pleased with a journey to the sky.

No more I ask or hope to find

Delight or happiness below; Sorrow may well possess the mind That feeds where thorns and thistles grow.

2 Exod. xxviii. 33.

To keep the lamp alive,

With oil we fill the bowl; "Tis water makes the willow thrive, And grace that feeds the soul. The Lord's unsparing hand

Supplies the living stream; It is not at our own command, But still derived from him. Beware of Peter's word',

Nor confidently say,

"I never will deny thee, Lord,”But,-" Grant I never may."

Man's wisdom is to seek

His strength in God alone; And even an angel would be weak, Who trusted in his own.

Retreat beneath his wings,

And in his grace confide!

This more exalts the King of kings 2 Than all your works beside.

In Jesus is our store,

Grace issues from his throne; Whoever says, "I want no more," Confesses he has none.

LXIV. NOT OF WORKS.

GRACE, triumphant in the throne,
Scorns a rival, reigns alone;
Come and bow beneath her sway!
Cast your idol works away!
Works of man, when made his plea,
Never shall accepted be;

Fruits of pride (vain-glorious worm!)
Are the best he can perform.

Self, the god his soul adores,
Influences all his powers;
Jesus is a slighted name,
Self-advancement all his aim:

But when God the Judge shall come,
To pronounce the final doom,
Then for rocks and hills to hide
All his works and all his pride!
Still the boasting heart replies,
What! the worthy and the wise,
Friends to temperance and peace,
Have not these a righteousness?
Banish every vain pretence
Built on human excellence;
Perish everything in man,
But the grace that never can.

LXV. PRAISE FOR FAITH.

Of all the gifts thine hand bestows,
Thou Giver of all good!

Not heaven itself a richer knows
Than my Redeemer's blood.
Faith too, the blood-receiving grace,
From the same hand we gain!
Else, sweetly as it suits our case,
That gift had been in vain.

Till thou thy teaching power apply,
Our hearts refuse to see,
And weak, as a distemper'd eye,
Shut out the view of thee.

Blind to the merits of thy Son,
What misery we endure!

Yet fly that hand from which alone
We could expect a cure.

We praise thee, and would praise thee more,
To thee our all we owe;

The precious Saviour, and the power
That makes Him precious too.

LXVI. GRACE AND PROVIDENCE.

ALMIGHTY King! whose wondrous hand
Supports the weight of sea and land;
Whose grace is such a boundless store,
No heart shall break that sighs for more;

Thy providence supplies my food,
And 'tis thy blessing makes it good;
My soul is nourish'd by thy word,
Let soul and body praise the Lord!

My streams of outward comfort came
From him who built this earthly frame;
Whate'er I want his bounty gives,
By whom my soul for ever lives.
Either his hand preserves from pain,
Or, if I feel it, heals again;

From Satan's malice shields my breast,
Or overrules it for the best.

Forgive the song that falls so low
Beneath the gratitude I owe!
It means thy praise, however poor,
An angel's song can do no more.

LXVII. I WILL PRAISE THE LORD AT ALL TIMES.

WINTER has a joy for me,

While the Saviour's charms I read, Lowly, meek, from blemish free, In the snowdrop's pensive head. Spring returns, and brings along Life-invigorating suns: Hark! the turtle's plaintive song Seems to speak his dying groans! Summer has a thousand charms, All expressive of his worth; "Tis his sun that lights and warms, His the air that cools the earth.

[Sweet

Both heart and head: and couldst with music Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, Esq.
April 16, 1792.

THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd
From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd,
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.
Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause;
Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution
And weave delay, the better hour is near [pause
That shall remunerate thy toils severe
By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws.
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love
From all the just on earth, and all the blest above.

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esq. June 2, 1792.

HAYLEY, thy tenderness fraternal shown,
In our first interview, delightful guest!
To Mary and me for her dear sake distress'd,
Such as it is has made my heart thy own,
Though heedless now of new engagements grown:
For threescore winters make a wintry breast,
And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest

Of Friendship more, except with God alone.
But thou hast won me: nor is God my foe,
Who, ere this last afflictive scene began,
Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow,
My brother, by whose sympathy I know
Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,

Not more to admire the Bard than love the Man.

TO GEORGE ROMNEY, Esq.

ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS, DRAWN AT EARTHAM
IN THE SIXTY-FIRST YEAR OF MY AGE, AND IN THE
MONTHS OF AUGUST AND SEPTEMBER, 1792.
October 1792.

ROMNEY, expert infallibly to trace

On chart or canvass, not the form alone And semblance, but however faintly shown, The mind's impression too on every face; With strokes that time ought never to erase Thou hast so pencil'd mine, that though I own The subject worthless, I have never known The artist shining with superior grace. But this I mark,-that symptoms none of woe In thy incomparable work appear. Well I am satisfied it should be so, Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear; For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?

TO MRS. UNWIN. May, 1793.

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings. Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things, That ere through age or woe I shed my wings, I may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings. But thou hast little need. There is a book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, On which the eyes of God not rarely look; A chronicle of actions just and bright:

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine; And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee

mine.

TO JOHN JOHNSON,

ON HIS PRESENTING ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER.

May, 1793.

