Original, serious, and religious poetry :: :: University of Virginia Library

Say What is Charity? Is tongue of Man
Smooth as the surface of the silver lake,
Speaking the words mellifluent and sweet
The ear, enchanting, soothing to the sense,
Producing entertainment to the mind,
Procuring bounty by the use of sounds,
Accordant with the fancy of the brain?
If this be all, the Orator becomes
A tinkling cymbal, or as sounding brass,
Empty of wisdom, void of generous love,
Mere puff of rhapsody, mere word of nought,
Love to himself, but nothing to his God.

Though gift of speech may ponder on his tongue,
And all the mysteries of Heaven and Earth
Await his Judgment; though his faith be such,
That great temptations, like a mountain's mass,
Be moved to distance; though his goods bestowed,
In great abundance, feed and clothe the poor;
Nay though his body, to the martyr's stake,
Be bound and burnt, his soul will never feel
Unless by Charity inspired, and strong,
That glorious profit of the Christian's song.

But Charity is this.—To suffer long
And yet be kind; to love the very hand
That aims a blow of malice at thy breast.
To pray for those, who treat thee with their scorn,
And wish them well! Nay make them if thou canst,
In honor greater than thy very self.
To envy not possession of a friend,
Whether of mind, or property or pow'r,
But thankfully to strive to do thy best,

Without a wish of evil to the world.
To boast not vainly, of thine own conceit
And puff thy consequence by pride of life,
Disdaining those whom formerly thou knew'st
Thine equals in their state. 'Tis Charity
To bear thee kindly in a seemly way,
Seeking the good of any thou may'st love,
Not for thyself, but purely for thy God.
'Tis Charity, to keep within thy breast,
Those angry feelings, that would prompt revenge,
And make thee bluster, blunder out thy spite,
In speech of fury, or in hasty deed
As unbecoming magnitude of mind,
As gross vulgarity, doth nobleman.

'Tis Charity to check that inward joy,
Which fain would rise at other beings ill:
When others fall, 'tis Charity to help,
To teach, to alter, not to help to kill;
Such to rejoice in speaking boldly truth,

Not with intent of mischief, but in love,
In purest spirit, fearful not of man:
But dauntless, in the dangers of the world,
Falsehood regarding, as the worst of foes
To love, to life, to happiness. For such,
Built upon God, will willingly endure,
The worst of miseries, will bear them all.
Endure them all; yea, even to the last,
Believe the truth, and hold the scripture fast.
What shall not fail? The language of a man,
His words prophetic; or his thoughts of love;
All studies of the lore of ancient day,
All knowledge of the present shall begone.
All things we see, or speak, or do, or hear,
Within their period shall pass away—
All these shall fail. But never, never, shall
That best of feelings, which the wisest soul
Can ever here experience on earth,—
Foretaste of God, as God himself is love,
Pure Charity! thou fairest grace of life,

O never, never, shalt thou fail. For now,
In part imperfectly, we see thy bliss!
But life departing, perfected in love;
Thou wilt increase; and shine in purer ray;
More bright and lovely, 'gainst the coming day.
Faith, Hope, and Charity, preserve their zest,
But first of all, the last of these is best.

REFLECTION I.

God of my heart, thou Lord of life!
O, keep my spirit, keep it pure,
O, let not envy, malice, strife,
This heart of mine endure.

Fixed on the throne of brightest love,
My spirit guide mine eye;
Ah! there is happiness above,
There pleasure thou'lt descry!

The soul is good inspired by Thee;
The soul redeemed is thine;
As thou art good, impart to me,
Thy goodness so divine!

Divine delight, thou word of God,
Thine influence impart;
For thou, whenever thou dost nod,
Command'st my inmost heart.

My heart is thine, my life is nought
Without thy gracious word:
God, thou art good; and mortals ought
To call thee “Gracious Lord.”

REFLECTION II.

Is there a thought can move the eye
To dwell on scenes of bliss?
That thought must dwell on mystery,
On other world than this.

Far other scenes delight the soul;
Far other scenes of joy;
Where mortal sin has no controul,
There's life without alloy.

Life! life eternal! what art thou?
O what is thy delight?
My thinking soul intently now
Surveys thee clear and bright.

O thou art peace, delightful peace,
Sweet wisdom, knowledge, love;
With thee all mystery must cease,
In thee my God I'll prove.

Then think of life, for life it must,
Ere long with me begin;
First must my body lie in dust,
Then rise without its sin.

REFLECTION III.

God, is the Lord, who reigns above,
God, is the Lord, of life and love,
God, is all gracious, good, and wise;
O waft his name beyond the skies!

Waft it spirits, waft it far,
Beyond the light of yonder star;
For glory shines where purest fame,
Reveals alone Jehovah's name.

Earth and Heaven, speak the Lord,
Revelation tells his word;
Works of love his spirit show,
God is Lord above, below.

Come my soul, and quickly feel,
And thou my body humbly kneel;
Tongue declare, in words sublime,
What thy hope at present time!

Hope is fix'd on him alone,
Who lives with God, Eternal One!
Hope that makes it understood,
How Christ redeemed thee with his blood.

REFLECTION IV.

O tell me heart, can ought of joy inspire,
The secret fervor, spirit moving fire,
Of wisdom, love, religion, peace, and bliss,
In scenes of tumult in a world like this?

O! think thee heart, for spirit stirs thee there,
And deep reflection tells thee to prefer
The silent motions of a moment's thought,
Beyond the tumult. Say then, is there ought,
But, insipidity or dread or doubt?
Disgusting vision, where the heart is stung,
By noisy clamour, and the soul is wrung
With bitter feeling, to behold mankind,
Indulge in folly, beings without mind.

Ah! well my heart no pleasure can bestow,
A moment's satisfaction, when 'tis so:
Yet so it is, the eye may rest awhile,
On scene like this, the countenance may smile,
The tongue may speak, but wisdom can be found,
Where virtue, love, and harmony abound.
And there alone!—The Pageants of delight,
Can only gratify our mortal sight.
But truth will rouse the dormant soul within,
And man will learn frivolity is sin.

REFLECTION V.

The chords of music deeply touch the soul
Of thoughtful beings: as the volumes roll
In sounds of pleasure o'er the human ear,
Sweet thoughts arise, more grateful than the dear
Enchanting dreams of happiness and love;
Sweet thoughts of purity in realms above.

Sounds sweet and lasting, tremble as they fly,
And leave impression as they hasten by;
The soul receives the concord of the sound,
And spirit takes the rapture in its bound;
The secret breathing elevates the mind,
And leaves the world and vices far behind.

If ought disgusts or shocks my soul with pain
When woman sings, 'tis when the vicious stain
Of well known character destroys the zest,
Of song most lovely from the female chest.
But nought is charming, when a woman's tongue,
One moment vicious, sings an angel's song.

As bird of night, or early bird of morn
Their thrilling notes emit, the tones are borne
With innocent impression to the heart;
And there the influence of peace impart.
So woman's voice, when woman's virtues live,
Transcendant pleasure to our senses give.

REFLECTION VI.

O God of love! me think me what a sight
To see two armies marching to the fight,
Or men of war in full and awful sail,
Approaching dreadfully in gentle gale;
Yet far from gentle in themselves! O war!
Dread devastation; how thy horrors mar
The heart of feeling. Think thou, think thou man,
How honors come, where horrors have began.

Go to the death; go, fools, and wise, and free,
Give up your lives, and glory o'er the sea.
Strike the strong blow with well directed blade,
And send thy foeman to his fated shade;
Glory in conquests, glory in the life
Of horrid carnage, death devoted strife.

But when O God, shall influence divine,
Proclaim that Christians may at length be thine?
When shall wars cease? Ah when that moment strange,
When hearts of creatures undergo their change
From bad to good, from hate to love and light,
From war to peace? That moment, I invite!
O come! O come! our very souls arrange,
Commence O Spirit, this important change.

LINES WRITTEN IMPROMTU IN FOX'S BOOK OF THE MARTYRS.

Ye sacred Martyrs bold in Jesus' cause,
How my Soul pays to you, your just applause.
Souls such as yours, should, live in every age,
And stamp a triumph in our modern page.
Speak, think, and act, in every written line,
This world, and all its vanities outshine;
Boldly declare the truth of doctrines sound,
And for the Word of Righteousness be bound.
Be bound; aye even to their latest breath,
And part with life to glory in their death;—

Count it all honor, tho' no earthly boon,
To die for Heaven. For alas how soon,
Man must give up this life, and all its pleasures,
Its fleeting honors and its fickle treasures:
Better then, dying as a Christian should,
In brave defence of every thing that's good:
With Christ to live triumphant in the skies,
When man from death to judgment shall arise:
God all in all, and man in perfect state,
Mortal no more, no more exposed to fate.
But there in honor, there in bliss sublime,
With Christ cemented; through eternal time.—

REFLECTION VII.

Go to ye wise, ye learned of the earth,
Ye who can boast of wealth, and pride, and birth,
Go to and tell me, can ye think to rise,
In midst of nothingness beyond the skies?
Ye lift yourselves, and puff, and snuff the air,
As if the world were made for ye. Beware
The world has nothing, nothing worthy pride,
No good to boast of, nothing to divide
Amidst her votaries but strife, and hate,
Disgusting follies, pride, and pomp, and state;
Some feeble pageants, momentary dreams
Of fancied pleasures; with a bliss that seems
Enchanting to the eye; but ask the mind
How much delight the intellect can find,

In half those treasures which the world would call
The summum bonum; chief of all in all.
Go to, go to, ye think yourselves above
The herd of creatures that delight to rove
O'er nature's face; ye swell, and boast, and bear,
The outward form of sanctity; but are
Within deceitful; ye deceive your hearts,—
The world, no wisdom or delight imparts.
But be ye wise, and take advice as given;
The world gives nothing; Revelation, Heaven.

LINES WRITTEN TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD'S FAMILY, ON THE EVE OF THEIR DEPARTURE FROM IPSWICH.

My Friends farewell, to foreign climes ye roam,
And seek in Brussels, the delights of home.
Ye haste from Suffolk, down the Orwell's tide;
In stranger bark; with stranger sail ye glide.
O'er river dear, too dear to poet's mind,
Ye sail to-morrow. Ere ye leave behind,
The poet's shore, the poet's house and home,
Accept his wishes as they chance to come.

Orwell, thou tide, beloved, admired, and known,
Thou sweetest river, which I call mine own,
Bear up the bark, that bears my friends away,
And take them safely, since they will not stay.
Ye breezes blowing o'er the hills around,
Send forth your murmurs; let the rushing sound,
Declare your readiness, and if ye please,
Concentrate all of you in one fair breeze.
Hills, woods, and cliffs, ye tests of nature's spell,
Speak in sweet smiles the honest truth farewell.

Farewell my friends, in sorrow's darkest hour,
Mine has been duty, to assuage the power
Of mortal agony, to calm the soul,—
And teach the spirit to assume controul,
O'er nature's weakness. Can that day of woe,
Once past, forgotten be? or meant to show,
A proof of weakness. No, ye must be strong,
Retain your strength, as globule borne along,

From mountain's height, rolls sweeping to the plain,
Snow gathering snow; increasing but to gain
Still further increase; gather as ye go,
The Spirit's peace; the comforter in woe.

Again farewell! though all the world could give
Of rich accomplishments; and virtues live
Embosomed in your hearts, ye've none so high,
As that within ye; inward piety.

Accept the wish, or, call it word more fair;
The Spirit's fervor, or the heartfelt prayer.
May God protect ye, may his Spirit dwell
In peace among ye; take the word farewell.

REFLECTION VIII.

Come again, O come to me,
Spirit speaking piety:
My soul inflate, my heart expand,
And teach me Lord to understand.

Spirit thou around me art,
Guardian of my life and heart;
Never, never, be supine,
Ever, ever, be thou mine.

Weary life, refresh with love,
Love of life from God above!
O let my heart reprieved by Thee,
Triumphant feel in piety.

Earth around me smiling gaily,
Youth and life increasing daily;
O strengthen thou if so inclined,
My soul and body, heart and mind!—

Spirit thou canst keep me here,
Full of youth, and free from fear;
Make my heart a happy home,
Come again! O Spirit come.

REFLECTION IX.

This summer day what joy to take a trip
To Orwell's banks: to sail, to swim, and dip;
To dash in headlong, midst the spray and foam,
And then to feel, aye, really feel at home.

As buoyed upon the wave, to float and play,
And yet to struggle onward in the way:
To swim from point, to ballast wharf, or quay,
O surely monarchs, this is liberty.

This very day, the river's channel crost,
The poet felt as waves around him tost,
That life, with liberty of mind and frame,
Were worth more glory than a mighty name.

The depth below him, terrors could have none,
Since God above him an Almighty One,
Protects alike, by ocean, air, or land,
The faithful servant, who obeys command.

O Gracious Lord, thou Guardian God of Love,
Keep me from perils, let me ever prove
In spirit faithful, and in courage brave,
By morn, by night, on land, in air, or wave,
For thou alone, art able to preserve,
The spirit's breath, or body's active nerve.

REFLECTION X.

Men mortals, heroes, tell me if in life,
A blessing can be greater than a wife,
Kind, fond, and faithful, watchful of thy good,
Pure, mild, and gentle; one who never would
For love of life, for love of ought but thee,
Consent to dwell in blissful unity.

The eagle soars, the early lark the same,
The nightingale, the robin red breast tame,
The linnet, goldfinch, blackbird, mistle thrush,
The sparrow, wood lark, reed bird of the rush;
All who take wing enjoy their native air;
But none fly free from danger or from care.

The dove sits cooing in her ivy shade,
The little wren flits lightly o'er the glade:
The pigeon flies; the pecker of the tree;
Just like a vessel o'er a stormy sea;
Now rising high, now sweeping in the curve,
Sinking and tow'ring. All who live preserve,
Their lives in harmony, in happy pairs,
Instinctive nature; sympathy is theirs.

