"My base heart, if yet I may In some measure crime atone. It is thirty years this day Since a Will I made away, To gain riches not my own.

"Him I wronged is HUMBLEWORTH, Long a neighbor near this house: His my wealth by right of birth; All I own upon this earth Is my family—and disgrace.

"I would make amends to him, But grim death now shakes his dart; Breathing fails me, eyes grow dim, Spectres 'fore my vision skim, And with terrors fill my heart.

"List, my son, your's be the task, When I'm past this earthly scene, Pardon for my sin to ask, My vile conduct to unmask, And make known what I have been.

"But, my boy, in pity spare, Spare your mother's feelings dear. Warning take, from me, nor dare Sport with sin; of that beware, For great danger lurketh near.

"I more would say, but now again Death's strong fetters bind my tongue." Soon his struggles are in vain; WILLIAM'S heart is wrung with pain, And his nerves are all unstrung.

Startling groans break on his ear Now that ill-spent life has fled. WILLIAM sees his mother near And attempts her heart to cheer, As she sinks upon the bed.

Seems this stroke too hard to bear. In the lack of Christian hope, Her weak heart from grief and care Droops too soon to dire despair; With such foe she cannot cope.

Now the youth feels greatest need To curb well his ardent grief, Calls he loud for help with speed. His commands the servants heed, They obey his mandates brief.

First the mistress they convey To her room and lay her down. There would WILLIAM with her stay, But he could not brook delay Till his father's crime he own.

Goes he to the house once more Where his dear AMELIA lives. With a heart most truly sore, Reaches he the cottage door, Knocks; no one admittance gives.

Why is all so still around? This place they did occupy! "Where can HUMBLEWORTHS be found?" Asks he loud, nor heeds the sound Of man's footsteps passing by.

Turns the man in haste his head And the youth does recognize, Tells him, "In the lake's clean bed Some one found poor AMIE dead!" And that thitherward he hies.

This like thrust of dagger came, Near depriving him of sense. In his breast's a raging flame, Calls he AMIE'S lovely name As he rushes o'er the fence.

Down toward the deep lake's side Flies he now with greatest speed. Forms among the bushes glide, Sorely is the lover tried In this saddest hour of need.

Who can paint his grief of mind As the lifeless form he views? Vainly strives he peace to find, This stroke seems the most unkind; He all comfort does refuse.

AMIE'S face has lost its bloom, Though her countenance is fair. Little ANN within the room Deeply shares the general gloom, In a dim lit corner there.

Some make efforts to restore That sweet girl they loved so well. Too long time elapsed before Her dear form was drawn to shore. Death has cast o'er her his spell.

Women kind now lay her out, In pure white her corpse invest. WILLIAM then, by nature taught, With poetic feeling fraught, This warm song to her addressed:

SONG TO AMELIA.

Still like to Luna wading, Beneath yon silvery cloud, Thy beauties are unfading, Though mantled in a shroud.

As thou in death art lying, Thy lovely form I view, And ask if aught in dying Has made thy charms seem new.

Say, wert thou conscious ever That I to thee was true? That naught but death could sever The bond 'twixt me and you?

I came with heart nigh bursting From thee to get relief. My very soul was thirsting To let thee share its grief.

And now this stroke has fallen Like thunderbolt on me, And my poor heart is swollen With saddest misery.

Oh, where can I be flying For strength and succor now? If there were hope in dying, I soon to death would bow.

But now my duty strongly Bids me my task fulfil; Thy family suffered wrongly, To right them I've the will.

And then I would be leaving Each bitter scene of woe, Haply my loss retrieving, If that can be below.

Thou wert to me oft speaking Of God's sweet place of Rest, I would that place be seeking, To be with thee most blest.

Farewell, my young life's charmer, A long, a last farewell; I feel my heart grow warmer As on thy love I dwell.

Calls he HUMBLEWORTH aside, Speaks to him with faltering tongue: "Father's sin I dare not hide; Me he bade before he died, Soon redress your grievous wrong.

"He destroyed your uncle's will, When you were a little boy, And did not his part fulfil As your proper guardian still, Losing peace of mind and joy.

"I'm prepared to give a deed To you of that large estate, But I strongly intercede For my mother in her need, In her sad affliction great."

"My dear friend," the good man said, "Let some time now pass away. I am not of you afraid, His command you have obeyed, Let us talk some other day.

"Go, my boy, and cheer the heart Of your mother, still my friend; See, I bid you now depart, Lest delay increase her smart; I will soon to it attend.

"Learn to place in Christ your trust; Seek for pardon through His blood. God alone can keep you just, For we are at best but dust; Naught have we ourselves of good."

WILLIAM hastens to the Hall With a somewhat easier mind. Fearing that it might appal Mother's heart, he tells not all That befel their friends so kind.

