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When souls drawn upwards in communion sweet Yet Age, by long experience well inform’d,
Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat,

Well read, well temper’d, with religion warm’d, Discourse, as if releas'd and safe at home,

That fire abated, which impels rash youth, Of dangers past, and wonders yet to come,

Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth, And spread the sacred treasures of the breast As time improves the grape's authentic juice, Upon the lap of covenanted Rest.

Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use, “ What, always dreaming over heav'nly things, And claims a rev'rence in it's short’ning day, Like angel-heads in stone with pigeon-wings? That 't is an honour and a joy to pay. Canting and whining out all day the word, The fruits of Age, less fair, are yet more sound, And half the night? fanatic and absurd !

Than those a brighter season pours around; Mine be the friend less frequent in his pray'rs, And, like the stores autumnal suns mature, Who makes no bustle with his soul's affairs, Through wintry rigours unimpair'd endure. Whose wit can brighten up a wintry day,

What is fanatic phrenzy, scorn'd so much, And chase the splenetic dull hours away;

And dreaded more than a contagious touch? Content on Earth in earthly things to shine, I grant it dang'rous, and approve your fear, Who waits for Heav'n ere he becomes divine, That fire is catching, if you draw too near

r; Leaves saints t' enjoy those altitudes they teach, But sage observers oft mistake the flame, And plucks the fruit plac'd more within his reach.” | And give true piety that odious name.

Well spoken, Advocate of sin and shame, To tremble (as the creature of an hour
Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name. Ought at the view of an almighty Pow'r)
Is sparkling wit the World's exclusive right? Before his presence, at whose aweful throne
The fix'd fee-simple of the vain and light ?

All tremble in all worlds, except our own
Can hopes of Heav'n, bright prospects of an hour, To supplicate his mercy, love his ways,
That come to waft us out of Sorrow's pow'r, And prize them above pleasure, wealth, or praise,
Obscure or quench a faculty, that finds

Though common sense, allow'd a casting voice, It's happiest soil in the serenest minds ?

And free from bias, must approve the choice, Religion curbs indeed it's wanton play,

Convicts a man fanatic in th' extreme, And brings the trifler under rig'rous sway,

And wild as madness in the world's esteem. But gives it usefulness unknown before,

But that disease, when soberly defin'd, And, purifying, makes it shine the more.

Is the false fire of an o'erheated mind; A Christian's wit is inoffensive light,

It views the truth with a distorted eye, A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight; And either warps or lays it useless by ; Vig'rous in age as in the flush of youth,

'T is narrow, selfish, arrogant, and draws 'Tis always active on the side of truth;

It's sordid nourishment from man's applause; Temp'rance and peace insure it's healthful state, And while at heart sin unrelinquish'd lies, And make it brightest at it's latest date.

Presumes itself chief fav'rite of the skies. Oh I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain, 'Tis such a light as putrefaction breeds Ere life go down, to see such sights again) In fly-blown Hesh, whereon the maggot feeds, A vet'ran warrior in the Christian field,

Shines in the dark, but, usher’d into day, Who never saw the sword he could not wield; The stench remains, the lustre dies away. Grave without dulness, learned without pride, True bliss, if man may reach it, is compos'd Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-ey'd ; Of hearts in union mutually disclos'd; A man that would have foild at their own play And, farewell else all hope of pure delight, A dozen would-bes of the modern day;

Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, upright. Who, when occasion justified it's use,

Bad men, profaning friendship’s hallow'd name, Had wit as bright as ready to produce,

Form in it's stead, a covenant of shame, Could fetch from records of an earlier age,

A dark confed'racy against the laws Or from philosophy's enlighten'd page,

Of virtue, and religion's glorious cause : His rich materials, and regale your ear

They build each other up with dreadful skill, With strains it was a privilege to hear :

As bastions set point blank against God's will: Yet above all his luxury supreme,

Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt,
And his chief glory, was the Gospel theme; Deeply resolv'd to shut'a Saviour out;
There he was copious as old Greece or Rome, Call legions up from Hell to back the deed;
His happy eloquence seem'd there at home, And, curs’d with conquest, finally succeed.
Ambitious not to shine or to excel,

But souls, that carry on a blest exchange
But to treat justly what he lov'd so well.