But man; aye men whom God and nature love,
May be more happy tenants of the grove,
If spirit be within them, they may be
On earth expecting their felicity—
Do they but love, in soul; they may in life,
Be thankful, grateful for a loving wife.

REFLECTION XI.

My Lord, my God, my King, my Saviour too,
My spirits zest.—
My heart, my soul, myself, my body view,
And give them rest.
The world, the pride, the hate, the strife of man,
O make them end!
The love, the soul, the mind, the heart again,
O let them blend.

O hasten on, ye mortals move,
The world grows old, and lessens love.—
This summer day, the earth refresh'd with rain,
Has smiled, to-morrow will look green again.

So earth in man, the dust, or mould, or clay,
Revived, will smile upon the Judgment day.

O come that hour,
Of mighty power,
That day of Judgment! come!
Till then O Lord,
Thy blessed Word,
Must be my hope and home.

TRUTH.

Fair object, brighter than the stars of Heaven,
More gracefully adorned, than ought the eye
Of mortal vision can perceive; thy light
O'er souls of immortality expands,
And glorifies eternity. Fair truth,
Thou emblem of the God of perfect grace,
Thou soul inspiring something, yet unseen.
For ever prompting, ever holding forth,
The light of loveliness; thou holiest bliss,
Thou sweetest pleasure; what is life to those
Who live without thee? Life indeed is sin,
Where thou extinguished doth not give thy light,
Chaos of darkness; world of nothing worth.
Sad field of misery. O think ye men,
Ye men of sense, O think it in your youth;
That life is sin without the love of truth.

REFLECTION XII.

In danger Lord, of sin and death and woe,
Is every mortal in this vale below.
Our sinful bodies, made of earthly dust,
Are full of heaviness; of pride and lust.
This frame of mine, this body is of sin,
Without imperfect, and no less within.
I feel imperfect; nay I know my form,
Is little more than body of a worm.
Yet spare me God, O let thy Spirit come,
And make this clay its resting place and home.
For nought but thou canst animate the soul,
And make it firm, and stedfast in controul.
Nought but thy Spirit, operating here,
Can quell disease, and overthrow all fear.

O but for thee, no joy could ever press
Within this tenement, and seek to bless,
Support my soul, my body, or uphold
The love of truth, above the love of gold.
But thou canst keep and cherish and impart,
Thy peace and comfort in the human heart.
In mine preserve them! Lord preserve in mine,
That dear good seed which leads me to be thine.

FOR RAIN.

Spirit from the clouds above,
Pour down thy gentle rain;
Accept the humble pray'r of love,
Give us thy dew again!

The earth is dry, the soil around,
Is powdered into dust!—
The grass grows brown upon the ground,
And looks like fatal rust!

This sabbath day, accept my prayer,
O Lord receive request;
The voice of humble Christians hear,
O let the earth be blest.

My thankful spirit shall relate,
Thy goodness Lord this day,
If show'rs of mercy should await,
My wishes whilst I pray.

RETURN FOR RAIN.

Thy gentle rain has slowly come,
Refreshing earth and air;
Lord I am grateful, burthensome,
Yet never will despair.

Though to myself, a load of sin,
Yet Lord be thou my light;
My heart and senses sweetly win,
To wisdom purely bright.

The rain is sweet, in time of dearth;
Thy Word is doubly kind:
The one delights the weary earth,
The other cheers the mind.

O softly as the dews of Heaven,
Thy love descends on all!
To all the good, thy love is given,
On thee the good shall call!

REFLECTION XIII.

Peace, peace! The dead lie buried in the earth,
Time sweeping o'er them, changes them to dust.
The lovely form, the spirit speaking smile,
The lips of beauty, eye of kindest beam,
All that the vision of this mortal sight,
Can love to dwell upon; must know the grave.

Aye there ye lie, God's blessing on your souls,
O happy death! to die in righteous cause,
O happy death, to feel the sinking frame,
Yet rising spirit, resting upon God.
Relying on salvation. Such be mine,
O Heaven grant it! Spirit make me thine.

Yet here I think, a mother, in whose eye
I strove to gain that little mead of praise,
Which fiery spirit, and a stirring soul
Seem'd to inspire, lies buried in the dust:
O she was strange, aye, strange in mind and form;
A woman, with the spirit of a man,
And yet not masculine. Me think me now,
A woman's spirit seems to move in me;
At least if tenderness express that word.
O mother! weep I? yes I can but weep,
Ah me! to think of thee and all the good
In thousand ways, thy gen'rous spirit did.
Ah grieve ye children, grieve ye sons of poor;
Ye destitute and friendless: she was friend,
To all she could assist. But earth contains
All that was visible of her I loved.—
O yet I think, that eye so keen, so bright,
So clear, so quick, and penetrating too,
Beneath whose glance, my very soul would shrink,
If ought of wickedness had harboured there,

Would shrink to consciousness of worthless deed.
I think I see it, now it speaks of love,—
Ah, now of glory! now of honor, peace,
Of joy, and happiness. And now me thinks,
It seems to glisten with affection's tear.
Pity, compassion, tenderness, respect,
From one expression quickly changes now
To one more full of fire. The poet's thought
Has made it swell as if the very orb
Would spring from socket, now it does subside.
All placid goodness, now 'tis full of mirth.
O friends of pity, you who love the line
Of pure affection; tell me if regret
Now that no longer such a mother's eye
Can look upon her son, be not that sons.
The day is gone. Her day, her day of life
And night is now the portion of that eye,
Which beam'd so lovelily, that though her son,
I looked, admired, and loved to see it shine,
And would have had it if I could behold

Her sons pursuits. But memory must hold,
Or else this brain, in such a strange pursuit
Will strain to misery, as resting here
On deeds, looks, smiles, words, thoughts, and tears,
Now gone for ever; did I say for aye?
O no. I hope, I trust, I will but pray,
And may that prayer be heard, that she and I,
May meet again in Heaven. Say Amen,—
Stranger refuse not, say Amen with me.
Can I forget my mother's fond embrace?
Can I forget the features of her face?
Can I forget the parent's anxious care?
Can I forget her talents great and rare?
Can I forget her look, her eye, her mind?
Can I forget though left so far behind?
O no, I cannot. God, through thee alone!
I trust eternity will make us one.

REFLECTION XIV.

Who cares for the poet, who cares for his line,
He may write if he pleases, may write and repine:
He may wander o'er nature, may dip into art,
But he never will soften an obdurate heart.

O yes let him win thee to piety's shrine,
He will write all the day, and will measure his line,
He will think it no hardship, will think it no pain,
To write of religion, again and again.

But alas my sad heart, there are none that will try
To speak of those pleasures of truth, and comply
With the wish of his heart, to discourse upon bliss,
Upon life, upon love, upon subject like this.

Does he speak of religion; alas in the throng,
He's a youth, but a boy, and was nurtur'd among
The scenes that surround us; O surely his word
It cannot be wisdom, he's not to be heard.

And yet if I leave this dear place of my birth,
I leave the sweet spot that I love on the earth:
The Orwell and Ipswich, the banks and the town,
In nature I love ye, my nature I own.

Yet leave ye I must, and perhaps for my good,
Since I feel more attached, than I certainly should:
But the day will be heavy, though joy may succeed,
My work will employ me, I'll sow the good seed.

Dear river, dear woods, hills, and places around;
When I leave ye, O dismal the thought to be found,
No longer beside ye, no longer to see,
These scenes of my boyhood, ah sorrow to me

The joy that I view in a field of delight,
Though it may not be pleasant to natural sight:
When I leave my dear town, will be ever to teach,
The young of my parish, and all in my reach.

My God will protect me, and give me his grace,
I pray he will call me to see face to face;
All the truth of his works, all his wisdom above,
His wonders in Heaven, his wonders of love.

O nature I love thee, yet more I esteem,
Thy Lord and Creator, who loves to redeem:
In the mean time, Great Spirit, my spirit inspire,
And purge me from evil, with spirit of fire.

TO LOVERS.

Ye lovers who feel ye could give all your love,
To prove your affection is constant and dear;
Who have sighed and regretted, who inwardly prove,
Your life is as nothing if love do not cheer;
Have ye ever felt sorrow,
Whilst comfort you'd borrow?
From hope of affection,
Alas met rejection!
O think ye what painful sensation is given;
Rejected by love from the presence in Heaven.

O never be thine on the earth to lament,
The loss of affection, a fatal event!
For the heart must decay, if it fixes its bliss
On the hope of attachment in sorrow like this!
May the honest for ever,
United ne'er sever,
O nothing e'er part,
Their affectionate heart:
But love be for ever unclouded with leaven,
In earth be respected, triumphant in Heaven.

REFLECTION XV.

How sweetly time is passing by,
With some it passes gaily,
Some laugh and sing whilst others cry,
Some mourn and sorrow daily.
O thou and I,
Will go and try
Our lot upon the plain;
Success attend
Our latter end,
And make us free from stain!

How slowly sweeps the sail along,
When breezes blow but calmly,
How heavily the stupid throng,
Sing sonnets sad and qualmly,
But they who feel,
Can only tell,
The poet's pleasure truly;
To write inclined,
With heart and mind;
His love and feeling fully.

REFLECTION XVI.

Lord let my prayer ascend to thee,
I feel my own impiety;
I know there's sin,
Within, within;
I feel it tear,
My vitals there;
Forgive me Lord, and if I live;
Forgive me Lord, forgive! forgive!
Lord let my prayer ascend to thee,
Deep is my heart's humility!
I know my crime,
At present time,

I know and feel,
And need not tell,
For thou around me seest me live,
And know'st my ways; forgive! forgive!

Great God unto thee I my errors declare,
Thou knowest my heart, and my sins what they are,
I need not proclaim them, I need not name sin,
For I feel in my conscience a burning within.

Ah who Lord can ever from presence like thine,
Seek to cover his errors, I cover not mine.
I do not defend them, I cannot with thee;
With mercy behold them! I offer no plea.

From Heaven, thy goodness has day after day,
Been pour'd upon worthless, and arrogant clay,
Yet the spirit within me is ever expressing,
Thy goodness, thy love, pity, mercy, and blessing.

O pardon me Lord for my errors now past,
O pardon through Him who alone can be chaste,
My God, I will trust, I will hope, I will say,
For ever permit me in duty to pray.

I will pray to the Lord,
Through his Spirit and Word:
God be with me both now and for ever!
O merciful maker,
May I be partaker,
Of thy Heaven and part from it never.

VIRTUE.

There is in virtue such a pleasing grace,
No tongue can speak it, but the heart can feel;
Ye sons of men what pleasure to retrace,
A day of virtue or the truth reveal!
Ye would not wish for more abundant weal,
Than that which love, true virtue, goodness, give,
Ye would not wish it, cannot whilst ye live.

'Tis not hypocrisy,—I often try
If such be feeling of my inmost soul.
I often find all other pleasures fly,
But virtue, only virtue, can controul.
With ardent brain, I hasten to the goal,
That goal is victory, O not of sword,
But everlasting ever peaceful word.

A man and mortal, I have nature's force,
Nature is powerful, but not so strong
It bears all other feelings from their course,
And urges promptitude of deed along.
For something stronger, something not so wrong,
My spirit's strength, which give me present pleasure,
Is always saying, make thy God thy treasure.

REFLECTION XVII.

There comes a time and quickly too
When hearts shall be disclosed;
When they who live if living true,
Shall only be transposed;
Transported then shall Christians be,
O God! O God! O pardon me!

My words must fail, my tongue must cease,
My hand alas! grows cold,
O let thy spirit give me peace,
Before my days are told;
O come to me! O come! O come!
O give me comfort! be my home!

Thou art alone the only joy
For sorrows earth has many,
God is true love without alloy,
But perfect are not any;
Whoever loves religious voice,
Will be most perfect in his choice.

RETURNING HEALTH; LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. B---T.

UPON THE AUTHOR'S RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

'Tis well,
Thou who hast seen so much of misery,
And done so much to mitigate its pain!
Dost thou thy patient ask to give his thoughts
In words expressive of returning health?
Nay let me rather ask of thee, for thou
Canst better speak, perhaps canst better feel
The force of such delight.—

Hast thou beheld
When life was almost spent, when scarce the breath
Which the Almighty Spirit hath infused

Into our earthly organs, holds its sway;
When pangs and throbs were o'er; when every vein
And every muscle of the face and limbs,
Seemed resting in the tranquil sleep of death;
Hast thou in dread suspense, beheld the eye
Which erst was fixed, now gently move, and turn,
The eye-lid twinkle, then expand, collapse,
And vision seemingly restor'd, perceived
Some token of perception in that soul,
Which but just now had vanished? If thou hast,
Speak how thine heart expanded at the sight.
How every nerve, felt tremblingly alive
To quick sensations of riviving hope.
How hope increased, with each increasing sign
Of Animation! Was not this delight?
If not to thee, yet to those anxious eyes
'Twixt hope and dread, which watched the pallid form
Of parent, brother, friend, protector, wife,

Or lov'd associate? Joy beyond conceit,
Must it have been to them, as sense return'd,
With motion, thought, and action. But to him,
How shall I speak the pleasure of his soul,
Who sunk beneath the oppression of disease
Of long duration, finds himself reviv'd,
Restored again to recognition,
To the long, the loving, much endearing gaze
Of friends and relatives; to welcome smiles,
The fond expression of affections tongue.
O I can think and feel, but cannot speak
The bliss unutterable. Words may sound
Enchanting to the ear, delight the mind;
Inspire the intellect, expand the soul;
But silent grief, and silent joy speak best,
The feeling language of the o'er flowing heart.
How shall I tell of rising thoughts, when life
Begins a fresh, when every thing around
Seems newly modelled to his freshened brain,

As health invigorates his faculties.
Shall I describe the first bewitching scene,
Which nature offers to his senses, though beheld,
From open casement; tell how bright the sun,
How green the grass, how pure the soften'd air,
How rich the distant hills diversified
With light and shade, whilst here and there,
Some animated speak of moving life,
Enliven'd and embolden'd all the scene.
No! I reserve it for those days of joy,
Unmix'd with pain or torturing alloy,
Which see my captive once again repair,
From close confinement to enjoy the air:
When health returning, animates his soul,
Dispels disease, and banishes controul.
As some poor fly, awoke from torpid state,
Feels 'neath the sun, his tiny wings dilate,
His blood grow warm, his limbs elastic prove,
Shakes his small form impatient still to move.