Now an inquest has been held O'er AMELIA'S corpse so fair, Tears have from their fountains welled, Grief immoderate has been quelled, Which has brought of peace a share.

Now arrangements have been made Suiting all who are concerned. HUMBLEWORTHS such love displayed, As proved all that I have said, Showing in whose school they learned.

To the Hall, as theirs of right, All the family removed; And they strove with all their might To make the widow's burden light, For she was by them, beloved.

As assistant on the farm WILLIAM proved of greatest use. With a heart both young and warm, He soon found that ANNIE'S charm For lost time was some excuse.

Why should I prolong this tale? All my object may divine. Christian love will still prevail O'er its foes when they assail, And it will forever shine.



MY GARDEN

I have a little garden plot, 'Tis very small indeed; But yet it is a pleasant spot, And plenty large enough, I wot, When out-door work I need.

Two woodbines flourish at my door, And climb above its porch; One yields of grateful scent a store, One flowers till all the summer's o'er And winter days approach.

And o'er the walls grape vines are spread, Which bring delicious fruit; These also sweetest odors shed, And please my senses till I'm led To hold them in repute.

And then I have of peach trees three, Which have begun to bear, And 'tis a pleasing sight to see My somewhat numerous family All eager for a share.

Three apple trees I next would name, Though fruit they ne'er gave me; For this their tender age I blame, And other cause I cannot name, And so I wait to see.

Some berry trees I also boast, And these of different kinds. Of flowering shrubs I have a host, Which did in cash and labor cost What might affright some minds.

Four kinds of lilac here are grown, One double flowering cherry, And weeping ditto, not much known; Eight different sorts of rose I own, And shrub that yields snowberry.

Of lily yea, and crocus, too, I've some varieties, And monkshood, pinks, and violets blue, Of double almonds not a few, With two kinds of peonies.

Some polyanthus and foxglove, Sea-pinks, and columbine, Sweet-scented tulips, which I love, Whose beauty has e'en power to move A heart less fond than mine.

The daisy and sunflower tall, Present a contrast great; One like to him who, proud in soul, Expects his fellow men to fall Submissive at his feet.

The other, like true modesty, Scarce lifts its lovely head Lest you its secret charms should see— Just like a lovely maid, when she Is to vain-glory dead.

Sweet-briar and sweet-william claim A notice from my pen, For each of these can boast of fame;— Are better known than my poor name Among the race of men.

My hollyhocks and lichens fine, Spread out their charms to view, And other pretty flowers are mine— To speak whose praises I incline, If but their names I knew.

Of annuals I have but few, That fact I fully grant; Yet I have larkspur, pink and blue, And double poppies of rich hue. To serve me while the summer's new I've beds of rhubarb plant.

Some household herbs and fragrant thyme, With lettuce, sage, and mint, Complete my stock; but had I time A lingering lesson swells my rhyme With many a moral hint.

That as we rear in summer's glow. Herbs, fruits and flowerets fair, So may we in our natures grow Sweet flowers that may hereafter blow In Heaven's serener air.



The Inebriate's Daughter's Appeal to Her Father.

One frosty night in bright moonlight, I left my cheerful home; My thoughts were such I cared not much Which way I chanced to roam. With firmest tread my way I thread Through many a winding street When drunkard's voice in tones not choice, My startled ear did meet.

He cursed a girl whose hair in curl Bespoke a tidy mother; Whose clothes, though plain, wore not a stain, Yet grief her words did smother Her beauteous eyes told then no lies While she looked at the man. As nature brought the words she sought, She this appeal began:

"Oh, father, leave this wretched place, And hasten home with me; For mother and the darling babe Are in sad misery! They have not tasted any food Since morn of yesterday. Yet you should hear that mother dear For blessings on you pray.

"For when she prays aloud for you, Her tears they flow apace, And deepest crimson doth suffuse Her ever lovely face. She says that she must leave us all Before 'tis very long, To go to yonder Heaven above, And join in Angel's song.

"And when she looks at our dear babe Her tears flow forth again; Yet never does she, father dear, In words of you complain, But says that she will try to make A happy home for you. Come ill, come well, whate'er betide, She'll loving be and true.

"O, father, hasten with me, then, Before my mother die! When I left home, your charming boy Most piteously did cry; It would have moved a heart of stone To see the tears he shed; His shrieks make worse the dreadful pain In mother's throbbing head!"

The drunkard stood in solemn mood, In riveted attention. This strong appeal did make him feel Most serious apprehension. He took the hand of maiden bland, And hastened fast away; Nor turned his face on that dread place Which had made him its prey.

They reached the house where that dear spouse Was breathing out her soul. From sense of sin he rushes in, Nor could himself control. Upon his knees in agonies He cries aloud, "My wife, Do speak to me, for I will be A husband, dear, through life!"

No voice there came; the vital flame Had fled, of child and mother. He could not stay, so turned away, With look that made me shudder. That little girl with hair in curl At last to him doth speak: "My father dear, your heart I'll cheer, And blessings for you seek.