Of joys, they meet with in their heav'nly range, It moves me more perhaps than folly ought, And with a fearless confidence make known When some green heads, as void of wit as thought, The sorrows, sympathy esteems it's own, Suppose themselves monopolists of sense,

Daily derive increasing light and force And wiser men's ability pretence.

From such communion in their pleasant course, Though time will wear us, and we must grow old, Feel less the journey's roughness and its length, Such men are not forgot as socn as cold,

Meet their opposers with united strength, Their fragrant mem'ry will outlast their tomb, And, one in heart, in int'rest, and design, Embalm'd for ever in it's own perfume.

Gird up each other to the race divine. And to say truth, though in it's early prime;

But Conversation, choose what theme we may, And when unstain'd with any grosser crime, And chiefly when religion leads the way, Youth has a sprightliness and fire to boast,

Should flow, like waters after summer show'rs, That in the valley of decline are lost,

Not as if rais'd by mere mehanic pow'rs. And Virtue with peculiar charms appears,

The Christian, in whose soul, though now distress'd, Crown'd with the garland of life's blooming years; | Lives the dear thought of joys !ie once possess'd,

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When all his glowing language issu'd forth That truth itself is in her head as dull
With God's deep stamp upon it's current worth, And useless as a candle in a scull,
Will speak without disguise, and must impart, And all her love of God a groundless claim,
Sad as it is, his undissembling heart,

A trick upon the canvass, painted fame.
Abhors constraint, and dares not feign a zea), Tell her again, the sneer upon her face,
Or seem to boast a fire he does not feel.

And all her censures of the work of grace, The song of Sion is a tasteless thing,

Are insincere, meant only to conceal Unless, when rising on a joyful wing,

A dread she would not, yet is forc'd to feel ; The soul can mix with the celestial bands,

That in her heart the Christian she reveres,
And give the strain the compass it demands. And while she seems to scorn him, only fears

Strange tidings these to tell a World, who treat A poet does not work by square or line,
All but their own experience as deceit!

As smiths and joiners perfect a design ;
Will they believe, though credulous enough, At least we moderns, our attention less,
To swallow much upon much weaker proof, Beyond th' example of our sites digress,
That there are blest inhabitants of Earth,

And claim a right to scamper and run wide,
Partakers of a new ethereal birth,

Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide.
Their hopes, desires, and purposes estrang'd The World and I fortuitously met;
From things terrestrial, and divinely chang'd, I ow'd a trifle and have paid the debt;
Their very language of a kind, that speaks She did me wrong, I recompens'd the deed,
The soul's sure int'rest in the good she seeks, And, having struck the balance, now proceed.
Who deal with Scripture, it's importance felt, Perhaps however as some years have pass'd,
As Tully with philosophy once dealt,

Since she and I convers’d together last,
And in the silent watches of the night,

And I have liv'd recluse, in rural shades,
And through the scenes of toil-renewing light, Which seldom a distinct report pervades,
The social walk, or solitary ride,

Great changes and new manners have occurrid,
Keep still the dear companion at their side ? And blest reforms, that I have never heard,
No — shame upon a self-disgracing age,

And she may now be as discreet and wise,
God's work may serve an ape upon a stage

As once absurd in all discerning eyes. With such a jest, as fill’d with hellish glee

Sobriety perhaps may now be found, Certain invisibles as shrewd as he ;

Where once Intoxication press’d the ground; But veneration or respect finds none,

The subtle and injurious may be just, Save from the subjects of that work alone.

And he grown chaste, that was the slave of lust; The World grown old her deep discernment shows, Arts once esteem'd may be with shame dismiss'd; Claps spectacles on her sagacious nose,

Charity may relax the miser's fist; Peruses closely the true Christian's face,

The gamester may have cast his cards away, And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace ;

Forgot to curse, and only kneel to pray. Usurps God's office, lays his bosom bare,

It has indeed been told me (with what weight,
And tinds hypocrisy close lurking there ;

