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O days of Heav'n, and nights of equal praise, Youth has a sprightliness and fire to boast,
Serene and peaceful as those heav'nly days, That in the valley of decline are lost,
When souls drawn upwards in communion sweet And Virtue with peculiar charms appears,
Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat,

Crown'd wi the garland of life's blooming years;
Discourse, as if releas'd and safe at home,

Yet Age, by long experience well inform’d,
Of dangers past, and wonders yet to coine,

Well read, well temper'd, with religion warm'd,
And spread the sacred treasures of the breast That fire abated, which impels rashi youth,
Upon the lap of covenanted Rest:

Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth,
“What, always dreaming over heav'nly things, As time improves the grape's authentic juice,
Like angel-heads in stone with pigeon-wings? Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use,
Canting and whining out all day the word, And claims a rev'rence in its short'ning day,
And half the night? fanatic and absurd !

That 'tis an honor and a joy to pay.
Mine be the friend less frequent in his pray’rs, The fruits of Age, less fair, are yet more sound,
Who makes no bustle with his soul's affairs, Than those a brighter season pours around;
Whose wit can brighten up a wint’ry day,

And, like the stores autumnal suns mature,
And chase the splenetic dull hours away; Through wint'ry rigors unimpair'd endure.
Content on Earth in earthly things to shine,

What is fanatic frenzy, scorn'd so much,
Who waits for Heav'n ere he becomes divine, And dreaded more than a contagious touch?
Leaves saints t' enjoy those altitudes they teach, I grant it dang'rous, and approve your fear,
And plucks the fruit plac'd more within his reach." That fire is catching, if you draw too near;

Well spoken, advocate of sin and shamo, But sage observers oft mistake the flame,
Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name. And give true piety that odious name.
Is sparkling wit the World's exclusive right? To tremble (as the creature of an hour
The fix'd fee-simple of the vain and light? Ought at the view of an Almighty Pow'r)
Can hopes of Heav'n, bright prospects of an hour, Before his presence, at whose awful throne
That come to waft us out of Sorrow's pow'r, All tremble in all worlds, except our own,
Obscure or quench a faculty, that finds

To supplicate his mercy, love his ways,
Its happiest soil in the serenest minds?

And prize them above pleasure, wealth, or praise,
Religion curbs indeed its wanton play,

Though common sense, allow'd a casting voice, And brings the trifler under rig'rous sway,

And free from bias, must approve the choice,
But gives it usefulness unknown before,

Convicts a man fanatic in th' extreme,
And, purifying, makes it shine the more.

And wild as madness in the world's esteem
A Christian's wit is inoffensive light,

But that disease, when soberly defin'd,
A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight; Is the false fire of an o'erheated mind;
Vig'rous in age as in the flush of youth,

It views the truth with a distorted eye,
'Tis always active on the side of truth ;

And either warps or lays it useless by ;
Temp'rance and peace insure its healthful stale, "Tis narrow, selfish, arrogant, and draws
And make it brightest at its latest date.

Its sordid nourishment from man's applause ;
Oh I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain,

And while at heart sin unrelinquish'd lies,
Ere life go down, to see such sights again)

Presumes itself chief fav'rite of the skies.
A vet'ran warrior in the Christian field,

'Tis such a light as putrefaction breeds
Who never saw the sword he could not wield; In Ay-blown flesh, whereon the maggot feeds,
Grave without dullness, learned without pride, Shines in the dark, but, usher'd into day,
Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-ey'd ; The stench remains, the lustre dies away.
A man that would have foil'd at their own play True bliss, if man may reach it, is compos'd
A dozen would-bes of the modern day;

Of hearts in union mutually disclos'd ;
Who, when occasion justified its use,

And, farewell else all hope of pure delight,
Had wit as bright as ready to produce,

Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, upright
Could fetch from records of an earlier age, Bad men, profaning friendship’s hallow'd name,
Or from philosophy's enlighten'd page,

Form, in its stead a covenant of shame,
His rich materials, and regale your ear

A dark confed'racy against the laws
With strains it was a privilege to hear :

of virtue, and religion's glorious cause:
Yet above all his luxury supreme,

They build each other up with dreadful skill,
And his chief glory, was the Gospel theme; As bastions set point-blank against God's will:
l'here he was copious as old Greece or Rome, Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt,
His happy eloquence seem'd there at home, Deeply resolv'd to shut a Savior out;
Ambitious not to shine or to excel,

Call legions up from Ilell to back the deed;
But to treat justly what he lov'd so well.

And, curs’d with conquest, finally succeed.
It moves me more perhaps than folly ought, But souls, that carry on a blest exchange
When some green heads, as void of wit as thought, of joys, they meet with in their heav'nly range,
Suppose themselves monopolists of sense,

And with a fearless confidence made known
And wiser men's ability pretence.

The sorrows, sympathy esteems its own,
Though time will wear us, and we must grow old, Daily derive increasing light and force
Sach men are not forgot as soon as cold,

From such communion in their pleasant course,
Their fragrant mem'ry will outlast their tomb, Feel less the journey's roughness and its length,
Embalm'd for ever in its own persume.