"How We must pray, she taught the way Who now has gone to bliss. Nor would I be the least degree In duty found remiss." Her artless strain made him refrain From purposes most foul. In after years she calmed his fears, And saved at last his soul.



To the Children in Mrs. Day's School.

1853.

My dearest children, do you know That best of all things here below, And knowing, you should always show To one another Which when received doth warm the breast, To troubled souls imparts sweet rest, And makes each near connection blest— Of friend or brother.

This precious thing has power to melt Man's stubborn heart, as I have felt, Subdue all sins that ever dwelt In men benighted. If o'er this world 'twere shed abroad, The soldier soon might sheathe his sword, And God alone would be adored, And all things righted.

What is this thing of which I speak? It can be found by those who seek, With willing mind and spirit meek, Intent on finding. It has its origin above, More beauteous is than any dove; Those who have felt it know 'tis Love, And well worth minding.

Where was this love most clearly seen My children you can tell, I ween. The truth both old and young may glean From Scripture's pages. For there we read that Jesus came To suffer death, endure the shame, That he might free us from all blame, Throughout all ages.



SONG TO BRANTFORD.

1854.

Air—"AULD LANG SYNE."

Thou lovely town in which I dwell, My own adopted place, In verse I would most gladly tell The pleasures which I trace,

As back I look through all the years Which o'er my head have passed, Since I began, with many fears, My hopes on thee to cast.

For that support which, under God, I have from thee obtained. Now through life's journey I would plod, With gratitude unfeigned.

When I at first began my trade, I was not worth a cent. That small commencement then I made With money to me lent

By one whose name I fain would tell, If he would give consent. On love like this I'll fondly dwell, Till my poor life be spent.

His kindness set me first afloat In business and its cares, And thy inhabitants have bought My humble, shining wares.

So that my needs have been supplied, And a most ample share Of true home sweets I have enjoyed, Such as are far too rare.

But yet I have had sorrows too, Sent by my Father kind, To make me think, and say and do All he in love designed.

And now I candidly declare, I would not if I could, Have altered my sweet bill of fare, It has been all so good.

Our eight dear children growing up, My wife and I behold, And quaff such, pleasures from life's cup As none can get from gold.

And whence does such pure pleasure come? I answer, from the Lord. His presence cheers our humble home, And we can well afford

To praise and glorify His name, While we do here remain; And be content to suffer shame, If but the Crown we gain.



TO ELIHU BURRITT AFTER LISTENING TO HIS LECTURE ON "COMMERCE,"

DEC. 26, 1857.

[Footnote: It affords me much pleasure to be able to say that after presenting these verses to Mr. Burritt he was kind enough to call on me at my house, and expressed himself pleased with them.]

DEAR SIR:—

Pray deem it not presumptious in me To give expression thus to what I felt Last night, while listening to the poetry In your discourse, as you on Commerce dwelt.

I know not if you ever wrote a rhyme, Or framed your thoughts in a well measured line; But sure I am your language so sublime, Shows you possess a deep, poetic mine.

I listened with attention most profound, As did the audience that before you sat, Feeling as if I was on holy ground; Which in my mind deep reverence begat.

And O, when you led us in spirit back To Eden's God-formed, most delightful bowers. Ere our great parents had endured the rack Of sin-struck consciences among her flowers,

I almost fancied that I heard the birds Warbling melodiously the praise of God; While sinless man in soul-enraptured words, Responded as he pressed the flowery sod.

And when Sin came, as with hot furnace-breath, To blast the loveliness of all around, And our progenitors first tasted death With consciousness that they were naked found,

You did portray the scene so vividly, Of their rude efforts at an uncouth dress, That tears of pity from strong sympathy Bedimmed my eyes to see their great distress.

And when you showed how God with skillful hand Employed Himself to make them coats of skin, I saw mechanic skill take higher stand From this divine and early origin.

And O, I thought this fact should ever lead Artificers to strive and manage well Their several crafts; and show by word and deed Their love to him who does in glory dwell.

Then, as I watched the progress made by Art, And peaceful Commerce coming by degrees, I felt it was your mission to impart To this war-ravaged world such views as these.

My gladsome soul did to such views respond, And utterance found before my God in prayer. Hence caught fresh glimpses of the time beyond The present age, which shall such glory share.

Go on, great champion of the Good and True, Spread wide the messages of dove-eyed Peace, And may God's richest blessing flow to you Where'er you are, until your labors cease!



TO A VIOLET. FOUND BLOOMING IN MY GARDEN IN DECEMBER, 1859.

Beauteous, variegated flower, That with courageous mien, Not heeding much stern Winter's power, Hast let thy face be seen At such a season, and amid such dearth Of vernal beauty, I would bid thee hail; For charms like thine to me have wond'rous worth, When Summer's comforts fail.