Strength gathering slowly, 'neath the glowing ray,
See him glide onward in the sunny way.
Till grown more strong, and freed from chilling pain,
He flits and flutters, tries the air again.
At length confirm'd, resumes his rapid flight,
Darts here and there, on wings of pure delight;
Begins new life, enjoys the opening day,
And feels returning health, drive care away.
So he, the cheerful subject of this theme,
Awaken'd as from long and painful dream,
Again walks forth, and treads the verdant sod,
Reads in the face of nature, natures God.
Feels in full force, his influence divine,
And prays with fervor, “be thou ever mine.”
Renew'd in spirit, and in health refresh'd,
Thus doubly happy, being doubly blest.—

O 't would be well if man could ever feel,
In health and strength, such animating zeal.

Such fervent gratitude, such love divine,
Nor own in innocence himself supine;
But walk in purity, and ever be
The faithful servant of the Deity.—
Thus health and life, in unity sublime,
Would be cemented till the end of time.

TO THE GOOD.

Where are ye good? O come to me,
Come hasten o'er the passing scene,
Most dearly should I love to see,
The good that are and may have been.
Together could I once be like,
We'd fly along in liberty,
O'er virtues valleys, boldly strike,
And feel and own the good are free.

Observe the roebuck; see him bound,
Observe the chamois on the hill,
The birds of Paradise around,
With notes of love the valleys fill.

All nature leaps for joy of peace,
The notes of wisdom ponder still,
O never may such chaunting cease,
As long as good can have their will.

Where are the good? O who will come?
O who will straightly take the road?
Come, come ye Christians to your home,
Forsake the deadly sinful load,
Arise ye good! arise, be free,
The Christians life, is liberty.

TO THE UNFORGIVING.

What will ye never, never lose that pride,
That makes ye nothing; makes ye mad with hate;
Will never nature, or affection chide,
And make ye think of other better state;
Or, will ye furiously still debate,
And dwell on injury, O never done:
Ye cannot fancy friendship till too late,
And never can be happy 'neath the sun,
O wake ye, wake, or linger out your day,
A mock to charity. Forgive O Lord I pray.

No ye will never; how then will ye feel,
When standing at the Judgment seat, ye say,
“Lord when on earth accustomed both to kneel
“And use thy language, we did daily pray,

“Forgive our trespasses O Lord this day;
“As we ourselves our trespassers forgive.”
How will ye feel when wisdom says, away!
Ye did not pardon! did not let him live,
Who would have been affectionate and kind,
Away. The merciful to justice is inclined.

Say has the kite compassion on the lark?
The wolf on lamb? the lion on the kid?
Has light connexion with the hated dark?
Will wild hyena do as he is bid?
Will haughty arrogance be good when chid?
Will blood hound thirst not for the love of gore?
Will miser generously lift the lid,
And spend in charity, his sordid store?
O no, no never; nor the hardened heart,
Cease, unforgiving, cease to act a cruel part.

O pride thou fosterer of deadly strife,
Thou purse proud monster of disgustful form,

Thou hated pageant of a worthless life!
Demon of fury! president of storm!
How swells the sycophant, at best a worm,
Who cannot find within his evil breast,
A feeling of affection, to disarm
The savage pride of nothingness; at least,
To check the devil; who in human face
Of cruel man or woman, dares to shew his trace.

Enough my line, the unforgiving man,
Or spiteful woman, vengeful in her ire,
May one day suffer for their deadly plan,
And should they, nothing of delight will fire
The breast of one, whom friendship should inspire,
No pleasure to the good; but rather pain,
O gladly would affection strike the lyre,
And bid kind harmony appear again;
But unforgiving will imbibe the leaven
On earth be miserable; cursed too in Heaven.

CHRISTMAS DAY, 1826.

What shall I say, O shall I call it joy,
Thou day of days! when harmony within
In midst of tumult, quieted alloy,
And bade new prospects suddenly begin?
When sorrow banished, faded thought of sin
And love made happy other souls than mine;
When parish bells resounding with their din,
Bade busy feeling wake the poet's line
In wildest strain of thought, of care, of love,
Of pleasure, pain on earth, and happiness above.

What shall I say? O how describe my heart,
That heart is tranquil, but it has been sad;
It felt for others bitterly the smart,
And others felt it probably as bad.

O life is awfully yet nobly clad,
When virtue rises, and resolves to try,
That daring venture which the bravest had
To conquer evil with its remedy.
When noble thoughts the poet's bosom swell,
What words of giant magnitude his heart can tell.

'Tis midnight; lonely seated by his fire,
His thoughts are bending o'er the sleeping throng,
The day is past; God bless each son and sire,
Each happy mortal as he moves along;
Peace, peace, pure peace, attend upon my song,
And bless the sleeping; let them rise above
The thoughts of evil, bless them old and young,
O bless mankind thou purest God of Love!
Sleep on ye mortals sleep ye, happy be;
Arise to-morrow cheerful, be ye ever free.

The day is past; O have I thought of love,
Celestial goodness in the birth of Son?

I have Great God, below, around, above,
My body, soul, and spirit thereupon,
Have rested mediative; all is gone;—
Time, time itself, will prove my firmest plan,
And years to come develope what alone
My full imagination only can;
But here to night resolve I morrow's sun,
Shall see that work of years, that work of love begun.

My dearest friends! my father, brothers, kin,
I've wished ye all a happy Christmas Day!
All others too, ere sleepless rest begin,
I wish the same! and solemnly I pray,
My enemies converted happy may
From this day forward, cherish in their soul;
The purest precept of affections sway,
And feel in future heavenly controul;
I ask no more, no soul can tell me why,
I write this line of feeling; neither then shall I.

There moves a something round my thoughtful brain,
My heart is swelled to feeling by a sigh;
Ten thousand visions of my work remain;
And will not, will not as I wish them fly;
This, that, and those, and these and others try
To get embodied, ere a word is said,
O pass ye, pass ye; visions pass ye by,
Sleep will ye come, I hasten to my bed.
Again ye mortals let the poet write,
Dear Christians bless ye! God protect ye all! good night.

REFLECTION XVIII.

To thee my God I make my prayer,
My sins are many; Lord we are
Mortal all;
Thus we call,
Hear our prayer,
Take our care;
Sins forgive
Whilst we live;
Make us as we ought to be,
Full of love and piety.

Hear me Lord I make a vow,
Keep me in it pray do thou,
Lord relent
I repent!

I believe,
Thou canst give,
Peace below,
With me now,
For surely thou art ever kind;
Ever keep my heart and mind!

To thee my God I make my prayer,
On thee my Lord I cast my care.
Make me through my Saviour's blood,
Now and ever kind and good,
Keep me as I ought to be,
Full of love and piety.

REFLECTIONS UPON GOING TO REST.

Now to my rest! I lay me down,
With every secret truly known,
The God who lives can see my youth,
And keep it in the way of truth.
Can give me Spirit for my life,
Can keep me from the world of strife.
Can give me sleep, can give me rest,
Can make my soul and body blest.
O guard me Spirit from the foe,
Who visits man, with nought but woe.
Who makes us think that pleasure is,
The best enjoyed, in worldly bliss.

O guard me Spirit, for I feel
As surely as my tongue can tell,
That fall I must, if not preserved,
By thee from evil. I have swerved
From Spirits' duty. I have ne'er,
Perform'd my duty right I fear;
But Lord forgive, and keep my feet,
Until at Judgment day we meet.
O then, O then, may I be found,
In spirit pure, in body sound.

REFLECTION XIX.

God of my life, Great Lord of love,
O what are Heaven's rewards?
Are they not peace, and will they prove,
Our Saviour's best regards?
They will, they will, O Christians pray repent,
God will forgive, have pity, and relent.

But you on earth forsake your sin,
Call on the Lord to day!
This very day begin, begin,
To watch, to hope, to pray,
God will have pity on your souls for ever;
Return no more to error, never, never.

Joy to the soul forsaking sin!
Joy to the heart rejoiced within!
Joy to the penitent! O joy,
Without one atom of alloy!
Great joy to all, the peace of Heaven,
To all the penitent be given.

FAITH.

Faith is first a firm belief,
Then the Spirit's mild relief
Then conviction, then 'tis hope,
Then it takes a wider scope,
Soon it makes possession strong,
Quickly strikes the heart in wrong;
Soon it shows the world in sin,
And renovates the mind within;
Then it fills the soul with thought,
Guards the body as it ought;
Lifts the mind in secret prayer,
Tells us what we truly are,
Mortals, full of pride and strife,
Mortals giving up our life:

Makes us kind, affectionate,
Neither fond of pomp nor state.
Interested here below,
In others weal, in others woe.
Faith is purity and peace,
Faith will last, till worlds shall cease;
Faith when mortals come to die,
Is always seen in verity.

Lord receive and grant us all,
The gift of Faith, whene'er we call.
Make us die in truth relying,
On our blessed Saviour dying.
Whilst we look for his return,
Let such Faith within us burn.

HELMINGHAM.

On Friday last, whilst staying with my friends,
At Helmingham, not far from this my home,
At early dawn of lovely August day,
The gentle tapping at my bed room door,
Told me some sport was waiting in the park,
For my perception. Quickly to the lawn,
I hastened down, and found the keeper there
Awaiting my request, which, was, to see,
A red stag shot, if ever such should be.
Methink me now I am jogging in the van
Between the master keeper, and my friend:
The keeper's son with rifle in his hand,
Couch'd like a lion in the cart below;
Whilst close behind us kept a riding man,

Another keeper. Now we seek the herd
And drive through shades, o'er ant heaps, hills, and dales,
Through drains, o'er stumps, and broken crackling sticks,
Still looking out for antlers 'neath the shade,
Or stately stags reposing. After search,
At length we found them, lying in a herd,
Majestic figures. At the cart's advance
One stately stag, not used to be disturb'd,
Rose slowly; turning round his lofty head,
He looked in earnest, with enquiring eye,
To see if mischief were intended. Soon
He saw behind the cart, the riders form,
And snorting, with a nod he shook his horn,
A notice to the rest; they all rose up
And lifting high their noses to the wind,
They snuffed the atmosphere, and tried the air,
As if some danger brooded in the cart.
They little thought, how quickly keeper's eye,

Could mark the fattest. “Look ye Bob at him,
Whose horn is shorter than the rest, or him
Whose back is ruffled with a rising knot
Of hair disturb'd; me think me he will do.
His sides hang heavy, make them move along
The rider darted from the cart, and rode
In full advance upon the startled herd,
The master stag, still kept upon the van,
As if determined to behold his care,
Before him all dispos'd. Had he been fat,
He had the first been victim; slow they went,
With springing step, and every moment paus'd,
And one and all, attentive in their flight,
On us who follow'd. “Well my boy the best,
Is yon same ruffled fellow, whose fat haunch
Hangs flapping round him, mark his person well;
See how he pants; his carcase is the best.”
Now moving on we keep along pursuit,
Not losing sight, determined to succeed.
At various times the keeper aim'd his gun,

But still he was not certain, and so shy,
The very stag now noted to be slain,
Appeared so conscious of the treachery,
He kept aloof, without the reach of gun.
'Twas vain pursuing, so we chang'd our post,
And mounting now the body of a tree,
Three of us stood in quiet of suspense;
Whilst others drove them. Like a rustling wind
The herd came panting even to the spot,
And past beneath us; more than once I thought,
If foot should slip, and cause me to descend
And fall upon the antlers of the stag,
What state would quickly be the lot of one,
Who wish'd for happiness. But soon again
The herd returned, 'twas curious to see
How one on horeback, twisted, turn'd, about,
And push'd them forward: even to the place,
Where rifleman awaited them. They stopt,
And he the one well noted 'mong the whole,
Apart stood panting, looking at the horse,

Unconcious of his fate. The bullet flew,
And struck him on the head; a single groan,
And down he fell upon the grassy plain.
The rest fled swiftly. Quickly now to earth,
The horseman leapt, and snatching from its case,
The fated knife, he severed from the neck,
The bleeding head. One instant this was done,
And life and action were as quickly gone.
What Life art thou, how instantaneous seems,
Thy swift departure from the fleshly form!
How soon falls prostrate, at the bullets blow,
Or very simple cause, the pride of man:
Ah man, how vain the struggles of the flesh,
How feeble are thy efforts to escape.
The bolt of Heaven may strike thee as thou stand'st
Unconcious of thy death; be sure of this
If ever prospect of expected bliss,
Presented to thy vision make thee try
To keep thy credit with consistency,

That come the time, assuredly must come,
The time that takes thee to thy long last home.
Ere that be present look thou to thy soul,
And keep thy body in the best controul.

[Who feels as Christian must acknowledge this]

“Our soul is escaped even as a bird out of the snare of the fowler, the same is broken and we are delivered.”

Who feels as Christian must acknowledge this,
That Christ is liberty, his love is bliss.
Soul once endangered, take thine airy flight
Far beyond regions of our mortal sight:
Far, far away when death and Hell are flown,
Will Christian spirits take their flight with one
More pure than air, more pure than azure sky,
More bright than sun.—The Son of Majesty
My trembling soul, O flutter thou within,
Hard, hard thy struggles 'gainst the snare of sin,
The fowler comes, O quickly, quickly gasp,
Rouse thee and flutter from his cruel grasp,
Away, away, the word is come and spoken,
Soul, soul away, the snare of death is broken.