Meet their opposers with united strength,
And to say truth, though in its early prime, And, one in heart, in intrest, and design,
And when unstain'd with any grosser crime, Gird up each other to the race divine.

But Conversation, choose what theme we may,

That while in health the ground of her support and chiefly when religion leads the way,

Is madly to forget that life is short; Should flow, like waters after summer show'rs, 'That sick she trembles, knowing she m'ist die, Not as if rais'd by mere mechanic pow'rs,

Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie;
The Christian, in whose soul, though now distress'd, That while she dotes, and dreams that she believe
Lives the dear thought of joys he once possess'd, She mocks her Maker, and herself deceives,
When all his glowing language issued forth Her utmost reach, historical assent,
With God's deep stamp upon its current worth, The doctrines warp'd to what they never meant;
Will speak without disguise, and must impart, That fruih itself is in her head as dull
Sad as it is, his undissembling heart,

And useless as a candle in a skull,
Abhors constraint, and dares not feign a zeal, And all her love of God a groundless claim,
Or seem to boast a fire he does not feel.

A trick upon the canvas, painted flame.
The song of Zion is a fasteless thing,

Tell her again, the sneer upon her face,
Unless, when rising on a joyful wing,

And all her censures of the work of grace,
The soul can mix with the celestial bands, Are insincere, meant only to conceal
And give the strain the coinpass it demands. A dread she would noi, yet is forc'd to feel ;

Strange tidings these to tell a world, who treat That in her heart the Christian she reveres,
All but their own experience as deceit!

And while she seems to scorn him, only fears. Will they believe, though credulous enongh,

A poet does not work by square or line, To swallow much upon much weaker proof, As smiths and joiners perfect a design; That there are blest inhabitants of Earth,

At least we moderns, our attention less,
Partakers of a new ethereal birth,

Beyond ih' example of our sires digress,
Their hopes, desires, and purposes estrang'd And claim a right to scamper and run wide
From things terrestrial, and divinely chang'd, Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy, guide.
Their very language of a kind, that speaks The World and I fortuitously met;
The soul's sure int'rest in the good she seeks, I ow'd a trifle, and have paid the debt;
Who deal with Scripture, its importance felt, She did me wrong, I recompens'd the deed,
As Tully with philosophy once dealt,

And, having struck the balance, now proceed. And in the silent watches of the night,

Perhaps however as some years have pass'd,
And through the scenes of toil-renewing light, Since she and I convers'd together last,
The social walk, or solitary ride,

And I have liv'd recluse, in rural shades,
Keep still the dear companion at their side ? Which seldom a distinct report pervades,
No-shame upon a self-disgracing age,

Great changes and new manners have occurr'd, God's work may serve an ape upon a stage

And blest reforms, that I have never heard, With such a jest, as fill'd with hellish glee And she may now be as discreet and wise, Certain invisibles as shrewd as he ;

As once absurd in all discerning eyes.
But veneration or respect finds none,

Sobriety perhaps may now be found,
Save from the subjects of that work alone. Where once Intoxication press'd the ground;
The World grown old her deep discernment shows, The subtle and injurious may be just,
Claps spectacles on her sagacious nose,

And he grown chaste, that was the slave of lus! ; Peruses closely the true Christian's face,

Arts once esteem'd may be with shame dismiss d ; And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace;

Charity may relax the miser's fist; Usurps God's office, lays his bosom bare,

The gamester may have cast his cards away, And finds hypocrisy close lurking there;

Forgot to curse, and only kneel to pray. And, serving God herself through mere constraint, It has indeed been told me (with what weight, Concludes his unfeign'd love of him a feint. How credibly, 'tis hard for me to state) And yet, God knows, look human nature through,

That fables old, that seem'd for ever mute, (And in due time the World shall know it too,) Reviv'd are hast’ning into fresh repute, That since the flow'rs of Eden felt the blast, And gods and goddesses, discarded long That after man's defection laid all waste,

Like useless lumber, or a stroller's song,
Sincerity tow'rds the heart-searching God

Are bringing into vogue their heathen train,
Has made the new-born creature her abode, And Jupiter bids fair to rule again;
Nor shall be found in unregen'rate souls,

That certain feasts are instituted now,
Till the last fire burn all between the Poles. Where Venus hears the lover's tender vow;
Sincerity! why 'tis his only pride,

That all Olympus through the country roves,
Weak and imperfect in all grace beside,

To consecrate our few remaining groves,
He knows that God demands his heart entire, And Echo learns politely to repeat
And gives him all his just demands require. | The praise of names for ages obsolete;
Without it his pretensions were as vain,

That having prov'd the weakness, it should seem,
As having it he deems the World's disdain; or Revelation's ineffectual beam,
That great defect would cost him not alone To bring the passions under sober sway,
Man's favorable judgment, but his own;