I had not thought to see a gem Like thee, as fresh and fair As ever graced a diadem, Bloom in the open air After such killing frost as we have had; And when grim Winter had his ice bolts hurled With double vengeance, prematurely mad As though to chill the world.

Still thou art here in loveliness, But lacking Spring-time's scent, And seeming in thy charming dress, With thy lone lot content. The while that other plants are dead to sight, And waiting patiently for Spring's approach, When King Frost's forces shall have ta'en their flight, Chased by Sol's glorious torch.

But now I bid a warm adieu, And place this in a book Where I can bring thee fresh to view. When'er I choose to look. Regretting only that I tore away Thee from my garden bed, where thy sweet face Lit up with smiles that nook, and made it gay, As by a sunbeam's trace.



EMMA, THE TINKER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE BENEFITS OF SABBATH SCHOOL INSTRUCTION.

1854.

In a wretched, narrow street of an old English town, A roving tinker lived; one who would often drown Of Virtue every trace, by drinking much strong beer; Oft mixing in a fight, a stranger to all fear.

Right before his door-step, mud did the gutter fill; And once to cleanse it out he never had the will. The windows of his house with patch-work were supplied, And all within the door by coal-smoke well was dyed.

In such a place as this, we would not hope to find One of the human race with pure and noble mind; Yet one indeed there was, whom we shall Emma call— Most beautiful her face, most lovely in her soul.

She was the only child of that sin-hardened man— Her sainted mother died as her tenth year began; The father brutal seemed to all the World around, Yet never with his girl was he in anger found.'

And much his kindness told upon her gentle heart; It soothed her childish grief, and made her act her part. The lessons she had learned before her mother died, Were now of greatest use, for she was sorely tried.

And when her father went to stay a week away, She read her Bible oft, and cared not much for play; But, feeling ill at ease, with dirt within and out She whitewashed all the rooms; of this you need not doubt.

The gutter still remained, just in its former state; That she could not mend, so left it to its fate. But now she scrubbed the floors, and waited patiently, Till came her father home, who smiled the change to see.

His feelings were roused up when he viewed the comforts round, And wondered where the child could so much skill have found? Then clasped her in his arms—felt now inclined to be More worthy of his girl, and work right steadily.

About this time there came a Sabbath visitor, Who had got youths to school, but wanted many more. The tinker angry sat, nor asked the man within; Said, "Emma read her Book, and did not live in sin."

But she, quite conscience-struck, said, "Father, you're not right, We all great sinners are, in God's most holy sight; My Bible tells me this—I'm sure it speaks the truth; Please let me go to school, while I am yet a youth!"

This unexpected thrust went to his parent-heart; Yet still he did not like with his dear girl to part; But bid the man sit down, and tell him what was taught In these same Sabbath Schools, of which he had not thought.

This friend was nothing loath; he sought the good of souls— Had tasted Jesus' love, which selfishness controls; So told how many folks, by best of motives led, Gave their own pleasure up, and taught the young instead.

'Mongst these were often found some great in rank and wealth, Who loved the cause so well, they did it not by stealth; But honor counted it to teach in Sunday School, And thus to square their lives by their dear Savior's Rule.

The tinker was surprised to hear such news as this; He thought that all fine folks were full of selfishness; But, if it all was true, the girl at once might go— Whatever good she got, she soon that good would show.

Then Emma threw her arms around his neck, and said, "Dear father, for your love you shall be well repaid; When I come home from school, I'll tell you all I learn, Then the good of Sabbath Schools you may soon discern."

She asked the man to tell where she would have to go; Who said, "My little girl, 'tis there, in Union Row; In that large, lofty house; the time is half-past two." This heard, forth Emma went, and made no more ado.

The father, when alone, sat long time lost in thought, Then took the Bible up, and through its pages sought; He wished to see himself if all they said was true; But little progress made—such work to him was new.

Soon came his bright-eyed girl, with face like rose in June, Who told of hymns they sung, and of each pretty tune; What chapters there were read—the questions asked she told— What prayers were offered up, both for the young and old.

She said her teacher was a lady very grand, Who, when she first went in, most kindly took her hand, And led her to a seat where she herself sat down, Nor seemed afraid to crush her beautiful silk gown.

The tinker heard it all, and wondered in his mind How gentlefolks could be so very good and kind; And promised her she should next Sabbath go again, But wished that she would now her former words explain.

His conscience told him oft that he was far from right, That he had wicked been, in sinning against light; Oh, was there then no hope that he should yet be saved? This thought was hard to bear, and could not well be braved.

Then Emma meekly spoke, and told him all she knew; And searched the Bible's page, to prove her words were true. This was an easy task, for there 'twas clearly seen How men, because of sin, by God condemned had been.

He found this prove as gall, and felt so much distressed, By day he could not work, at night obtained no rest. Before the week was gone he, almost in despair, Went forth into the woods, and wandered here and there.