O Lord above! to thee my soul is given,
Lord make me fit to fly from Earth to Heaven.
Give me the wings of pure celestial love,
Those which may bear me to the realms above;
The wings of Faith. Lord when I come to die,
May such be mine, and make my spirit fly.
O may they bear me happily along,
To sing in Heaven, my Great Redeemer's song—
Hosannah yea, Hosannah to the King,
Jehovah God of Love to thee I sing.

TO THE PENITENT.

Lift up thy head, behold from space on high
Beyond the stars or blue ethereal sky,
Thy Saviour comes; he came to earth for all,
To save the sinner penitent; thy call
In midst of agony was not in vain,
The Spirit came attendant on thy pain
Soothing thy mind, O say thou happy soul,
Religion's liberty and sin controul.

Lift up thy head, for hark the trumpet sounds,
And soul responsive at the instant bounds.
Life from the dead, is what the Spirit gives,
And though thou art dead, thy soul as truly lives.
Thy Saviour comes O wake and watchful be,
The time approaches keep thy piety.

Hark! hark! around thee, cherubims are playing,
Spirit awaiting on thy spirit praying,
Sleep'st thou, or not, O keep thy soul at ease,
Thy Saviour's merits bring thee life and peace.

Hark! didst thou hear, the sweet enchanting voice,
Which calls thee son according to his choice,
Who pre-ordained a Saviour's blood should cleanse
From all impurity, and be defence
Against those wiles which satan had prepared.
And sin which caused thee to be once ensnared,
Thou soul repentant, sinner lift thy head,
God calls thee his, O rise thee from the dead!
Lift up thy spirit, lift it to the Lord,
God, Lord, and Saviour, has fulfilled his Word.

Rejoice, rejoice, thy sins are now forgiven,
Thou art accepted, be thou soon in Heaven.

TO THE IMPENITENT.

Hark! dost thou hear are sounds of woe assailing,
Are dark clouds rising and thy spirit wailing?
Are doubts and dreads, and terrors rising fast,
And wilt thou still be stubborn to the last?

Look to thy soul; it knows no comfort here,
It trembles at the hour approaching near,
To call thee mortal, to a scene of death.—
Sinner impenitent, preserve thy breath.—
In vain, in vain, no force can keep it in,
It sinks and rises not, so full of sin,
Impure, uncleansed, no tear of sorrow tells
Thy soul relied upon that blood which quells

Disease and death. Impenitent and hard,
Thy heart is sinful, soul without regard.
Know'st thou thy sin, O yes the devils quake
But not for sin, for punishment they shake,
The fear of retribution. Know thou this,
God sees thine errors, sin prevents thy bliss.
Horrors await thee, ah thy body's pride
Makes thee still harder, tells thee to deride
Whatever good opposes nature's ill,
Whatever good would Maker's word fulfill.
Impenitent, impenitent, believe
And turn thy soul to wisdom, and then grieve.
Grieve for thy sins! if ever thou would'st live,
God is all gracious: God then will forgive.

TO THE WISE MAN.

Confess thy sin, to God confess thy sin,
And shrink with horror at the thought of death,
Not death of body, but the death within,
Of soul the Spirit's gift, the body's breath,
A crown of glory brighter than a wreath
Of mortal honor, waits thee when from high,
Christ comes in splendour of his Majesty.

Wisdom is knowledge, not of life but love,
Wisdom is peaceable but has no fear.
Art thou the wise, continue to improve,
Doubt thine own strength, but know thou God is near.
Ask his assistance, he will guard thee here!

And strange to say, thy passions will subside;
Thine evil vanish and thy good abide.

Wise if thou art, dependance upon God
Will make thee pious, and preserve thine heart.
The letter of his law will be thy rod,
And punish thy transgression; and impart
The keenest sorrow, conscience piercing smart.
Court thou the Spirit, and thy soul will rise,
As dove be harmless, and as serpent wise.

TO THE INFIDEL.

Soul without thought, go hasten to thine end,
The world is closing on thy stubborn heart.
Wilt thou for ever cease to make a friend,
Of ought that's good. The gracious must depart,
The libertine must languish and descend,
The infided will suffer from the smart,
Of conscience piercing to the soul within,
When once convicted horrified in sin.

The world has been a selfish spot for thee,
Murders and massacres have been thy sport:
False pride and pomp, thy love of liberty,
The evil spirit, thy sad friend and forte.

Money thy God, mankind no more to be,
In other world of spiritual sort,
Ye all must vanish as the beasts of prey,
And perish quickly. Infidel away!—

Away, away! unless converted soon,
Thou find'st the pleasure of a faithful state!
God grant thee Grace, his first his sweetest boon,
One most delightful, come it even late.
O Spirit, Spirit, faithless, in this moon
Change from a fatal to a better state;
Or else for ever will the soul lament,
The loss of Saviour to the sinful sent.

THE RIDE.

I love to ride to Downham Reach,
Along the Orwell's banks,
Through Greenwich farm, let friendship teach
My former boyish pranks!

One lovely day, with friend of old,
A schoolfellow of mine:
Who many a day, some tale has told,
So horrible and fine,

Along the banks we took our way,
And loosed the chargers rein,
In beautiful and calm a day
As winter could maintain.

The sky was bright and nature warm,
No clouds obscured the sun,
Which now in high meridian charm,
On Orwell's waters shone.

O tell me Spirit, what could cheer
This weary mortal frame;
Was it the smile to friendship dear,
Or hope of growing fame.

What made thee almost burst the chord
That bound thee to this earth?
What made as though thou would'st have soar'd
Beyond thy present birth.

Like rhapsody yet temper'd well,
As nobly managed steed,
Perhaps my memory can tell,
The sequel of this speed.

A friend, what pleasing term to life,
A friend from boyish day,
Though years had parted us, not strife,
Yet friendship held her sway.

Ah what can rouse the bosom's fire,
What make the spirit rise,
What Poetry herself inspire,
But cherish'd friendships prize.

Away we rode, each snorting steed,
With noble action bounded:
And scarcely could we check their speed,
The hills around resounded.

We stopt behind the well known Cliff,
Close by the garden fence:
And caught a glimse of passing skiff,
Like moment of suspense.

100

Five stately trees beside the shore,
Whose shade had often been
Sweet place of rest in days of yore,
For one who lov'd the scene:

Oft has the pencil mark'd the spot,
A study for the eye,
We stopt, to show thee I had not
Forgot thy charm gone by.

The wide expanse of silv'ry wave,
Now glitter'd in the ray:
And vessel toiling like a slave,
Against the wind made way.

We made our way but slowly now
For every spot spake peace,
Remembrance of some childish vow,
Ah memory must cease!

101

The well known poplar by whose side,
In infant days I stood;
Now growing old, was stript of pride,
Exposed its hollow wood.

This dear old tree my friend I've known
So long, that now it seems
But yesterday I tore my gown,
In climbing up its beams.

Ah! often to the nursemaid's side,
In passing through this farm,
I've clung with horror, least the tide
Should sweep me from her arm.

But now this tide is but a brook,
A stream of quiet flow,
'T would scarcely drown a wounded rook,
But boyish fears you know.

102

These geese, perhaps the very same
That terrified me then,
Now seem so quiet and so tame,
They know we must be men.

Across the stream we darted on,
And galloped up the hill,
The sun majestically shone,
As monarch with his will.

Broad were his beams on Ipswich shed,
The buildings of the town
Seem'd magnified, so clear and red
The various roofs were shown.

The great gasometer whose shaft
Rose peering to the sky,
A land mark to direct the craft,
Was level with the eye.

103

The semicircled waters, wash'd
The quays and verdant shore:
Sure pampered vice would feel abash'd,
To view the Almighty's store.

In winter's day when summer's sun
Appears to cheer the heart,
Reflect upon the deeds you've done,
And crave the Spirit's part.

From such reflection we pursued,
The road of cheerful track,
The Orwell our attention woo'd,
Full often we look'd back.

Yet forward was the lovely scene,
The wide expanded stream,
The parted woods with waves between,
So white in sunny gleam.

104

We reach'd the lane; of all the lanes
That painters would admire,
There's none so full of sweets and pains,
So fit for poet's fire.

Ah pause my spirit, pause awhile,
And thou my panting steed,
Restrain thy fury, as a smile
Would calm a hasty deed.

Ah! here my friend, I speak with truth,
If ever spot were mine,
In which the ardour of my youth,
Could court affections shrine!

If ever spot could concentrate,
A mortals wishes here,
This very field I'd nominate,
The place so truly dear.

105

For if in youth my soul has soar'd
Above the vicious world;
And felt enraptured with its Lord,
Here has it been unfurl'd.

Here forward, backward, round and round,
I've traced, retraced, and trod
This wild uncultivated ground,
In converse with my God.

How often said in thoughtful mood,
Lord I could here desire
To live with thee, or if 'tis good,
Could hence to thee aspire.

How lovely nature, sky serene,
The waters broad and bright,
Reflect the features that have been,
For God himself is light.

106

The purest feeling love can call,
From hallowed spirits fire,
Has here enjoyed, been all in all,
The sunshine of desire.

But now my friend survey the scene,
And ask the reason why:
What beauty in this faded green,
What transport in this sky?

Why do you waves so lovely seem,
Why yonder distance grey,
Appear with interest to teem
Why all this feeling, say?

'Tis thus my friend, in freedom's hour,
To youthful spirit granted,
My soul has tried its feeble power,
My heart with honor panted.

107

Observe yon cottage on the shore,
Beneath the Freston hill,
Yon ancient tower in days of yore,
The place of human skill.

Methinks what numbers spirits are,
Since Freston Tower was built!
What numbers then, as I am, were
Replete with human guilt.

Yon Mansion in the midst of trees,
With Obelisk beside,
The Cat House cottage, which one sees,
Close to the river's side.

The Cottage here in wood of beach,
The gamekeeper's resort;
The pomp and pride of Downham Reach,
The sailors well known port.

108

Old Gooding, good enough may be,
A faithful servant too,
A surly fellow truly he,
As any one could know.

The antient Manor House is nigh,
With mote around the vale,
Here stood the famous Priory,
Of noted Alversdale.

Awhile upon the beach we stood,
To look on Freston Tow'r,
The turret rising from the wood,
Commanded all the shore!

We spoke of days now past and gone,
Of many too to come!
Alas they speed! my tale is done!
We turn'd and galloped home.

109

ORWELL,

A SONG.

For ever thou tide flow along,
For ever, for ever be dear,
May the poet long wander among,
The scenes of his spirit's career.

For ever may virtuous fair,
For ever whilst worlds shall be found,
May the good and the brave live to share,
The Orwell and beauties around.

For ever thou stream of delight,
For ever whilst memory lives!
May thy tide to the single in sight,
Abound with the pleasure it gives!

110

Dear Orwell, dear Orwell for ever be dear,
Flow on thou lov'd river, O flow thou for ever,
The good may'st thou know, and the virtuous cheer,
Dear Orwell, forgotten be! never O never!

111

TO THE DISAPPOINTED.

Soul, sick with suffering, what are all thy hopes,
What is the world; what pleasure hast thou here?
Has man or nature, tree, or plant, or shrub,
The beauteous landscape, or the silent glen
The thrush with warble, or the sky larks note,
Delight to cheer thee? Has the tone of flute,
The harp, the organ, or the trumpet's sound,
Or any word of woman charm for thee?
Say what thy sickness.—Was it fortune's frown,
Ambitious disappointment, or neglect.—
Or cruel shock, by loss of only friend,
Or morbid sensibility, or what?
For something surely must have shook thy frame,
Which once was active, energetic, free,

112

Pliant as cane, and lively as the deer,
When startled from the shade. Come tell me truth,
Perhaps 'twas love; attached to woman's form,
What man on earth who felt the force of love,
And found himself compelled to break the chord,
Which might have bound him to the maid he loved,
What man but suffers. If on earth there be,
A pang most deadly, 'tis to feel in love,
And know yourself compelled to let it pass,
Although beloved. What agony of mind,
To see before you daily that fair form,
And know from certainty of sympathy,
That both would be if possible but one,
And yet impossible they should be so.
Each time to hope, but vainly, vainly still,
To struggle with the promise of a state,
Which all that ever makes that state enjoyed,
Denies in toto. Disappointed love;
Well what will cure it? will the change of scene?
O no, the face is graven on the mind,

113

And waking, sleeping, walking, talking, still
Your thoughts, your dreams, steps, words, and actions, all
Relate by nature to the girl you love.
Alas! alas! there is but one can cure,
And that is God. Assuredly he can,
Not only this, but any bad disease
Of mind or body; but perhaps thine ill,
Is one of habit; like a king, you hate
A rival king; and cannot bear the thought,
Of being equalled by another man.
If so, thy disappointment will be sad,
Still not incurable. Religions power,
Is strong enough to bear against the force,
Of any evil: disappointed love,
Or disappointed hope, ambition, pride,
No matter what, religion can appease,
And will whenever Spirit is imbibed,
Above the letter. Look ye sons of men,
Whoe'er ye be, that chance to be beset,

114

With any disappointment of the mind,
How long your torture may endure, yourselves
Will be the castigators, take advice,
As felt and given: be ye sure that nought
So much can conquer or make calm the soul,
As cherished piety: the heart is found
To feel most sensibly religions sound.
The soul when languishing refresh'd by love,
Will soon prove mighty, God from heaven above,
Clears doubts away, and lifts our hearts on high,
And makes them happy. Disappointments fly.

115

TO THE MARRIED.

Preserve thy vow! 'Twas plighted in thy Faith,
If any Faith, have any plight at all;
If ought be serious, if ought of love,
If ought of honor, can be found in man,
The very promise in the sight of God,
Made in the presence of thy fellow men,
Must sure be holy.—Let the cause of vow,
Be from thy fancy, or caprice, or Love,
Let it but have the origin of good,
Preserve and keep it. Solemn is the act,
Whatever words may bind it, or if none,
Be it but understood an act of Faith,
Intent is much; and words but speak intent
When spoken faithfully to God or man.