How credibly, 't is hard for me to state)
And, serving God herself through mere constraint, That fables old, that seem'd for ever mute,
Concludes his unfeign'd love of him a feint. Reviv'd are hast'ning into fresh repute,
And yet, God knows, look human nature through, And gods and goddesses, discarded long
(And in due time the World shall know it too,) Like useless lumber, or a stroller's song,
That since the flow'rs of Eden felt the blast, Are bringing into vogue their heathen train,
That after man's defection laid all waste,

And Jupiter bids fair to rule again;
Sincerity tow'rds the heart-searching God

That certain feasts are instituted now,
Has made the new-born creature her abode, Where Venus hears the lover's tender vow;
Nor shall be found in unregen'rate souls,

That all Olympus through the country roves,
Till the last fire burn all between the Poles. To consecrate our few remaining groves,
Sincerity! why 't is his only pride,

And Echo learns politely ro repeat
Weak and imperfect in all grace beside,

The praise of names for ages obsolete ;
He knows that God demands his heart entire, That having prov'd the weakness, it should seem,
And gives him all his just demands require. Of Revelation's ineffectual beam,
Without it his pretensions were as vain,

To bring the passions under sober sway,
As having it he deems the World's disdain ; And give the moral springs their proper play,
That great defect would cost him not alone They mean to try what may at last be done,
Man's favourable judgment, but his own;

By stout substantial gods of wood and stone,
His birthright shaken, and no longer clear, And whether Roman rites may not produce
Than while his conduct proves his heart sincere. The virtues of old Rome for English use.
Retort the charge, and let the World be told May such success attend the pious plan,
She boasts a confidence she does not hold;

May Mercury once more embellish man,
That, conscious of her crimes, she feels instead Grace him again with long forgotten arts,
A cold misgiving, and a killing dread :

Reclaim his taste, and brighten up his parts,
That while in health the ground of her support Make him athletic as in days of old,
Is madly to forget that life is short ;

Learn'd at the bar, in the palæstra bold,
That sick she trembles, knowing she must die, Divest the rougher sex of female airs,
Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie; And teach the softer not to copy theirs :
That while she dotes, and dreams that she believes, The change shall please, nor shall it matter aught
She mocks her Maker, and herself deceives, Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought.
Her utmost reach, historical assent,

'Tis time, however, if the case stands thus, The doctrines warp'd to what they never meant ; For us plain folks, and all who side with us,

DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF
JUAN FERNANDEZ.

To build our altar, confident and bold,
And say as stern Elijah said of old,
The strife now stands upon a fair award,

VERSES
If Israel's Lord be God, then serve the Lord :
If he be silent, faith is all a whim,

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, Then Baal is the God, and worship him.

Digression is so much in modern use, Thought is so rare, and fancy so profuse, Some never seem so wide of their intent,

I am monarch of all I

survey, As when returning to the theme they meant;

My right there is none to dispute ; As mendicants, whose business is to roam,

From the centre all round to the sea, Make ev'ry parish but their own their home.

I am lord of the fowl and the brute. Though such continual zig-zags in a book,

O Solitude! where are the charms, Such drunken reelings have an awkward look,

That sages have seen in thy face? And I had rather creep to what is true,

Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than rove and stagger with no mark in view;

Than reign in this horrible place.
Yet to consult a little, seem'd no crime,
The freakish humour of the present time :

I am out of humanity's reach,
But now to gather up what seems dispersid,

I must finish my journey alone, And touch the subject I design'd at first,

Never hear the sweet music of speech, May prove, though much beside the rules of art,

I start at the sound of my own. Best for the public, and my wisest part.

The beasts, that roam over the plain, And first let no man charge me, that I mean

My form with indifference see; To close in sable ev'ry social scene,

They are so unacquainted with man,
And give good company a face severe,

Their tameness is shocking to me.
As if they met around a father's bier ;
For tell some men, that pleasure all their bent, Society, friendship, and love,
And laughter all their work, is life mis-spent,

Divinely bestow'd upon man,
Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply,

O, had I the wings of a dove, “ Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry.”

How soon would I taste you again! To find the medium asks some share of wit,

My sorrows I then might assuage And therefore 't is a mark fools never hit :

In the ways of religion and truth, But though life's valley be a vale of tears,

Might learn from the wisdom of age, A brighter scene beyond that vale appears,

And be cheerd by the sallies of youth. Whose glory with a light, that never fades, Shoots between scatter'd rocks and op’ning shades, Religion ! what treasure untold And, while it shows the land the soul desires,

Resides in that heavenly word ! The language of the land she seeks inspires.