When Sunday came at last, he hailed it with more joy Than he had done before, and did its hours employ In poring o'er that Book which had so roused his fears— When Emma went to school his eyes were full of tears.

So strongly on her mind was his sad state impressed, She to her teacher flew, and thus herself expressed: "O, Madam, please to tell what sinners great must do, When they, because of sin, feel quite pierced through and through?

"My father, all the week, not worked, nor ate, nor slept; But seemed much like a man who was of sense bereft. Oh, speak, dear lady, speak! for surely he will die Unless he soon can learn which way he is to fly!"

With pity in her eyes, the lady kindly took The humble, loving girl, whose frame with terror shook, And placed her in a seat, and whispered in her ear That Jesus came to save poor sinners filled with fear.

She told her how He was both God and Man in one— The Lord of Heaven and Earth, yet God's beloved Son; That He for sinners died, just out of purest love, And on the third day rose, and went again above;

But sent His Spirit down to work upon our hearts, Through His blest Word of Truth, sent to our inward parts; And says in that same word—the Bible you have read— That all who do believe are saved, because he bled!

She further kindly said, "Wait now till school is done, And I will go with you—so much my love you've won." Then Emma dried her tears, and with a pleasant face, Amongst the other girls she quickly took her place.

Again, from portions read, the teachers questions ask; They strove to work from love, and felt it was no task; Once more sweet hymns were sung which suited Emma's case, And prayer from all arose up to the Throne of Grace.

The truth that Emma heard went home into her soul, And joyful feelings rose which she could scarce control. The pleasant service o'er, the teacher with her went Into that filthy street, nor thought her time misspent.

They entered soon the house; the wretched man was found Nigh overwhelmed with grief, and waiting for the sound Of news, which, as he thought, his darling girl would bring; But at this proof of love his tears afresh did spring.

He truly felt ashamed that one like she should come, To try to do him good, in his most wretched home; The lady told him soon what she might do for such Was done for Jesus' sake, which did his feelings touch.

She then sat meekly down, and in a heavenly frame, Told him how Jesus Christ a Sacrifice became; How sinners of all ranks, by Faith, might be forgiven— Be saved from sin and hell, and go, at last, to Heaven!

The Lord her labors blessed—they both believed the Word— And thus it did appear the prayer of Faith was heard. For such a state of things had Emma's mother prayed, And she had her request, though for a time delayed.

The tinker, now reclaimed by God's almighty power, His business still pursued, nor lost a single hour; On Sabbath went to Church, with his neat, pretty maid, And in temptations strong received the Savior's aid.

Then, feeling that the place where they were living now, Was not the place at all for Faith and Love to grow, He took a small, neat house, just outside of the town, And, for a proper life, gained from the good, renown.

In time dear Emma came to be a teacher, too, And God did her employ much lasting good to do. Her father, in due time, was taken to his rest, And she, with loving man, as a wife was truly blest.

I might prolong my tale, but quite enough is told, To show that Christian Love is better far than gold; That those who wish to be most happy here below, Must strive with all their might the Savior well to know.



TO MY FATHER SUPPOSED TO BE DYING—SEPTEMBER, 1841.

My dear, afflicted parent! Ere thine eyes Are closed in death, accept this tribute due From one who is allied by Nature's ties, And ties which firmer bind both me and you.

My strain is humble, and my muse is rude, Yet you my lay will now be pleased to hear. Deem it not vain in me thus to intrude My unlearned warblings on your dying ear.

'Tis not a thirst for fame that bids me wake My youthful harp, and strike its solemn chords; But 'tis the strong desire, for your dear sake, I feel to treasure up your dying words.

Then come, my Muse; O, condescend to aid My feeble efforts, while I touch this theme; Ev'n thou who hoverest now o'er COWPER'S, shade— Thou Source of Truth! and, with enlightening beam,

Remove the film that does becloud the eye Of my dark understanding while I sing; O, guide my trembling fingers, for I'll try To tune my harp, and touch its every string.

Say now, what was that sound which caught my ear, While I sat mute upon my father's bed A sound so sweet it did my spirit cheer, And made me muse, by contemplation led.

It was the triumph of that holy man— His deathbed song, in view of yonder heaven And as he spoke—till then his face was wan— A brightened countenance was to him given.

"I have a glorious prospect now in sight!" He said, then raised his voice—"'Tis through the blood Of Jesus Christ; it fills me with delight, And makes me long to cross dark Jordan's flood!"

But then, as if his words might be construed To be impatient, he serenely said, "Let not my language now be wrongly viewed; I wait God's will—on Him my soul is stayed."

He still continued, "Though my suffering's great, My strength has been quite equal to my day; God's love to me indeed is very great, Nor will I murmur though He still delay.

