LVIII. THE NEW CONVERT. THE new-born child of gospel grace, Lifts up his blooming branch on high. No conflict yet his faith employs, Nor has he learnt to whom he owes The strength and peace his soul enjoys. But sin soon darts its cruel sting, And comforts sinking day by day, What seem'd his own, a self-fed spring, Proves but a brook that glides away. When Gideon arm'd his numerous host, The Lord soon made his numbers less; And said, "Lest Israel vainly boast1, My arm procured me this success.' Thus will he bring our spirits down, And draw our ebbing comforts low, That saved by grace, but not our own, We may not claim the praise we owe. LIX. TRUE AND FALSE COMFORTS. O GOD, whose favourable eye Who with a graceless heart Who while they boast their light, And seem to soar above the stars, Are plunging into night. Lull'd in a soft and fatal sleep, They sin and yet rejoice; Were they indeed the Saviour's sheep, "Tis joy enough, my All in All, LX. A LIVING AND A DEAD FAITH. THE Lord receives his highest praise To mark the precepts' holy light, 1 Judges, vii. 2. Not words alone it cost the Lord, To purchase pardon for his own; Nor will a soul by grace restored Return the Saviour words alone. With golden bells, the priestly vest, And rich pomegranates border'd round, The need of holiness express'd, And call'd for fruit as well as sound. Easy indeed it were to reach A mansion in the courts above, LXI. ABUSE OF THE GOSPEL. Too many, Lord, abuse thy grace Thy book displays a gracious light That can the blind restore; The pardon such presume upon, Was it for this, ye lawless tribe, Ah, Lord, we know thy chosen few But these, the wretched husks they chew, The liberty our hearts implore Is not to live in sin; But still to wait at Wisdom's door, LXII. THE NARROW WAY. WHAT thousands never knew the road! None but the chosen tribes of God A thousand ways in ruin end, One only leads to joys on high; By that my willing steps ascend, Pleased with a journey to the sky. No more I ask or hope to find Delight or happiness below; Sorrow may well possess the mind That feeds where thorns and thistles grow. 2 Exod. xxviii. 33. To keep the lamp alive, With oil we fill the bowl; "Tis water makes the willow thrive, And grace that feeds the soul. The Lord's unsparing hand Supplies the living stream; It is not at our own command, But still derived from him. Beware of Peter's word', Nor confidently say, "I never will deny thee, Lord,”But,-" Grant I never may." Man's wisdom is to seek His strength in God alone; And even an angel would be weak, Who trusted in his own. Retreat beneath his wings, And in his grace confide! This more exalts the King of kings 2 Than all your works beside. In Jesus is our store, Grace issues from his throne; Whoever says, "I want no more," Confesses he has none. LXIV. NOT OF WORKS. GRACE, triumphant in the throne, Fruits of pride (vain-glorious worm!) Self, the god his soul adores, But when God the Judge shall come, LXV. PRAISE FOR FAITH. Of all the gifts thine hand bestows, Not heaven itself a richer knows Till thou thy teaching power apply, Blind to the merits of thy Son, Yet fly that hand from which alone We praise thee, and would praise thee more, The precious Saviour, and the power LXVI. GRACE AND PROVIDENCE. ALMIGHTY King! whose wondrous hand Thy providence supplies my food, My streams of outward comfort came From Satan's malice shields my breast, Forgive the song that falls so low LXVII. I WILL PRAISE THE LORD AT ALL TIMES. WINTER has a joy for me, While the Saviour's charms I read, Lowly, meek, from blemish free, In the snowdrop's pensive head. Spring returns, and brings along Life-invigorating suns: Hark! the turtle's plaintive song Seems to speak his dying groans! Summer has a thousand charms, All expressive of his worth; "Tis his sun that lights and warms, His the air that cools the earth. [Sweet Both heart and head: and couldst with music Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet Of others' speech, but magic of thy own. TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, Esq. THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esq. June 2, 1792. HAYLEY, thy tenderness fraternal shown, Of Friendship more, except with God alone. Not more to admire the Bard than love the Man. TO GEORGE ROMNEY, Esq. ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS, DRAWN AT EARTHAM ROMNEY, expert infallibly to trace On chart or canvass, not the form alone And semblance, but however faintly shown, The mind's impression too on every face; With strokes that time ought never to erase Thou hast so pencil'd mine, that though I own The subject worthless, I have never known The artist shining with superior grace. But this I mark,-that symptoms none of woe In thy incomparable work appear. Well I am satisfied it should be so, Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear; For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee? TO MRS. UNWIN. May, 1793. MARY! I want a lyre with other strings. Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things, That ere through age or woe I shed my wings, I may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings. But thou hast little need. There is a book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, On which the eyes of God not rarely look; A chronicle of actions just and bright: There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine; And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine. TO JOHN JOHNSON, ON HIS PRESENTING ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER. May, 1793. KINSMAN beloved, and as a son, by me! The sculptured form of my old favourite bard, TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esq. June 29, 1793. DEAR architect of fine CHATEAUX in air, O for permission from the skies to share, But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. (TO THE MARCH IN SCIPIO.) WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED, TOLL for the brave! The brave that are no more! And laid her on her side; A land breeze shook the shrouds, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; She ran upon no rock : Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full-charged with England's thunder, Shall plough the wave no more. IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGII, CUI GEORGIUS REGALE NOMEN INDITUM. PLANGIMUS fortes. Periêre fortes, Navis, innitens lateri, jacebat, Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducam Magne, qui nomen, licet incanorum, Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti ! At tuos olim memorabit ævum Omne triumphos. Non hyems illos furibunda mersit, Non mari in clauso scopuli latentes, Fissa non rimis abies, nec atrox Abstulit ensis. Navitæ sed tum nimium jocosi Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque, Hi quidem (sic Dis placuit) fuêre: THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. FORCED from home and all its pleasures, Still in thought as free as ever, Dwells in white and black the same. Why did all-creating nature Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards, Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords ! Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, Is there One who reigns on high? Has He bid you buy and sell us, Speaking from his throne, the sky? Ask Him, if your knotted scourges, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means that duty urges Agents of his will to use? Hark! He answers !-Wild tornadoes Strewing yonder sea with wrecks, Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, Are the voice with which he speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations Afric's sons should undergo, Fix'd their tyrants' habitations Where his whirlwinds answer-No. By our blood in Afric wasted, Ere our necks received the chain; By the miseries that we tasted, Crossing in your barks the main ; By our sufferings, since ye brought us To the man-degrading mart, All sustain'd by patience, taught us Only by a broken heart! Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard and stronger Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers, Prove that you have human feelings Ere you proudly question ours! PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS. Video meliora proboque, Deteriora sequor.—— I own I am shock'd at the purchase of slaves, And fear those who buy them and sell them are [groans knaves; What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and Is almost enough to draw pity from stones. I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, What! give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea? A youngster at school more sedate than the rest, He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd-"Oh, no! THE MORNING DREAM. 'Twas in the glad season of spring, I dream'd what I cannot but sing, I dream'd that, on ocean afloat, Far hence to the westward I sail'd, While the billows high lifted the boat, [tree; And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail'd. |