116

Whether or not a single word proclaim
The promise of fidelity in life,
All marriage is the interchange of vow
Silent or spoken, to the King of Kings,
Whose subjects, monarchs, and their ministers,
To day of dissolution will be held,
Or free or not, according to their souls.
This is thy plight: that even unto death,
Through good or ill, thou keep thee to the one
To whom in honor, faith, and rectitude
Thy pledge is given. Is it light to shew
By ev'ry principle acknowledg'd good,
Thine own accordance with the sentiment
Accordingly preserved; and then to change
Faith to the faithless, mockery to man!
How canst thou think, that any will perform
Their deeds of contract in the goods of life,
And pay thee lawfully the stated sum,
Betwixt thee pending; if in sight of man,
In sight of God, thou break the solemn vow,

117

Which bound thee to thy natures counterpart?
I know the world, I see the scornful smile,
And hear in fancy what the fickle say,
The men of luxury who care for nought
But common laws of honor, which permit,
The vilest passions to maintain their sway,
I think I hear them. “Hypocritic fool!
“Curs'd puritan! or mad dissembling knave!
“Fit only for the presence of the saints;
“Completest Humbug. What a noble soul,
“Too good for earth! he'd better make a world,
“And find inhabitants of other sort,
“Than those of flesh!” So let them talk at ease,
They could not alter or depress that soul,
Which bids defiance to their arguments;
And spite of torrent, will be found like rock,
Adhesive to the ground of solid Truth.
Preserve thy vow, may Heaven give thee peace,
To pass through trials of the wedded state;
But this I know, that sorrows will be found,

118

As poignant, more so, with the single man,
Unless the mind, the soul and spirit too,
Be single, and devoted to the Lord.
Souls, are united in the thought of good;
Men are united in the vows of love;
But perfect unison will ne'er have sway
'Till God shall visit us in judgment day.

119

LOVE.

Who shall describe it? Virtue has the soul
Deeply encompassed with celestial band;
Profoundly circled with the depth of thought,—
'Tis inspiration. Neither word nor deed,
Will show sufficiently the stamp of that
Which once impressed, so imperceptibly,
That though 'tis felt, it cannot be described.
'Tis not the passion of the wayward flesh,
'Tis not the fancy of a moment's thought;
'Tis not the restless power of the mind;
'Tis not the vision of a feverish brain;
'Tis not the promise of a selfish heart;
O no! it is not, cannot be in these;
What is it then? O would that worlds could tell!

120

But every man whoever feels its force,
Must guess, or give solution of his own.
In various ways, descriptively conveyed,
Each man of feeling who has dared to think,
Will find responsive to the chord within,
That answer to the question of the heart,
Which says, 'tis truth, 'tis virtue, wisdom, grace,
Meekness, and temperance, respect and light;
Patience and preference response of bliss,
Ineffable expression of the soul,
Which speaks in silence language of its own,
Which kindred spirit, must interpret:—God,
Who gave to man a partner for his days,
Planted, internally, a mental power
Which shines as gracefully as person can,
In eye of admiration. He who feels
A full impression of superior force,
Abundant intellect, which opens truth,
Clear as the day light, on the scenes of earth,
Will see as clearly, where the kindred soul,

121

That calls his sentiments of spirit forth,
Makes its abode. Should ever chance convey
The steps of either, to the sight of both,
There is a consciousness, of instant thought,
Which words will not express.—Hast seen a bolt
Dash from the Heavens with a fiery course,
A train of brightness, following in speed,
And noted how the bosom of the earth,
Received the wound, or heard the gushing sound,
Reiterated instantly? the burst of love
Through conscience dashing pierces to the soul,
And there inflames the spirit to a sigh.
'Tis not forgotten!—'Twill remain to death!
And be more pure as purity takes breath,
On earth imperfect, yet with God above
Fix'd in affection, everlasting love.

122

LINES WRITTEN IN MY BIBLE.

My heart is here, my life, my love,
My joy below, my hope above,
My very soul in ev'ry word,
Feels something of my gracious Lord,
The God who made me, love I most,
The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

123

A MEMORABLE EVENING.

I stood with parent now no more,
Looking on the western shore,
Her eye was full of spirit's grace,
And shone in animated face;
'Twas fix'd upon the setting sun,
When eastern clouds were growing dun;
We stood and leant upon the gate,
In love, oh! most affectionate!
Our arms entwin'd, our hearts but one,
Our spirits lock'd in spirits son.
We stood and talk'd, the golden ray
Descending took away the day,
And left the Town and Orwell too,
With mist arising to the view,

124

We talked of virtue in the fair
We talked of beings passing there,
We talked of love, of future day
Of friends at home, of friends away,
We talk'd of holy men of old
Of spirits fervent, Christians bold.
We spoke of ministers of God,
Of notions obsolete and odd,
Of Faith and practise, love and life,
Of peace and war, of hate and strife;
We talked of one whom now in fine
I call and ever shall call mine,
As long as life shall give me breath,
I'm constant to the day of death.

We talk'd of Christians, ev'ry sect
Of those who call themselves elect.
And never shall I banish thought,
Which then my spirit newly caught;

125

And never shall I fail to pause,
And ponder on effect and cause.
Methought she spoke of priestly vice,
With woman's tongue of prejudice.
She nam'd a man, as if in spite,
And vow'd he was a hypocrite:
I thought it harsh; but latter day,
If that be true which all men say,
Has proved, to give the man his due;
My mother's predication true.

But hold let no man cast a stone
Lest he a sinner stand alone,
Himself convicted of a crime,
Forgotten, but revealed in time.
The Christian says from heart within,
“Forgive us Lord our deadly sin;
“Forgive the past, the evil done,
“Forgive through merit of thy son,

126

“And teach the heart of Christian brother
“To pardon and forgive another.”—

My Mother sleeps.—And so wilt thou,
Whoever readest the passage now,
That day is fix'd upon my heart,
And memory will often start;
And like a meteor in the sky.
Pass, radiant and vividly:
Or like a vessel on the tide,
At pilots pleasure sweetly glide.

Peace to the spirits none are dead
Although vitality be fled,
God who is good and ever giving
Is, God for ever of the living,
To us, O Lord to us forgive
And let us, now and ever live.

127

TO J. C. THE UNKNOWN POET.

As the seed of the blue bell in wilderness grows,
As the snowdrop in forest so modestly blows;
As blooms in the hedgerow, a beautiful plant,
So flourishes genius, nurtur'd in want.

As a diamond in midst of the mud of the stream,
As shines in a cavern, the radiant beam,
As crystal midst pebbles, of shingle on shore,
So genius lives, but to love and deplore.

As eaglet bereft of its parent, with moan,
On the top of the mountain, sits sighing alone,
As young of the stork on the turret must die,
So genius withers 'neath poverty's sky.

128

How happy the botanist finding a flower,
A diamond of worth in a fortunate hour,
How happy the young when the parent returns,
So genius, happy, a patron discerns.

I have found thee, I know thee, thy talent of worth,
Thou art better than he of the south or the north,
Though nothing at present, at present unknown,
The Orwell and Ipswich may call thee their own.

I had thought from my youth I was born to that end,
The poet of Ipswich, I'm that poet's friend;
For myself I may write, and will ever be free,
But the poet unknown, has initials J. C.

Fulfill'd the prediction which Barton express'd
That a poet, would rise by the Orwell caress'd,
I have seen him, a genius sportive and free,
And his name shall be known, with initials J. C.

129

THE EYE OF AGONY.

O! I have seen the starting eye,
Wild with the gaze of agony!
'Twas fix'd intently on my own,
'Twas seen, 'twas felt, 'twas deeply known.
It ask'd in torture more than word,
An answer I could not afford.

Hast seen the palsied on his bed,
Before the happy spirit fled,
Turn up his eye, enquiring there
If God, would banish his despair?
Hast seen that look which can but grieve
Which none but feeling can perceive?

130

'Twould ask, O tell; tell me yes!
May I expect my happiness?
I'm entering on other state,
O tell me! what may be my fate!

In vain the piercing eye is cast
In glance of agony, the last,
Distorted with the fevered brain
In dread extremity of pain,
It ask'd in spirit not of man
I could not answer, never can.

Above when spirits fly away,
And live in light, eternal day,
The answer then pronounced as given,
Will be! thy happiness in Heaven.

131

A MOTHER.

O memory, memory, poignant with grief,
How heavily traces my soul the fond thought,
When a mother's bright smile gave my spirit relief,
That mother to mind now by memory brought.

Dear Orwell, ah what are thy waters and shades,
And what are thy beauties to one now repining,
A mother, dear mother, my senses pervades,
That parent God bless her! her light is still shining.

Poor mother! I sing of thee, sing with delight;
If nature was lovely, if wisdom was here,
In the person of woman, my fond and pure sight,
Sees before it thy form! O my mother was dear!

132

With a spirit of fire, and a heart of pure love,
O often the beam of thy kindness would open,
And dart with delight like the sun from above,
And relieve thy child's heart with a rapturous token.

O mother as round the dear spot of my birth,
On the banks of my youth's former frolicksome gambol,
I ride, walk, or wander, the days of such mirth,
Have my mother's dear form, in my innocent ramble.

But now, ah, me thinks the cold tomb of St. Clement,
Of earth holds the ashes, of all that was great
In the form of that mother; funereal cement,
Encloses the dead in the last mortal state.

But the Spirit, the Spirit that quickened that form,
It abides with her son, or perchance has ascended,

133

And leaving this earth for the treacherous worm,
With the Spirit of God is in Paradise blended.

O there may I meet it, O there in God's grace
May my spirit ascend, and be pardon'd for sin!
May it see the bright vision of God face to face,
And be blest and rewarded with pleasure therein.

But the moment of evil, the present sad day,
O I wander o'er nature, and seek not my merit!
In fervor of thought, with devotion I pray,
God preserve my young heart, and assist it with Spirit.

'Till the trumpet's glad sound, shall awaken the just,
And O! may I be one, through Jesus my Lord?
I must patiently wait, in this lingering dust,
And cheerfully love, and abide in God's Word.

134

MAN.

Say what is man? a being strangely made,
With outward form of beauty, moulded well,
Erect in stature, in proportion just,
With nerves, and muscles, bones, and flesh compact,
Most active, stately, formed for strength and skill;
O he was made in wisdom, made to shine
In outward shape above the herd of beasts
Of wild or tamer kind, of fowls, or things
That swim, or creep, or skim, along the ground,
Or fly in air, or live upon the earth.
Still not divinely form'd, 'till Spirit's breath
Was once infused. Oh then the rays of mind
Darting within, illumined him, and gave
An inspiration which above the rest,

135

Of things created, raised him to the height.
What is he now? without his Saviour nought;
But with him, better than he was before,
A being not of Earth, but Heaven's delight.
Grant I beseech thee, grant this blessed boon,
To men on Earth; the knowledge of thy Son.
To such degree, that all may truly prove,
The reign of Christ a triumph in his love.

136

TO MY GOD.

O Lord of Love, Eternal God,
Creator, Everlasting Word,
Great Spirit at whose frown or nod,
The Earth must tremble, not unheard
O not unheard be this my care,
Lord God of Life accept my prayer.

O make my heart incline to good,
O give me wisdom, give me grace,
Keep me Spirit as I would
Be kept in hope of better place.
My soul illumine, lift it high,
Above the world to Majesty.

137

O let my care on earth be those,
Whose souls are mine, to love and teach!
O let my mind, and heart repose,
On thought of those within my reach.
May every soul within my cure,
By thee O Lord be rendered pure.

O grant me power, to teach the truth,
To feel myself the words I speak:
To write in wisdom, now in youth,
And thy Commandments never break.
Forgive the past, the past forgiven,
For ever let me hope in Heaven.

O let me pray in Spirit's tongue
In thought of pure intended love,
And though but weak, as yet but young,
O let my strength of spirit prove
That thou the guardian of my heart,
Canst make me act a Christian's part.

138

Souls of men, I wish them all,
To hear the word and keep it too:
I wish the world could hear him call,
Who bids the faithful still keep true.
My spirit loves the first, Lord thee,
The next in Jesus all I see.

O would to God the power were mine,
To make my hearers so incline,
To good, to God, to gracious Word,
That they and I may feel restored.

139

TO MY LOVE.

Kindred Spirit in whose eye,
There moves the soul of harmony!
Kindred Spirit who would pay,
Devotion to the Lord of day!
Kindred Spirit, mine for ever,
God forsake us never, never!
O my Love, my gentle maid,
Never shall my soul upbraid!
O my Love, my spirit's friend,
My bosom's life, 'till life shall end,
O my Love! I'm tender hearted,
Never may our souls be parted!
Earth before us still must lie,
And we must wait in mystery!

140

Earth before us still will make
A mist of darkness 'till we wake.
Earth before us like a dream,
Will vanish at the morning beam.
Kindred Spirit, kindred Soul,
Kindred Love, and kindred mind,
Kindred Spirit, O be whole,
Be perfectly to love inclin'd,
God unite our souls in one,
In Him the bright Eternal Son.

141

TO THE PATIENT CHRISTIAN.

Bless'd Spirit, gently resting in yon clay,
Patient in hope, expectant of the day,
Calm thou thy fears, the Lord accept thy prayer,
And take the humble casting of thy care.
Thou youth of mind whom nature hath not made,
For this world's profit be it justly said,
Thy smile though sickly, hath a charm for me
Most pure and sweet as innocence can be.
Thy pallid brow, no restless care displays,
Thy lips repeat in humble words of praise,
Thy Maker's glory, and thy trust in one,
That Maker's love, God's great Eternal Son,
'Tis sweet to see the Christian on his bed,
By pillows propt, reclining; whilst his head

142

Supported by the effort of his soul,
Pours forth in silence, all that makes the whole
Of this life perfect; that is, trust in thee,
Thou pure, pure font, of faithful piety.
Thou Christian spirit, may thy God reward
In future life, thine innocent regard.
I know thy sorrow, know thy souls repose,
I know thy purity at evenings close,
When life is sinking, as departing sun,
And joy though night, anticipates the one,
The one bright day star, glory of the skies,
Who comes in splendor, to the world's surprize.
Yea though I know thee, I can see thy heart
Is torn at thought of sin. The Christian's part
Is so to feel, and truly all who lie
In sickness patient, or prepared to die,
Must feel their sinfulness, yet not despair
Must feel they have been, and that still they are
In sin envelop'd. But in God the just
For merit not of man, their pious trust

143

On Him rely, the giver of thy breath;
Thy sickness may, or may not be to death
Still wilt thou say, through Jesus Christ his Son,
O Lord thy will, not mine O Lord be done.