"I reckon all the sufferings of this time As nothing, when compared with heavenly things!" He ceased, and left me this to pen in rhyme, And ponder o'er, when he in Glory sings.

I stood; my eyes were fixed upon that face Which oft had worn a smile for me, his son; In retrospect, I then began to trace The many acts of kindness he had done.

Well I remember—though he was but poor— How ardently he wished to have me taught At least to read and write, if nothing more; My interest to advance was what he sought.

And, aided by a frugal partner's care, He furnished was with means to gain his end; Most careful still, they always had to spare To purchase books which might assistance lend.

Great pleasure then they took to hear me read The Bible's sacred page; though I, averse To what was good, would rather have been freed; And they were grieved to have me to coerce.

I then knew not the value of that Book Which, since that time, I have so precious found; And my perverse young temper would not brook Restraint, though it did much their feelings, wound.

They persevered in pointing out to me The dangerous path that I was treading in; At last, it pleased the Lord to let me see How dreadful was the nature of my sin.

What joy then filled thy bosom, father dear Thou, too, my mother, didst express delight, That I was brought to lend a listening ear To Jesus' voice, and with his soldiers fight.

But ere that time, what pleasure it did give To hear the warbling of my youthful Muse; It made you wish that you might only live To see the day when I would not refuse

To sing of Love omnipotent, Divine! Such love as Jesus bore to wretched man! And, aided by the truth which clean doth shine Shout forth aloud Redemption's finished plan.

For seven long years we have united been Within a Church, in fellowship and love; And in that time how often have we seen Afflictions sent, dire evils to remove.

Let all now left, in gratitude to God— In meek submission to His sacred will— Both praise and bless His name! then kiss the rod: This will our souls with consolation fill!



ODE TO PEACE

Come, dove-eyed peace-offspring of heaven, descend; Thy calm, sweet influence do thou me lend; Dispel the gloom that broods upon my mind; Bid melancholy flee; make me resigned To bear with patience and submission due The will of God; and still my mind imbue With reverential awe and just regard For all his ways, as taught in his blest word. Yes, thou sweet Peace, whom, when the Savior great Had nearly closed sojourn in earthly state, He gave as his last legacy to those His dearest friends, who from mankind he chose, In those dear words, "Peace now I leave with you, My peace I give; you soon shall prove it true. Not as the world its boasted treasure gives, 'Tis of my grace to each one who believes. Let not your hearts be troubled, then, nor fear, The Comforter—the Holy Ghost—is near. And, when I shall to yonder heaven ascend, Him, with His vast, rich blessings, I will send."

Not only these this gracious boon enjoyed, But Saints before that time, pure, unalloyed, And blissful peace within their breasts possessed, Both in dread dangers and when much oppressed. Adam, our great progenitor, received With Eve, his wife, this gift, which much relieved Their guilty minds. It was the promise great Made to them while in their most abject state, "That their illustrious Seed should bruise the head Of the Arch Tempter, in their room and stead," Which wrought the change produced in their sad minds, And soon bid flee that slavish fear which blinds The eyes of mortals; gave them soon to see, "Though the offense was great the gift was free," And would extend unto their progeny. O blissful change! from dark foreboding fear, A wounded conscience, and Hell's prospects drear, To joy unspeakable and purest peace, Which once received were never more to cease. A prophet said—the prophet was a man Who did enjoy that peace which only can Flow from one source—God's own redemption plan— "Mark well the perfect man; behold the upright, Whose death so precious is in Jesus' sight; His end is peace." He goes down to the shade Of death's dark valley, and is not afraid To come within the precincts of the grave, Well knowing Christ is ever near to save.

Deluded Balaam also sweetly sung, In words of solemn grandeur, bold and strong, The happiness which Israel through his tribes Enjoyed beneath God's care. Not Balak's bribes Nor vain enchantments, with their altars reared, Nor bleeding victims sacrificed, appeared To move their God from blessing them to curse His chosen people, oft to God averse. Well Balaam knew that if he were to die "Their God was not a man that he should lie." He bated Truth, but was constrained to sing Of their blest state beneath God's fostering wing. And when he sang the latter end of such His harp gave tones as though from Seraph's touch He sang aloud their bliss, not did he cease Till all the hills re-echoed sweetly "Peace." Nor could refrain from envy when he viewed Jehovah's covenant of Peace renewed; But breaking forth in rapture loud did cry "O let me die the death the Righteous die! Let my last end be only like to his Whom God dost bless with thee, delightful Peace!" Even I, who write this simple Ode to thee, Have felt thy thrice bless'd influence on me; And feeling fresh the vigor thou dost give, Would gladly trace thy merits while I live; Would fain enumerate the mighty host Of those who've had pure peace of mind to boast; But ah, how great the sum! even time would fail Or if to gain its aid I could prevail, My powers of mind would fail to set them forth As they appear in Scripture; yet 'tis worth The little time which I can freely spare To choose a few from many that are there. The pleasure it affords would well repay The labor needed, if I spent the day.