And give the moral springs their proper play, His birthright shaken, and no longer clear, They mean to try what may ai last be done. Than while his conduct proves his heart sincere. By stout substantial gods of wood and stone Retort the charge, and let the World be told And whether Roman rites may not produce She boasts a confidence she does not hold; The virtues of old Rome for English use. That, conscious of her crimes, she feels instead May such success attend the pious plan, A cold misgiving, and a killing dread :

May Mercury once more embellish man,

Grace him again with long-forgotten arts,
Reclaim his laste, and brighten up his parts,

VERSES
Make him athletic as in days of old,
Learn'd at the bar, in the palæstra bold,
Divest the rougher sex of female airs,

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, And teach the softer not to copy theirs :

DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF The change shall please, nor shall it matter aught JUAN FERNANDEZ. Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought. 'Tis time, however, if the case stands thus,

I am monarch of all I survey, For us plain folks, and all who side with us,

My right there is none to dispute; To build our altar, confident and bold,

From the centre all round to the sea, And say as stern Elijah said of old,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute. The strife now stands upon a fair award,

O Solitude! where are the charms If Israel's Lord be God, then serve the Lord :

That sages have seen in thy face? If he be silent, faith is all a whim,

Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Then Baal is the God, and worship him.

Than reign in this horrible place.
Digression is so much in modern use,
Thought is so rare, and fancy so profuse,

I am out of humanity's reach,
Some never seem so wide of their intent,

I must finish my journey alone, As when returning to the theme they meant;

Never hear the sweet music of speech, As mendicants, whose business is to roam,

I start at the sound of my own. Make ev'ry parish but their own their home.

The beasts, that roam over the plain, Though such continual zigzags in a book,

My form with indifference see ;
Such drunken reelings, have an awkward look, They are so unacquainted with man,
And I had rather creep to what is true,

Their tameness is shocking to me:
Than rove and stagger with no mark in view;
Yet to consult a little, seem'd no crime,

Society, friendship, and love,
The freakish humor of the present time:

Divinely beslow'd upon man, But now to gather up what seems dispers'd,

O, had I the wings of a dove,
And touch the subject I design'd at first,

How soon would I taste you again!
May prove, though much beside the rules of art, My sorrows I then might assuage
Best for the public, and my wisest part.

In the ways of religion and truth,
And first let no man charge me, that I mean

Might learn from the wisdom of age, To close in sable ev'ry social scene,

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth And give good company a face severe, As if they met around a father's bier ;

Religion! what treasure untold For tell some men, that pleasure all their bent,

Resides in that heavenly word! And laughter all their work, is life misspent,

More precious than silver and gold, Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply,

Or all that this Earth can afford. " Then mirih is sin, and we should always cry." But the sound of the church-going bell To find the medium asks some share of wit,

These valleys and rocks never heard, And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit:

Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
But though life's valley be a vale of tears,

Or smil'd when a sabbath appeard.
A brighter scene beyond that vale appears,
Whose glory with a light, that never fades,

Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Shoots between scatter'd rocks and op'ning shades, Convey to this desolate shore
And, while it shows the land the soul desires,

Some cordial endearing report
The language of the land she seeks inspires.

Of a land, I shall visit no more.
Thus touch’d, the tongue receives a sacred cure My friends, do they now and then send
Of all that was absurd, profane, impure;

A wish or a thought after me?
Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech

O tell me I yet have a friend,
Pursues the course that Truth and Nature teach;

Though a friend I am never to see.
No longer labors merely to produce
The pomp of sound, or tinkle without use :

How fleet is a glance of the mind !
Where'er il winds, the salutary stream,

Compar'd with the speed of its flight, Sprightly and fresh, enriches ev'ry theme,

The tempest itself lags behind, While all the happy man possess'd before,

And the swifi-winged arrows of light. The gift of Nature, or the classic store,

When I think of my own native land, Is made subservient to the grand design

In a moment I seein to be there ; For which Heav'n form d the faculty divine.

But alas! recollection at hand
So should an idiot, while at large be strays,

Soon hurries me back to despair.
Find the sweet lyre, on which an artist plays,
With rash and awkward force the chord he shakes, But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
And grins with wonder at the jar he makes;

The beast is laid down in his lair ;
But let the wise and well-instructed hand

Even here is a season of rest, Once take the shell beneath his just command,

And I to my cabin repair. In gentle sounds it seems as it complain'd

There's mercy in every place, Of the rude injuries it late sustain'd,

And mercy, encouraging thought!
Till tun'd at length to some immortal song,

Gives even affliction a grace,
It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours his praise along.| And reconciles man to his lot.

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Now see him mounted once again

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

With caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road

Beneath his well-si.od 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.

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.

“I am a linen-draper bold,

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

Will lend his horse 10 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."
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 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 came down again;
For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he,

His journey to begin,
When turning round his head, he saw

Threo customers come in.

His horse, who never in that sort

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

Did wonder more and more.

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 few 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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And thus unto the youth she said,

That drove them to the Bell, “This shall be yours, when you bring back

My husband safe and well."

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