144

TO A PERSON WISHING TO ENTER INTO HOLY ORDERS.

Long hast thou been intent upon the thought,
Of entering into orders not profane,
Thy mind by piety to love is brought,
And now as minister of God not vain,
But purely humble in thy pow'r of mind,
To preach his precepts is thy soul inclin'd.

Go thou, thy letter liest by thine hand,
Go, be successful, may it answer well,
May'st thou receive thy Father's full command,
And then bear witness to that inward spell,
Which leads thee patiently, to seek that good,
Which comes from God, which prospers as it should.

145

It may be, God will listen to thy pray'r,
It may be, he may turn thy father's heart.
It may be, thou may'st know a steward's care,
If so preserve thy patience not in part,
But whole, entire, both now and then revere,
The sacred volume, go thou, be sincere.

146

TO MY HEART.

O thou sensitive substance, awhile thou art glad,
Then again thou art pining, again thou art sad.
As the billow on ocean is ruffled by breeze,
Thou art swell'd by sensations which please or which teaze.

O my heart art thou heavy, ah why so repining?
O my heart art thou burning to fury inclining?
Or sunk like the bucket in well slow descending,
On nature or love, still decaying, depending.

O feel thou within thee, the spirit of pleasure,
The tone of delight, nature's loveliest treasure.
The noise of the rabble at distance departing,
And love, joy, and goodness, their comfort imparting,

147

O my heart take thy fill of the love breathing flame,
That boldly invigorates life, in this frame,
No more be sad, away from sin!
Away from folly turn the soul!
Be glad, be glad, be good within!
And keep my body in controul!

O my heart I must commune within me and try,
To suppress the sad breath which engenders the sigh.
O my heart be thou gentle, be quiet, be pure,
God will love the good heart and will make it endure.

'Tis enough, 'tis enough, now my spirit's o'ertaken
By placid composure, my heart's not forsaken.

148

THE WRETCHED MAN.

How horrid the home of the wretched must be,
Where wealth is abundant, and care is well known,
Where the smile of affection, that token of glee,
Never softens the soul, never calls Love his own.

As the cloud o'er the mountain is dark in the gale,
As the thunder storm gathers to sweep o'er the dell,
So the brow of the wretched is gloomily pale,
And his tongue like the sound of a funeral knell.

O for what are his moments of nothingness spent?
O for what are his days to be lengthened out long?
O why is his head o'er his faint body bent?
And for him is delightful no precept or song.

149

Why? because in his youth he deserted his love,
And he left the lone maid to lament o'er her lot;
He was false, he was fickle, and worthless would prove,
In the sight of the maiden who never forgot.

150

REFLECTION XX.

Mighty Spirit round me moving,
Keep my soul and feet from roving,
God of Gods preserve my heart,
Keep me ready to depart,
Let me love the ways of peace,
Let my sorrows shortly cease.

Mighty Spirit be my guide,
Let my church be all my pride,
Not of pomp, but faithful word,
Constant ever in the Lord;
Constant ever be my mind,
To God most constantly inclin'd.

151

Mighty Spirit keep my house,
Let thine influence arouse
Within our dormant souls the zest
Of love for God, of God the best.
Keep my children, wife and me,
In bonds of Christian piety.

Mighty Spirit let me sleep,
Refresh'd in body; thoughts are deep
Which often urge my wakeful mind,
To think how much in life I find,
To study thee, my God, and King,
My spirit keep thou every thing.

152

REFLECTION XXI.

As bounds the billow o'er the main,
As sweeps the lightning through the sky,
As torrents deluging the plain,
Ah so is spirit's poetry!

The thunder rolls in distant cloud,
The sky portentous, frowning, red,
The look of haughty, sullen, proud,
Is not more gloomy than the dead.

O I have seen the stately look,
The eye of scorn dissembling man,
That haughty flesh which could not brook
Another's thought, another's plan.

153

The statesman piqued by conscious fault,
The lawyer in an error found,
The general compelled to halt,
The poet caught by critic sound.

The purse proud piqued by free born soul,
By noble Christian seeking good,
The angry lord of such controul,
Who would not be at all withstood.

'Tis well perhaps you think me proud,
I think myself too much indeed,
But all I wish for in the crowd,
Is this my love, let virtue speed.

Let virtue speed, let wisdom live,
Let vice be hidden, and o'erthrown,
God give me grace, thy precept give,
And let me make thy laws mine own.

154

REVELATIONS.

Sounds arise and strike the heart,
Sounds of import to the soul;
Hark the dead from sleeping start!
And sounds o'er sounds incessant roll!

Long the blast the Angel blows,
Distant breathings strike the ear,
The dead arise, and God bestows,
The breath of life to those who fear.

Still the sound is passing on,
Increasing still, the trumpet's blast,
The dead arise to meet the Son,
The Son of God, the First and Last.

155

Christians, all the sounds of war,
The horses, chariots, and men
Have pass'd and repass'd, gone afar,
Oh never to return again!

Hark the noise of rushing wind,
See the fire escapes the earth,
The sackcloth sun you cannot find
The universe is full of dearth.

Ashes mould'ring sweep away,
Quick solution matter proves,
All before their God decay,
The God who comes and lives and loves.

The seventh Angel wakes the dead,
Spirits take a perfect form,
O'er them all that mighty head,
Benevolent to man a worm.

156

Look ye Christians, look ye well,
To day may shew the very power,
Ye cannot Christians surely tell
The Lord's decree, the fated hour.
Look ye Christians, look ye well,
For God will judge the infidel.

157

TO MRS. COLE.

Methinks how times are chang'd: 'twas once thy care,
To see me nurtur'd in the ways of truth,
Train'd to the character which after life,
Perchance the moments of existing time,
Should so develope. Time has chang'd thy form,
Though still that eye which penetrated deep,
Keen, as the monitory lizard's look,
Will keep its character. The glance was then
In varied ways expressive; strange to say,
The features of thy face are not much chang'd,
Thy manners, habits, mode of dress or gait,
Retain their former gentleness. How oft

158

That look of penetration so profound
To wild young spirit, would engage my thought,
In fear, in love, in hope, in terror too,
When truant step, or high undaunted soul,
Urg'd the young babe to play a schoolboy trick,
In ramble, scramble, headstrong, fearless mood
Of frolic, or delight. How times are chang'd,
Thou sit'st in wonder at the former pranks,
And present sage employments of my mind,
And almost doubting, if the daring child
Could be so wise, so gentle, so inclin'd
To follow quietly the precepts given.
Age makes us wise, experience can tell
How much through life affliction has been known.
With thee some change of circumstances speak,
How strangely fortunes alter. Thou wast rich,
For thee full rich, and industry had stored
The well earned bounty to assist thine age,
When days of energy should cease; alas the change,
Riches have fled, the little store of goods

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So carefully preserv'd, has flown away,
And nothing for them but the thought of loss
Remains for their account. Ah who can tell
The all commanding, all sufficient ways
Of Providence, benevolent and good.
Those darling cares, those wishes of our heart.
For whom our all would be embark'd in life,
Too often meet reverse. 'Tis wisely so ordain'd,
For man must suffer, lest the pride of gold,
Or amplitude of bounty should increase,
And swell his heart-strings till the veins of flesh
Are burst with consequence; not all our care,
Not all our watchfulness can make the goods
Of this life stable; they will fly away,
Will like the passage bird, in summer hour
Remain to cheer us; nay around us whirl,
In such uncommon giddiness of flight,
We scarce know how to estimate their worth:—
When winter comes, the fickle bird is gone.
So riches hasten'd in declining years,

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From thee to others, and from others past,
To some like thee, who had them for a time,
And then perhaps were indigent again.
Do not repine! How often thoughts will rise,
To make the bitterness so unforeseen,
Replete with gall. The trial of thy life
For purposes of wisdom has been made
A monitor to others; still forbear,
The wish of days long gone. Look forward still,
And breathe the sigh for better place than this,
Where moth, nor rust, nor riches can consume,
Nor sorrow can abide. My guest thou art,
And welcome to the movement of my pen,
Which thus indites the language of my love.
Forget the past, take warning from the whole,
To keep humility of mind and soul.
Take comfort from the wishes of thy friend
Who strives to cherish thee till life shall end,
Bear up with cheerfulness, and may'st thou know
A comfort in religion for thy woe.

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REFLECTION XXII.

How sweet are the flow'rs of early spring,
How sweet is an autumn rose,
But sweeter to me than every thing,
The God on whose love I repose.

The tone of the robin in sunny day,
The tone of the lark in the morn,
They teach my spirit to rise and pray,
Like a Christian now new born.

The sun o'er the heavens is shining clear,
The moon looks pale in the sky,
The thought of the soul is truly dear,
When nature wakes our piety.

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The snowdrop springs again from the earth,
The leaves put on their green;
And man shall rise to the second birth,
And be what he has not been.

O bless the good great God above!
O keep their spirits here!
For thou art the Lord, the Lord of love,
The Lord of life be dear.

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TO MY FATHER.

God bless thee, God bless thee, thou dearest old man,
I owe thee 'neath Providence all I possess,
Behold such another, O never I can!
And love such another, another such bless,
O never! O never! for thou to my sight,
To my heart, to my soul, art a welcome delight.

Thine age eighty-one, thine infirmities none,
Thine intellect bright, and thy judgment as clear,
Thy kindness to all, has been never outdone,
And thy goodness to all will for ever be dear.
Dearest father at thirty, thy youngest but one
Writes the language of love, let that love be outdone.

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This the record is true, fifteen children thy care,
Thou hast placed in the world, independently too,
One and all they must love thee, dear father we are
Devoted in honor, affection is due;
God bless thee, God bless thee, thou dearest old man,
May'st thou live, and be loved to the length of thy span.

165

REFLECTION XXIII.

How mighty the works of our labour appear,
How soon they are spoilt, how their beauty is flown;
This instant the toil of my hands has I fear
Been spoilt by an inkstand too quickly o'erthrown.
How I laboured, alas! 'twas a trial to do it,
To spoil it a greater! I hope to get through it.

For a number of hours in my church I was seated,
And carefully sketching the architect's plan,
But now all my labour perchance if repeated,
May not be as well, but I will if I can.
If I can't, I can't help it, but sorrow is over,
An accident truly it was to a lover.

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Take warning my love, in a moment our toil
May be spoilt by the hand accidentally passing,
The pleasure of works we can frequently spoil,
And the rich, and the proud their delight of amassing.
But temper and love without pride or alloy,
'Tis none can suppress it, 'tis none can destroy.

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TO THE INCONSTANT.

O think of the time now past and gone,
O think of the deeds now long since done,
O think of the vows you plighted in tone,
To the maiden you called your dearest one.

The eye for thee flash'd fire of pleasure,
That eye for thee thy sweetest treasure,
Ah love cannot smile at the fickle's leisure,
Who loves not fairly in measure for measure.

Go tell thy vows to the sickly moon,
Go plight thy pledge in the heat of noon,
At the morning sun arise up soon,
And haste thee to seek the false one's boon.

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For me to sit on the Orwell's shore,
Alone, alone by the grove deplore
The loss of love I shall see no more,
Begone the struggle of life is o'er.

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REFLECTION XXIV.

Sweet the word of wisdom is
To those who love religion's bliss,
As sky of summer clear and bright
So love, is cloudless with delight.

Rise on early autumn morn,
Rise and feel not thou forlorn,
Love thy God when the golden sun,
Proclaims the day of light begun.

Hear the distant folds are bleating,
Workmen on the trudge are meeting,
Labour to the hardy race,
Is part of God's appointed grace.

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Roll on bed of down ye great,
Luxurious in your wealthy state,
Sleep away your hours of ease,
And dream of cares which cannot cease.

Arise ye great; your humble friends
Are risen as the sun ascends,
They wish ye well, they seek your good,
They look to your support for food.

Sweet the word of wisdom is,
To those who love religion's bliss,
As sky of summer clear and bright,
So love is cloudless with delight.

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GOOD NIGHT.

Good night my friends, adieu, good night,
A pleasant sleep refresh your frame,
The silent prayer in heaven's sight,
Devote to great Jehovah's name.

Good night, may God attend your call,
May mercy lend a willing ear,
May God of love be sweet o'er all,
Good night my friends, your God is near.

172

THE SABBATH.

Hail consecrated day of rest,
The day which God supremely blest.
My soul exalted rise to day,
My spirit to Jehovah pray;

Holy Sabbath dreadful thought,
How few regard thee as they ought:
Wisdom, virtue, love, and grace,
Adorn that day, when God of space,
From works of spirit purely rested,
And the day with love invested.
Holy Sabbath o'er my soul,
Maintain a just sincere controul.

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The day is first which was the last,
Because the Lord of life arose,
A new creation pure and chaste,
The Christian spirit truly knows,
When first he learns to love the Lord,
And pay his homage to his Word.

Holy Sabbath sweetly come,
Delighted, let me feel at home.
And pray to day for week of bliss,
To pass as graciously as this.

Day of duty, thou art mine,
Sweet devotion I am thine,
Rouse thee Spirit rise up high,
In love of godly majesty.

Feel I full of transport now,
Willing to preserve my vow,
I know, I feel. It feebly flies,
The day of duty onward hies,

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The thought of love to God and man,
Onward hast'ning o'er my span.