Behold that holy man who, strong in faith, Lends an obedient ear to what God saith. See, when the Lord his strength of faith would test, How quickly he obeys the high behest. The task indeed was great, but he, possessed Of peace of mind, was always quite at rest. Yes, though his Isaac dear was doomed to die, No murmuring escaped his lips, and why? He knew that God had promised him to bless With numerous progeny, and nothing less. He felt assured that from this very seed— His darling son—ere long was to proceed So vast a host that if the stars but could By man be numbered, then his offspring would. And forth from them was Christ the Lord to come, The Refuge of his Saints, to lead them home. And Abraham knowing this ne'er sought release From God's sweet service, and his end was peace.

Now mark his son. He in the shining track His father trode, sincerely walked; no lack Had he of the great blessings which from thee Flow in such rich profusion, but did see By eye of Inspiration what God said Was soon to be fulfilled. Then he was laid Beside his father, and his end was peace.

Jacob, his youngest son, Supplanter named, Parent of Patriarchs so greatly famed, Found too that peace of mind was always sweet When he sojourned with Laban in retreat. What was it, I would ask, which made him bear The heat by day and midnight's frosty air? The loss of cattle stolen from his hands? Such churlish conduct, and such harsh commands? With loss of sleep, and wages changed ten times, And twenty rigorous years in wasting climes? What was it then, I ask, but peace of mind Arising from the thought that God was kind And ever faithful, and would soon fulfill His promise made, to be his Guardian still! He had sore trials, yet with great avail He wrestled with his God and did prevail.

Joseph, his son, beloved above the rest, Felt soothing peace within his youthful breast. His is an history that as a child I loved to ponder, and to mark how mild And affable his conduct, yet how great. The bitterest envy joined, with fiercest hate, The brethren hare toward the godly youth Who trode the path of rectitude and truth, That they in spite of his prophetic dreams, Disposed of him, and, as they thought, the themes His soul dwelt much upon, by banishment. Straitway to distant Egypt he was sent, While they, with strange feigned tale, now homeward came, And vainly thought to clear themselves from blame By falsehood foul and black hypocricy Before their unsuspecting father. He Their lies believed and mourned his much-loved son In tears of anguish, whom he though undone.

Meanwhile the youth, directed by his God, In journey with the Ishmaelites did plod His weary way to Egypt. He arrived Possessed of peace of mind, nor could be bribed To part with this, his only treasure left Save sweet reflection, when he was bereft By his hard brethren of the sweets of home, And banished forth a wanderer to roam. Say now, O Muse, what was the cause why he Enjoyed a state of mind completely free From all the sad effects which freely flow In tasting long accumulated woe? 'Twas having peace, that best of all reward To those—and none beside—who Truth regard. And long as Joseph did in Egypt live, The record of his life this truth did give. Behold him when in his first master's house, Who placed beneath his care all but his spouse, How nobly he withstood temptation great, How suitable his conduct to his state. Behold him when his mistress tried so hard To tempt him into sin. Did he regard Her strong entreaties or her flowing tears? Those fell like emptiness upon his ears, And these but more impressed his tender mind With wish to better serve his master kind. He gave this answer: "Oh, how can I do This wickedness so great and sin with you Against that God who hath my feet preserved In holy paths from which I never swerved?" But oh, what poor return did he receive! A dungeon followed next, nor did he grieve, But cheerfully endured the heavy cross, And found his gain where others saw but loss. And he who was his trust did not forsake His much loved child when Truth seemed all at stake, But brought him through these trials manifold, And, still preserved that peace of mind which gold Could ne'er have purchased, and much less secured; But having which, he patiently endured.

Now mark the steps by which he did ascend To that high pitch of honor, when did bend The knees of Egypt's sons at King's command As he went forth in state to view the land. It was not flatt'ry, nor vain compromise With Egypt's many gods no, he was wise With wisdom from above, and well he knew That the predictions he had given were true, And that ere long both heaven and earth would see His youthful dreams fulfilled were sure to be. Even so they were. His brethren did bow down Their faces to the earth 'fore him unknown, When they were sent by Jacob to obtain For him and his the necessary grain. It was a time of famine, and the dearth Had then extended over all the earth But Joseph was raised up by gracious heaven, And unto him for this was wisdom given. Now when his feelings he could not restrain, He formed a scheme by which he might detain The brethren, who a second time had come To purchase food, for those they left at home. The scheme was tried and it succeeded well; But O, how Joseph burned to break the spell Which hitherto had bound them! He made known That he was Joseph to whom they had shown Such cruel usage, but their deed forgave, And told how God had raised him up to save Them with their offspring and great Pharoah's land. The news now reached the King, who gave command, "Joseph, let all thy relatives appear Before my face; they nothing have to fear. Lade all their beasts and bid them haste away; Take wagons from my hand, make no delay. Inform your father and let him come down; The best of my dominions is his own. Bring all your progeny, not once regard Your household goods, if they your speed retard."

