 | Sacra Poesis |  |
[Reader, whosoe'er thou art]
Reader, whosoe'er thou art,
Just a word before we part.
Pr'ythee censure not, and praise not,
Anger or vain-glory raise not;
Is there ought to blame?—be still,—
Aught to praise?—to praise were ill.
Just a word before we part.
Pr'ythee censure not, and praise not,
Anger or vain-glory raise not;
Is there ought to blame?—be still,—
Aught to praise?—to praise were ill.
Next let conscience tell thy name,
Pardon, all are not the same:
Christian, tell me, dost thou find
This little volume to thy mind;
If its strains are sweet to thee,
May I say—remember me?
Pardon, all are not the same:
Christian, tell me, dost thou find
This little volume to thy mind;
If its strains are sweet to thee,
May I say—remember me?
124
Scorner,—there are some things here
That should make thee think and fear,
Friends, continue ever such,
Foes, I do not fear you much,
Critics, to the motive look,
Flatterers, lay down the book.
That should make thee think and fear,
Friends, continue ever such,
Foes, I do not fear you much,
Critics, to the motive look,
Flatterers, lay down the book.
| Sacra Poesis | |