For Turk, for Infidel I pray,
For all mankind this sacred day.
Turn the Jew from error Lord,
Let him learn thy faithful Word,
Gladly would I see the tribe
Of Israel, thy love imbibe.

Gladly would I see that race,
Resume the first and proper place:
Delighted should I be to call,
The Rabbi, Bishop over all:
To see the Jew acknowledged free,
In Christian love his liberty.

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A TRUE NARRATION.

Alicia arrived on the Indian shore,
Behold her lov'd husband, and loving once more,
With her babe in her arms to tranquility hush'd,
To the heart of her fond one in tumult she rush'd.
His form she beheld, and all others were nought,
In a rapture of transport his bosom she sought.
His eye was upon her, his heart it was her's,
The journey was over and pass'd were her fears.
The vessel it slowly was tow'd to the quay,
'Twas her husband, her lover, her life, it was he.

Too slowly they mov'd; O for antelope's leap,
For the wing of the flying fish, over the deep.

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For the bound of a ball, or a spring on her feet,
To cast her on shore for a husband to greet.
The wave of the hand and the clasp of delight,
The agonized pleasure of rapturous sight;
The dear one long parted, to see him again,
To know him, to hear him; the hope was in vain.
The board was extended from vessel to shore,
She fell with her babe, and was heard of no more.

By accident, hastily tripping in joy,
With the burthen of love; 'twas a sweet little boy,
She fell to the ocean, and sinking below,
She rose not to lessen severity's blow.
The husband beheld but a day or two's grief,
And the portion of death, was the spirit's relief.
O weep little orphans, in England you hear
The fate of your parents. In sorrow the tear
Of the poet's compassion, falls feelingly down,
And your lot is a hard one he cannot but own.

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REFLECTION XXV.

Ah when my dear mother again shall I see,
Such another kind soul, such another as thee?
O when shall my mind be delighted to hear,
Such another dear speaker, O never I fear.

Thou wert lovely to me as the morning of day,
Thou wert lovely to me as the loveliest ray.
Thou wert dear to my eye, and my heart, and my mind,
O never another like thee shall I find.

O never, while science can gladden my light,
And the dawn of religion and nature be bright;
O never, while virtue can honor my breast
Shall I lose thy fond look, 'till I sink into rest.

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O my mother, my friends they may say what they like,
They may think of thee often, but none wilt thou strike,
As so truly belov'd, or so dear now thou'rt gone,
As to me thy disconsolate, fond, faithful son.

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SENSATIONS UPON SEEING THE SHUTTERS OF A HOUSE HALF CLOSED.

How heavy is the thought of death,
To those who live and move;
Enjoy tranquility with breath,
And feel and speak of love.

Yon house with shutters half enclosed,
Proclaims a soul is fled;
I past it and the word compos'd
Was, pray God bless the dead.

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Yet then me thought of living friends,
I saw my prayer was wrong,
My spirit with the living blends,
O Lord accept my song.

Grant to the living comfort Lord,
If friends are ta'en away;
Let consolation 'neath thy Word,
Be theirs without delay.

Yon tenement denotes the tale,
Of sorrows now deceas'd,
Thy fiat came, in 'midst of wail,
The spirit is releas'd.

Yet surely as the day was clear,
Some tender kinsman's loss:
A wife, has died, or sister dear,
Dependent on the Cross.

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The half closed shutter tells us so,
Ah who can tell the grief?
I feel in pity for their woe,
God grant them thy relief.

My nature says befriend the poor,
The orphan stricken sad,
My heart is open with its store,
My hand would feign it had.

If then my hand, my heart should guide,
In time when power is given,
The sufferer, I so decide,
Shall have, with hope of Heaven.

182

DISTRACTED POETRY.

Wild fire running through the sky,
Wilderness of mystery:
Phantom passing quickly by,
Distracted Poet's Poetry.

Sorrow, sadly pouring forth,
Dismay and dreariness: or wrath,
Passion waking strains of woe,
Distracted Poetry can show.

Madness, mildness, heat, and cold,
Fervor, chilliness, to praise, to scold,
To alter, vow, begin, and change,
Are Poetry's distracted range.

183

Music wakes the wildest strains,
Woe distracts a Poet's brains,
Love inspires his heart to write,
And piety to clear his sight.

184

BITTERNESS.

Hold, hold my heart the weary way of care
Makes sorrow mournful, and the languid smile,
Sits sadly brooding on the pensive air,
Of thought, dark passing, like the serpent's guile,
Long, long the sweeping melancholy fold,
Of thought on thought, still thinking of the gold,
The mine of wealth, which passing on and on,
Seems to grow darker, 'till the day is done.

Riches to those who love the way of good,
Riches, are blessings to the heart kind man;
Wealth may relieve, but cannot cure the mood
Of heartsick lover. Never, never, can:

185

Though mines were his, though India gave her store,
And countless millions pour'd from foreign shore,
Still whilst within, the sickly heart is sad,
Wealth, power, prosperity, but make him mad:

O never, never, may the true of heart,
Be called to feel such melancholy smart.

186

THE LAST HOUR OF LOVE.

The utmost pang the heart can feel,
Is that the Poet's pen can tell.
The hour is come my bosom friend,
The hour of parting is arrived;
The time when agony must bend,
And love of pleasure be depriv'd.
For nothing, nothing now but pang,
Will harbour horrid sorrow's clang.

Dismal sounds of bitter wail,
Dismal horrors will prevail,
The hour when you and I have met,
And meeting now we meet no more,
When nothing but to live and fret,
And suffer on a foreign shore,

187

When nothing, nothing now but pang,
Will welcome horrid sorrow's clang.

We meet, but ah the last is come,
I leave thee for a distant home;
The sail is set, the wind is fair,
O would my dearest thou wert mine,
That with me thou would'st wander there,
Nor leave my heart to swell and pine.
But all is o'er the hour is come,
I hasten to a distant home.

Swell high my heart the waters rise,
When stormy tempests shade the skies,
The mountain billow sweeping high,
And winds and rocks with dread of death,
To others speak of horrors nigh;
With me, no quickness of the breath,
Will speak of woe, for come the worst,
My heart is ready; it must burst.

188

The last sad hour, my love I pray,
That fortune, did I fortune say?
For shame; I pray that God will steer,
The good heart to its wished for home;
I pray that all who love him here,
May find him in the life to come.
Ah should he please he has the pow'r,
To change and cheer my last sad hour.

189

TO THE WICKED.

Woe to the wicked! who are they?
Men who neither feel nor pray.
Who own no God, but loving self,
Think nothing good but world and pelf:
Woe to the wicked, time may be
For them; but not eternity.

Sycophants who care for naught,
Scholars who would not be taught,
Servants who would ne'er obey,
Mortals who can never pray,
Woe to the wicked, woe to sin,
When reign of love shall once begin.

190

REFLECTION XXVI.

O hast thou seen the sinking frame,
Beneath contagion waste!
The soul departing from the same,
Departing too in haste,
Before it flies relieved with word,
The knowledge of a dying Lord?

I've seen the hall, the rich saloon,
The splendid fashion's feast;
I've seen the sluggard rise at noon,
Sun neither west nor east.
In foreign clime I've known the gay,
Delight to revel out the day.

191

In youthful hour, my spirit high,
How oft the cottage door,
I've past it, yes, and thoughtfully
Beheld the clean brick floor!
Have ponder'd on the homely scene,
And found a pleasure intervene.

Poor Will, the ragged, rough, unshod,
Plain sturdy sailor's lad,
His barefoot placed upon the sod,
His body just half clad;
I've seen thee run with naked foot,
Along the mud for fowl or coot.

Marbles, tops, all sorts of play,
All festive gambols known,
I've written, thought, and drawn away,
At moments all my own.
Through scenes of life I've passed along,
The busy, light, and serious throng.

192

Strange to thee the thought may be,
And strange for me to tell,
In earliest day some piety,
Would love with me to dwell.
Yet though I felt I dare not own,
For fear the frivolous should frown.

Think not howe'er no sin was mine,
Alas I shudder now,
I've no excuse, hast thou for thine?
O none at all I trow.
For sins of past, and passing day,
Through him above I ever pray.

Still 'twas a pleasure to do good,
To give to those in want,
My mother taught me as she should,
To do it without cant.
To give when no one could perceive,
In secret visit, and in love relieve.

193

A thousand pleasures I have known,
I call no pleasure sin,
In error sometimes sadly shown
A fancied joy therein!
But pleasures really, really, so,
To visit those in want or woe.

The widow, ah the heart of steel,
Must bend to see thee weep,
Sons of pleasure can ye feel,
In mourners cottage peep.
See the widows children fed,
With scarce enough of wholesome bread.

O how chang'd are men of state,
When pride has had a fall;
They often murmur at their fate,
Pay disrespect to all:
The widow weeps, and thankful is,
For Charity's all gracious bliss.

194

Sons and daughters love your own,
Your parents, friends, and kin,
The seeds of piety well sown,
Begin to bud therein.
A loving child's a parents joy,
The widows peace her youngest boy.

O nature! nature! thou wast made
By one who never fails:
What man thy dictates can evade,
Thy force o'er all prevails.
Yet God of nature will supply,
The Spirits aid to live thereby.

195

ON SEEING MY FATHER AT THE AGE OF EIGHTY-ONE, AN ATTENDANT AT HIS SONS CHURCH.

Dear Father! ah! thou whom my infantine day,
Saw with deepest respect, fear, and reverence, say
What now thy sensation, to see thy young child,
Grown from idle, and certainly silly, and wild,
To manhood, to spirit, to care of thy soul,
To the day of good sense, to the day of controul.

Dear Father: how often my spirit arises
For thee whom my nature so tenderly prizes,
How often ah truly I write it this day,
For thyself, for thy soul, did I fervently pray:

196

As chance led my eye o'er the multitude there,
Where the souls of the good join in dutiful prayer.
Thy dearest lov'd face, I beheld with delight,
And the prayer was as dear too, as thou to my sight.

God protect that dear man, what a blessing to me,
Through the past and the present he ever must be.
O Grant him, said I, in the spirit of pleasure,
Of purest affection, O grant him thy treasure.
The joy of the meek, kind and honest in heart,
The joy of the good man, when life shall depart;
O bless him I said for he ever must be,
The dearest of fathers, Lord next unto thee.

Dear Father, me thought if thy contenance shone
On the face of that wild and undutiful son,
Who so often in spirit, of strange idle way,
Would delight to be spending his moments in play:
Me thought that with others my word might have weight,
And awaken their visions to far better state!

197

If thou would'st receive them forgetting my youth,
Surely others might think I was speaking in truth.

Dear Father, I said, and with hope, say I can,
God protect and accept through thy Son that dear man.

198

THOUGHTS UPON VIRTUE.

Whence spring the thoughts? O come they from the brain?
The studied reasonings acquired in pain?
Or come they from the fountain of the soul,
Or come they from the knowledge of controul?
Or come they dream-like, come they of themselves,
Imaginary visions like the elves?

They come, ah come like tempests o'er the sky,
They sweep along like thunder cloud pass by,
Mysterious source of wisdom guiding thought,
Mysterious knowledge of ones self thus taught,
The Spirit dictates to my humble sense,
And tells me they are emanating thence,
Where Spirit dwells, where Spirit moving pow'r,
Inspires and strengthens us at every hour.

199

Come then thou Spirit I invoke no muse,
No fancied fabled folly heathen views,
I ask for Spirit such as wisdom gives,
Through him who sent him who ever lives,
I ask assistance to inspire this brain,
To speak of virtue Spirit guide the strain.

Virtue thou strange inherent sense of love,
Thou humble feeling of the God above,
Virtue thou wise defender of the good,
Thou lov'd, and loving something understood,
Thou secret impulse dearest noblest train,
Of rich and lofty pleasure killing pain,
Virtue thou close connector of the mind,
With world of Spirit universe entwin'd.

Dwellest thou on earth, O would thou wert with me,
Both now and ever then should I be free,
O sure I am, I love thee, yea I love,
I love thee virtue coming from above,

200

O make abode a little short sweet stay,
With this my body whilst the world has sway,
Stay thou sweet virtue gift of God be mine,
O Spirit guide me make me wholly thine.

Nor let presumption dictate what I write,
But help me always when I dare indite,
O let not folly, madness, flesh, or hate,
Be o'er me here in hope of better state,
Keep in me virtue, keep it in my heart,
And let it never but with life depart,
That so when dying virtue may be given,
To raise my spirit to the highest Heaven.

201

HEAVEN.

Thou place of Spirits, how I long
To sing triumphantly the song
Jehovah God of love!
Jehovah reigns above!

Thou place where angels sweetly throng,
O how my soul would chaunt among
The heavenly host, the Spirit's song,
Jehovah God of love!

The kingdom in my heart begins,
That heart redeem'd from Adam's sins,
Jehovah God of love!
Jehovah reigns above!

202

I'll sing my song that dearly springs,
From heart of love beneath the wings,
Of gracious Spirit joyous things!
Jehovah God of love!

Delightful Heaven place of rest,
Thou place of song! I'll sing with zest,
Jehovah God of love!
Jehovah reigns above!

Delightful Heaven where the blest,
Are clothed in Spirit's snow white vest,
O take me in to see the best.
Jehovah God of love!

203

THE CHRISTIAN'S FAREWELL.

Farewell to life, my children, friends, and kin,
My dearest, nearest, fondest, fare ye well.
I leave this tenement of dust and sin,
And hasten with the patriarchs to dwell.

Farewell to life! O grieve not, not for me,
Let not the tear of bitterness and woe,
So burning hot, O do not let me see,
That cruel current, from your eye-lids flow.

Farewell to life, though sinful I have been,
And am so still, some goodness has been given,
Hope bids my spirit cherish in this scene,
A Saviour's love, the promise of a Heaven.

204

Farewell to life then grieve not friends for me,
Farewell to life, that life at best is naught,
The Spirit tells me what is soon to be,
My feeble vision has the prospect caught.

