Released him, as my story tells,
And found a fupper fomewhere else.
Hence jarring fectaries may learn
Their real intereft to discern;
That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other;
But fing and shine by sweet confent,
Till life's poor tranfient night is spent,
Respecting in each other's cafe
The gifts of nature and of grace.
Thofe Chriftians best deserve the name
Who ftudiously make peace their aim;
Peace both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps and him that flies.
AN EPISTLE TO AN AFFLICTED PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.
STRANGER'S purpose in these lays Is to congratulate, and not to praise; To give the creature the Creator's due Were fin in me, and an offence to you. From man to man, or e'en to woman paid, Praise is the medium of a knavish trade, A coin by Craft for Folly's ufe defign'd, Spurious, and only current with the blind.
The path of forrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where forrow is unknown;
No traveller ever reach'd that bleft abode,
Who found not thorns and briers in his road.
The world may dance along the flowery plain,
Cheer'd as they go by many a fprightly ftrain,
Where Nature has her moffy velvet spread,
With unshod feet they yet fecurely tread,
Admonish'd, fcorn the caution and the friend,
Bent all on pleasure, heedlefs of its end.
But He, who knew what human hearts would
How flow to learn the dictates of his love,
That, hard by nature and of stubborn will,
A life of eafe would make them harder still,
In pity to the fouls his grace defign'd
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years,
And faid, "Go, spend them in the vale of tears
O balmy gales of foul-reviving air!
O falutary streams, that murmur there!
These flowing from the Fount of Grace above,
Those breathed from lips of everlasting love.
The flinty foil indeed their feet annoys;
Chill blafts of trouble nip their springing joys;
An envious world will interpofe its frown,
To mar delights fuperior to its own ;
And many a pang, experienced still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, Sin:
But ills of every fhape and every name,
Transform'd to bleffings, mifs their cruel aim;
And every moment's calm, that foothes the breast,
Is given in earnest of eternal rest.
Ah, be not fad, although thy lot be caft
Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste!
No shepherd's tents within thy view appear,
But the chief Shepherd even there is near;
Thy tender forrows and thy plaintive strain
Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain;
Thy tears all iffue from a fource divine,
And every drop befpeaks a Saviour thine.
So once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found,
And drought on all the drooping herbs around.
TO THE REV. W. CAWTHORNE
UNWIN.
NWIN, I should but ill repay
The kindness of a friend,
Whose worth deserves as warm a lay
As ever friendship penn'd,
Thy name omitted in a page
That would reclaim a vicious age.
A union form'd, as mine with thee,
Not rafhly, or in sport,
May be as fervent in degree,
And faithful in its fort,
And may as rich in comfort prove,
As that of true fraternal love.
The bud inferted in the rind,
The bud of peach or rose,
TO THE REV. W. C. UNWIN.
Adorns, though differing in its kind,
The stock whereon it grows,
With flower as fweet, or fruit as fair,
As if produced by nature there.
Not rich, I render what I may,
I feize thy name in hafte,
And place it in this first essay,
Left this should prove the laft.
'Tis where it should be-in a plan,
That holds in view the good of man.
The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,
Should be the poet's heart;
Affection lights a brighter flame
Than ever blazed by art.
No mufes on these lines attend,
I fink the poet in the friend.
VERSES WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE.
ORTUNE! I thank thee: gentle Goddefs! thanks!
my Muse, though bashful, shall
She would have thank'd thee rather hadft thou caft
A treasure in her way; for neither meed
Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes,
And bowel-raking pains of emptiness,
Nor noontide feaft, nor evening's cool repaft,
Hopes she from this, prefumptuous-tho' perhaps,
The cobbler, leather-carving artist! might.
Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon,
Whatever; not as erft the fabled cock,
Vain-glorious fool! unknowing what he found,
Spurn'd the rich gem thou gavest him. Wherefore,
ah!
Why not on me that favour, (worthier fure!) Conferr'dft thou, Goddefs! Thou art blind, thou fay'st:
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