KINSMAN beloved, and as a son, by me!
When I behold this fruit of thy regard,

The sculptured form of my old favourite bard,
I reverence feel for him and love for thee.
Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should be
Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward
With some applause my bold attempt and hard,
Which others scorn; critics by courtesy.
The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine,
I lose my precious years now soon to fail,
Handling his gold, which howsoe'er it shine,
Proves dross, when balanced in the Christian scale.
Be wiser thou;-like our forefather DONNE,
Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esq. June 29, 1793.

DEAR architect of fine CHATEAUX in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone, or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear;

O for permission from the skies to share,
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee, (not subject to the jealous mood!)
A partnership of literary ware!

But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays;
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequal'd worth:
But what is commentator's happiest praise?
That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,
Which they who need them use, and then despise.

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. (TO THE MARCH IN SCIPIO.)

WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED,

TOLL for the brave!

The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side;

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset ;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;

She ran upon no rock :
His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again

Full-charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone;
His victories are o'er ;
And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGII, CUI GEORGIUS REGALE NOMEN INDITUM.

PLANGIMUS fortes. Periêre fortes,
Patrium propter periêre littus
Bis quater centum; subitò sub alto
Æquore mersi.

Navis, innitens lateri, jacebat,
Malus ad summas trepidabat undas,
Cum levis, funes quatiens, ad imum
Depulit aura.

Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducam
Fortibus vitam voluêre Parcæ,
Nec sinunt ultra tibi nos recentes
Nectere laurus.

Magne, qui nomen, licet incanorum, Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti ! At tuos olim memorabit ævum Omne triumphos.

Non hyems illos furibunda mersit, Non mari in clauso scopuli latentes, Fissa non rimis abies, nec atrox Abstulit ensis.

Navitæ sed tum nimium jocosi
Voce fallebant hilari laborem,
Et quiescebat, calamoque dextram im-
pleverat heros.

Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque,
Humidum ex alto spolium levate,
Et putrescentes sub aquis amicos
Reddite amicis !

Hi quidem (sic Dis placuit) fuêre:
Sed ratis, nondum putris, ire possit
Rursus in bellum, Britonumque nomen
Tollere ad astra.

THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT.

FORCED from home and all its pleasures,
Afric's coast I left forlorn,
To increase the stranger's treasures,
O'er the raging billows borne.
Men from England bought and sold me,
Paid my price in paltry gold;
But, though slave they have enroll'd me,
Minds are never to be sold.

Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England's rights, I ask,
Me from my delights to sever,
Me to torture, me to task?
Fleecy locks and black complexion
Cannot forfeit nature's claim;
Skins may differ, but affection

Dwells in white and black the same.

Why did all-creating nature

Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water,

Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards, Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords !

Is there, as ye sometimes tell us,

Is there One who reigns on high? Has He bid you buy and sell us,

Speaking from his throne, the sky? Ask Him, if your knotted scourges, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means that duty urges Agents of his will to use?

Hark! He answers !-Wild tornadoes Strewing yonder sea with wrecks, Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, Are the voice with which he speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations

Afric's sons should undergo, Fix'd their tyrants' habitations Where his whirlwinds answer-No.

By our blood in Afric wasted,

Ere our necks received the chain; By the miseries that we tasted,

Crossing in your barks the main ; By our sufferings, since ye brought us To the man-degrading mart, All sustain'd by patience, taught us Only by a broken heart!

Deem our nation brutes no longer,

Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard and stronger

Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers, Prove that you have human feelings Ere you proudly question ours!

PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS.

Video meliora proboque, Deteriora sequor.——

I own I am shock'd at the purchase of slaves, And fear those who buy them and sell them are [groans

knaves; What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and Is almost enough to draw pity from stones.

I pity them greatly, but I must be mum,
For how could we do without sugar and rum?
Especially sugar, so needful we see ;

What! give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea?
Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes,
Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains:
If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will;
And tortures and groans will be multiplied still.
If foreigners likewise would give up the trade,
Much more in behalf of your wish might be said;
But, while they get riches by purchasing blacks,
Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks?
Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind
A story so pat, you may think it is coin'd,
On purpose to answer you, out of my mint;
But I can assure you I saw it in print.

A youngster at school more sedate than the rest,
Had once his integrity put to the test;
His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob,
And ask'd him to go and assist in the job.

He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd-"Oh, no!
What! rob our good neighbour? I pray you don't go.
Besides the man's poor, his orchard's his bread:
Then think of his children, for they must be fed."
"You speak very fine, and you look very grave,
But apples we want, and apples we'll have;
If you will go with us, you shall have a share,
If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear."
They spoke, and Tom ponder'd-"I see they will go:
Poor man! what a pity to injure him so!
Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could,
But staying behind will do him no good.
"If the matter depended alone upon me,
His apples might hang till they dropp'd from the
But since they will take them, I think I'll go too;
He will lose none by me, though I get a few."
His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease,
And went with his comrades the apples to seize ;
He blamed and protested, but join'd in the plan;
He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man.

THE MORNING DREAM.

'Twas in the glad season of spring,
Asleep at the dawn of the day,

I dream'd what I cannot but sing,
So pleasant it seem'd as I lay.

I dream'd that, on ocean afloat,

Far hence to the westward I sail'd, While the billows high lifted the boat,

[tree;

And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail'd.