Farewell to life, to nature, now farewell,
Dear Christians all of you believe the Word,
'Tis Scripture, nature, Spirit, all can tell,
How Christians should depend upon the Lord.

Farewell to life, but joy in place of death,
Shall spring triumphantly from God on high,
And when again these organs take their breath,
Death shall be swallow'd up in victory.

205

TO THE PURITAN.

Who bears this name? doth noble, brave, and free,
Christian in character in verity;
Doth he deserve the humble valiant man
Enduring evil, name of puritan?
O no, within the searcher of the heart,
Distinguishes the character thou art.

He sees thy motive knows the kind intent,
Knows thy dependence, what thy inward bent,
Through all thy working sees the inward way,
Which thou procedest in to coming day;
Who bears this name, I do not doubt 'tis said,
That thousands are so, never be afraid.

206

Ye who are not so, never fear the name,
Our Saviour was believed to be the same.
Nay called a madman scorn'd alike by those,
Who sought his favor and became his foes.
Fear not thou Christian, fear not cruel man,
Care not for spite be not a puritan.

He is a puritan who says he's good:
He is a puritan who covets blood;
He is a puritan who dares to pray,
Yet cares not for the falsehoods he may say:
He is a puritan who says, forgive,
And cannot wish the penitent to live.

He is a puritan who prays for peace,
And wishes not that masacres may cease;
He is a puritan who proudly bears,
A name of righteousness he never wears;
He is a puritan who wishes ill;
He is a puritan who dares to kill:

207

He is a puritan who loves to be
A man of folly and of levity:
He is a puritan who damns to day,
To-morrow walks precisely in the way:
He is a puritan who dooms to die,—
Himself a sinner more of infamy:

He is a puritan who sees that life,
If fit for nothing but a worldly strife:
He is a puritan who blames his friend,
And cares not for religion, or his end:
He is a puritan who thinks that none
Are sav'd, but they who do as he has done:

He is a puritan who proudly saith,
Think thou as I do? I alone have faith:—
He is a puritan who twists the Word,
To feed his appetite and sell his Lord:
He is a puritan the least of worms,
Who makes a promise which he ne'er performs.

208

He is a puritan who vows through life,
To keep him constant to a loving wife,
Yet knows it well he keeps anothers hand,
His own at pleasure, waiting his command;
But none are puritans who know the Word,
And honestly depend upon the Lord.

O none are puritans who love in truth,
And will be faithful through their day of youth.
O none are puritans who shake off sloth,
And rise to righteousness however loth:
Industrious children, working to be free,
Are not presumptuous in liberty.

Good Christians all again the word is said,
Fear not, O fear not, never be afraid.

209

DECEMBER 30TH, 1826, CLAYDON CHURCHYARD.

I am standing! O not in the gloom of my heart,
With the woman I married! with friend too as well;
We are talking of nature; the beauties of art,
The rapture of scenery, sympathy's spell.

The sun in December, is bright in the sky,
The clouds, like the spring, are all softened and white;
There wants but the warble of linnet hard by,
To render complete such a passing delight.

O look on the vale, sweeping lovely and green,
Enlivened by cattle, by hill, wood, and stream,

210

There wants but the Orwell to perfect the scene;
The Gipping meanders it, sprightly as dream.

The grotto! the avenue, terrace, and trees,
The church in the centre, the parsonage nigh;
In the 'midst of December the vision can please,
O what then the pleasure in summer's bright sky?

Are the thoughts of the selfish unbounded and clear,
O look on yon mansion out topping the wood,
Methinks to a spirit, yon prospect is dear,
The nobles' domain, should be place of the good.

For what are our views, to be widened in life,
For what is our nature, to feel itself cheered,
For what! but to banish all hatred and strife,
And to make us to God and ourselves be endear'd.

The spots that surround me are brought to my eye,
Each speck is endeared, nay the fields are all known,

211

I have pass'd over all, when the hounds were full cry,
Over many a hedge, ditch, and furrow too flown.

Believe me the field that adjoins to this spot,
Is remember'd with shudder; I gallopped with breath,
And the pit on the slope, forget I shall not,
How near being dash'd horse and man to the death.

How little I thought though my heart was the same,
That my hand should record such a moment as this,
We know not ourselves, 'till we study our frame,
We know not delight! 'till we think upon bliss.

For the poor I am writing! O welcome the line,
'Tis winter though gloom of the moment is lost,
My heart is revived by the season so fine,
I fear not for sorrow! for cold or for Frost.

N. B. Frost is the person for whose benefit these Poems are published.

212

TO THE LIBERTINE.

What wouldst thou have? thy heated frame is burnt
With fiery furies, that consume thyself;
Thy spirit takes its knowledge from the flesh,
And that which pleases selfishness loves thee,
Swoln in pride, begotten of conceit,
Brought forth of indolence; thy sluggish soul
Active alone when thirsting but with lust,
Can rouse itself to energy in ill.
Affecting gentleness, and love of those,
Whose weaker frames, for man's protection ask;
Thine 'tis to conquer, and to bring to shame
That which shall stamp thee but with infamy.
O thou canst study to indulge thyself,
Those soft acquirements, which the gentler sex,
Believe to be the index of the mind,

213

Wise in the flow of guileful artful words,
Enticing in the smile of treachery,
Pleasing in impudence, thine eye is cast
In seeming admiration on the fair;
But not in virtue, nor in nature's love,
Neither of these admit a thought of ill,
Virtue is wisdom! nature is delight;
Though mix'd with sorrow! but thy soul has naught
But love of luxury in the lap of lust:
Say is the crocodile on banks of Nile,
Half so deceitful in his craving cry,
Alluring to the kindest heart of man,
Or near so greedy when he snaps in halves,
The victim of his subtilty, as thou?
What does the monster of the muddy stream,
But use that instinct, to betray, for food,
Which Libertine, thou usest, for thine end:—
O thou art cruel! dost thou sing of love?
Thou monster of deformity in mind,
Wakest thou the passions of the noblest soul,
And that to treachery, deceit, disgrace,

214

Calling, by terms which faithfulness alone
Should dare to venture on! the thought of love!
O shame thee, shame! no wonder that thine end
Should bring on bitterness of pain and woe!
Thou dost increase the very gall of death;
Thou dost inhale the vapours of disease.
Thy flesh incurable, doth rot thy mind,
Thy very bones are brittle in the flame,
The all devouring never sated fire
Of deadly passion. Libertine if ought
That seems to thee delightful have its end
In virtuous feeling, thou wilt think of this!
If thou hast mind, go humble thee to dust,
That dust may be reduced to what it is,
And so thy spirit taking purer flight,
May rise above dominion of the flesh
And then condemn the very deeds of life
Which formerly were pleasant to the taste:
Then pity suffering! God may pardon thine,
And thou be Christian! not a Libertine.

215

ON THE PROSPECT OF LEAVING MY NATIVE TOWN.

Ipswich farewell! o'er many a distant scene,
Where fancy's bark, is sailing on the stream,
With sails of pleasure, I shall often pause;—
Oft too to mind, the vivid scenes of youth,
Recall and sigh! ah! but that God has sent,
A mental comfort, sweeter than the past,
The hope of future glory; I should weep,
In deepest agony to say farewell.

Dear place of love, where life and light have shone
In joyous concert, where mine infant steps,
Trod in full gaiety thy verdant plains,
Since nature opened to my heart the hope
Of meeting happiness; O still be dear.

216

If God be love, O truly may I say,
God has been with me from the first to last.
O memory! how often wilt thou call
From hidden days, the retrospect of love.
First, when my steps in childhoods frolic hour
Wandered delighted, in the Christ Church park,
And heard with horror, that the midnight clock,
Bade giant statues walk upon the plain;
And when they heard it, they obeyed the call:
Then too the swans! if any dare defame,
A watery grave awaited him. But now,
This very morning with mine infant boy,
I walked and bless'd him! pray'd that God would bless,
And make him happier, and better too,
Than ever I have been! O not that life,
Has not afforded me the greatest joy
That man on earth, I care not who he be,
Could ever here experience; and yet,
Whilst life be with me shall the joy increase.

217

Spirit is spirit of no common kind,
For nature's spirit, I have had my zest,
But ever found God's Spirit was the best.

O pause awhile thou dear transporting days,
When love of virtue midst the scenes of life,
Led me to think how dearly should I love
To serve my God, my fellow creatures bless,
And speak out boldly what my spirit thought.
Young was the vision, brilliant as a star,
The sweet enchanting dream of ecstasy,
That all would love me, for my love of God.
How sweet are hopes, alas! alas! the world
Soon taught me otherwise; the serpent sin
In thousand shapes, beset my youthful path,
And made me creep along the dust in pain.

The schoolboy's days, all terror and no love,
Train'd to a character my soul abhorred
When taught like Cæsar to be brave and kill,

218

To die, for liberty, or love of gold,
Ought, but affection, ought, but native tongue,
Or pure religion, piety, or peace.
Flogged, for my negligence of that I spurn'd,
And disencouraged, in my thirst for love,
Too fond of play, wherever spirit led,
Or cruelty no poignancy enforced;
The foremost, happy, happy, boy of love.
God bless ye masters, though your iron rods
Cut deeply in the flesh! my spirit lov'd;
And had ye taught me with a gentle hand,
Mine had been gratitude that more than this
Had spoken faithfully such words of truth,
As never schoolboy uttered in his youth.

But rods, and horrors, dread of masters frowns,
Spite of the ushers, idleness, and pains,
All fled with school! the dear domestic home,
A mother's love, a father's just remarks,
Though sometimes lost, were dearer to my soul,

219

Than any pleasures, which the world could give.
Then came the days when liberty commenced.—
A horse! a horse! and such a one was he,
I never saw from that day to this hour,
So dear an animal! as white as snow,
His black eye piercing to my heart's delight,
O noble fellow, thou wast many a day,
My sole companion to the Orwell's shore;
Oft as I cross'd thee, I have thought of God;
And riding to the summit of the hills,
Looked over Ipswich, and with joy bethought,
How glorious the leader of a throng,
Who lead to virtue, honor, love, and God.
Ambition's sire, yet knew I naught, or how
Would swell my eye, expand my rising soul,
Bid pure affection glitter in the sun,
And ask the vallies to behold and smile.
Then thought I of a partner for my life,
And as my love was anxious to be true,
Soon was an object offered to mine eye,

220

To which all virtue that my soul could give,
Was close attach'd. I cannot speak of days,
In which that impress natural and pure,
First gain'd the mastery! suffice it now!
All that in woman I could ever hope,
Whilst earth is present,—I have found in her.

In Ipswich! nature, spirit, love, and life,
As far as mortal could expect the same,
Have been enjoyed!—the waters of my youth
Long long I lov'd them, and can truly say,
That never spot, in distant lands I saw,
Had half the charm. In foreign realms I sigh'd:—
The towns or cities, rivers, meads, or plains,
Were none so dear, as Orwell, and her town.
The dancing damsels, of an other clime,
No charm for one! whose memory was keen;
And pure attachment to his native soil,
Made every face, that innocence of youth
Could love, shine happily.—But now farewell—

221

O not in sorrow—but in joy farewell.—
God whom I lov'd far dearer than myself,
And dearer still than any thing on earth,
Will make me happy, be I where I will:
Duty is pleasure, when our nature's pangs
Subdued, or softened by celestial love,
Make Heaven's high mandate glory of the heart.
Through sorrow, joy, through good and ill report,
With front of fearlessness, no strength of mind,
But spirit's boldness, I have gone my course.
Have I offended 'gainst a single soul,
No soul should think it; for to none on earth,
Save to the enemy of God and man,
Have I felt ought, but sympathy and love.
Those who have known me, and have been my friends
Have found me meeting them with friendship's hand,
Accompanied with feelings of the soul,
As truly grateful as their own to me.
Few have I found who met me in that way

222

I most sincerely loved! but none to whom,
I bear not something of sincere respect!—
Forgive me friends, the egotist forgive,
I speak but truth,—may truth for ever live.

Dear Ipswich can I leave thee and the wave
Where youth and life cemented more by love,
Than worldly feeling, have outliv'd the past.
O can I leave thee and without a sigh,
Spirit will sigh but not for nature's face.
Truly in thee, my natures' God I view'd,
And more admired than merely scenery.
The pang is past, a greater love I know
Than human feeling; so I shall not weep,
Or if I do, no eye but his who knows
The secret cause of sorrow, shall behold.
Forgive my weakness, reader of the line,
And conquer thou hypocrisy and hate!
I write my soul: and if I write in love,
That soul transported can endure the scorn,
Of any being saving God my Lord.

223

It seems that nature undergoes a pang
Whilst spirit cheers me. 'Tis enough to feel
To feel most powerfully truth—farewell,
O I could write, but must not write of thee.
Another pen descriptive and sublime,
Shall write thy praises, and if talent shine,
If virtue be in letters, so shall speak,
The language of a poet to the world,
That cherished, genius, or spirit shewn
Shall soon in Ipswich be express'd and known.

One word to thee thou native kindred flame,
Thou poor, deserving, yet, most gifted man!
O Cordingley! the moment that thy line
Before my vision playfully was placed,
I own'd thy worth; nor have I chang'd my tone.
Write on and prosper! sing thy native song,
And now and then responsive to my own,
Lift thine high sentiment to sing of love.
Exalted rise and long thou Ipswich bard,

224

May undisputed laurels, be thy claim.
Thou hast a spirit full of fire and truth,
A wisdom, which if nurtur'd shall be great!
Long may thy townsmen, greet thee for thy worth;
Encourage, cherish, and respect thy pen.
The proudest day, my nature ever knew,
Was that I found thee! prosper thou!—adieu.—

Friends of my youth, and friends of present day
Accept the parting pressure of my pen,
And you, parishoners, believe the fact,
My soul is tranquil with regard to all;
Rejoice with me that duty has prevailed
And though I bid you with my pen farewell,
Oft on your spirits shall my spirit dwell.
The secret prayer shall fervently be rais'd,
And God, for all things be beloved and prais'd.

FINIS.