More precious than silver and gold, Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a sacred cure

Or all that this Earth can afford. Of all that was absurd, profane, impure;

But the sound of the church-going bell Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech

These valleys and rocks never heard,
Pursues the course, that Truth and Nature teach; Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
No longer labours merely to produce

Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd.
The pomp of sound, or tinkle without use :
Where'er it winds, the salutary stream,

Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Sprightly and fresh, enriches ev'ry theme,

Convey to this desolate shore While all the happy man possess'd before,

Some cordial endearing report The gift of Nature, or the classic store,

Of a land, I shall visit no more. Is made subservient to the grand design,

My friends, do they now and then send For which Heav'n form'd the faculty divine.

A wish or a thought after me? So should an idiot, while at large he strays,

O tell me I yet have a friend,
Find the sweet lyre, on which an artist plays,

Though a friend I am never to see.
With rash and awkward force the chord he shakes,
And grins with wonder at the jar he makes;

How fleet is a glance of the mind !
But let the wise and well-instructed hand

Compar'd with the speed of its flight, Once take the shell beneath his just command,

The tempest itself lags behind, In gentle sounds it seems as it complain'd

And the swift-winged arrows of light. Of the rude injuries it late sustain'd,

When I think of my own native land, Till tun'd at length to some immortal song,

In a moment I seem to be there; It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours his praise along. But alas ! recollection at band

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.
There 's mercy in every place,

* And mercy, encouraging thought !
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.

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John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,

“ Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we

No holiday have seen.

“ Good lack!" quoth he -"yet bring it me,

My leathern belt likewise,
In which I bear my trusty sword,

When I do exercise."

« To-morrow is our wedding-day,

And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton

All in a chaise and pair.

“ My sister, and my sister's child,

Myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride

On horseback after we.

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!)

Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she lor'd,

And keep it safe and sound. Each bottle had a curling ear,

Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side,

To make his balance true. Then over all, that he might be

Equipp'd from top to toe,
His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat,

He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again

Upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,

With caution and good heed.

He soon replied, “ I do admire

Of woman-kind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear,

Therefore it shall be done,

" I am a linen-draper bold,

As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calendrer

Will lend his horse to go."

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “ That 's well said ;

And, for that wine is dear,
We will be furnish'd with our own,

Which is both bright and clear.”

But finding soon a smoother road

Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot,

Which gall’d him in his seat. So, “ Fair and softly," John he cried,

But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon,

In spite of curb and rein.

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife;

O'erjoy'd was he to find, That, though on pleasure she was bent,

She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought,

But yet was not allow'd
To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud.

So stooping down, as needs he must

Who cannot sit upright, He grasp'd the mane with both his hands

And eke with all his might.
His horse, who never in that sort

Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got

Did wonder more and more.

!

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd,

Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,

Were never folk so glad,
The stones did rattle underneath,

As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side

Seiz'd fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride,

But soon (ame down again ;

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;

Away went hat and wig;
He little dreamt, when he set out,

Of running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,

Like streamer long and gay,
Till, loop and button failing both,

At last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern

The bottles he had slung ;
A bottle swinging at each side,

As hath been said or sung.

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The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, “ What news? what news ? your tidings tell ; Up flew the windows all ;

Tell me you must and shall And ev'ry soul cried out, “ Well done!"

Say why bareheaded you are come, As loud as he could bawl.

Or why you come at all ?” Away went Gilpin - who but he ?

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, His fame soon spread around,

And lov'd a timely joke; “ He carries weight! he rides a race !

And thus unto the calender 'Tis for a thousand pound !".

In merry guise he spoke: And still as fast as he drew near,

“ I came because your horse would come; 'T was wonderful to view,

And, if I well forbode, How in a trice the turnpike men

My hat and wig will soon be here, Their gates wide open threw.

They are upon the road." And now, as he went bowing down

The calender, right glad to find His reeking head full low,

His friend in merry pin, The bottles twain behind his back

Return'd him not a single word, Were shatter'd at a blow.

But to the house went in:

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