I'll now take leave of all that passed between, And come at once to that affecting scene— The meeting of the father with the son. Poor Jacob saw what glory he had won By perseverance in the "narrow path," And having seen it, wished to meet his death.

Mark now the truth of what I wish to sing, This interview to Jacob peace did bring. He said: "In bitterness I will descend Into my grave and meet my latter end." But God in mercy and rich love decreed That he should see both Joseph and his seed.

Ere long the time arrived when Jacob's age Gave proof he too must soon leave this world's stage. Therefore he gathered round him, near his bed, His twelve dear children, unto whom he said, "List now, ye sons of Jacob, hearken well To Israel your father. I foretell What shall befall you in your latter days. O then, my sons, take heed unto your ways." He ended not till all received the share Which God allotted them, when with due care The Prophet drew his feet into the bed, And in sweet Peace his spirit softly fled.

Now, when the last sad rites had been performed O'er Israel's corse, the brethren, now reformed By God's just dealings, soon began to fear That Joseph would their enemy appear; So sent a message, fell before his face, Confessed their sin, and wished he would erase Out from his mind remembrance of their deed. He gave soft answers, hence they all were freed From ills expected, and were now agreed. A few short years saw each of them removed By peaceful death, and so my point is proved.



STANZAS.

SUGGESTED BY A FUNERAL, ON SEEING ONE PASS WITH MANY ATTENDANTS, WHEN JUST RECOVERING FROM A LONG SICKNESS, 1841.

For me there'll be no great display, No turning out of people, When I do quit my house of clay, Nor tolling from the steeple

Of yon tower with its tin capped dome, Whose bell the time is telling, When some lone wanderer reaches home— His narrow churchyard dwelling.

Nor yet will pompous equipage, Or such like things sublun'ral, Nor music sweet with charms engage Those who attend my funeral.

Nor will I care if but my death Take place while friends are tending; And I can see with eye of faith My blessed Saviour bending

Down upon me a gracious eye, And bid my spirit enter Into her rest. O, then I'd fly And cleave to Him—-the Center

Of those sweet joys which do abound In yon bright world of Glory, Where I shall hear the blissful sound Of that delightful Story,

How Jesus did our cause engage, When he left Heaven's portal, And stooped to conquer hellish rage, In weakness like a mortal.

How he fulfilled in its demands The Law that we had broken; How God exacted at his hands The strongest, clearest token

Of matchless Love, so that He gave His life's blood for transgression, And left the confines of the grave In glorious Resurrection.



ACROSTICS.

I.——TO MR. J. P——N, IN THE STATE OF MISSOURI, 1841.

The dolorous cry, from far was heard How groaned poor Afric's sable sons. Our hearts with pity moved, we feared Much evil by the monster done. Ask ye his name? 'Tis slavery dire, So big with crime, so red with gore.

Could Christians feel his dreadful ire Oh how they'd wish he was no more. Would they not send to Heaven this prayer? Hear thou on high, O God of love; Ere time be long thine arm make bare. Rend him with judgment from above; Down from his seat hurl him to dwell.

Built round with walls of fire in hell. Raise thy strong arm and fix him deep. Add this: in anguish make him weep. Now hell, make room in thy domains, This dreadful foe will soon no more Firm bind poor slaves in galling chains, Or lash their backs till flows their gore. Remorseless still, he cares not for their fate, Doom speedy, therefore, should on him await.

II.—TO MY ELDEST SON, IN SEVERE SICKNESS.

Thou sweetest, loveliest babe—my first born son; I low great has been thy sufferings from disease! Oh, my poor soul doth, ever and anon, Make prayer to God, that he would give thee ease.

Ah, dearest babe! from this thy case, I read Sad, yet true lessons of imputed sin. Can we conceive that thou indeed art freed— O, thought most strange—from guilt by man brought in?

Would we but read, mark, learn, and still digest His word, who gave at first to man his being, Error would vanish, and His will expressed, Respecting this, we could not fail from seeing.

Doubt would remove, and so would murmur, too; Justice would still be seen most clearly such; Unquestionable, this fact would stand to view, No one is free from Sin's defiling touch!

I see thy pale, emaciated face, Once decked with bloom of health's most ruddy glow! Regard for man would lead me still to trace— Bent on the truth—whence all these evils flow.

Rich in possession of the Book Divine, All I desire is that the Lord would give Needful instruction, while I scan the line— The line of truth, on which my soul must live.

For there I read—though Death hath ever reigned O'er every one of Adam's sinful race— Righteousness of Christ, by Faith unfeigned, Delivers from its sting: all of free Grace!

Cease then, my soul, to murmur or complain, And place thy trust upon the God of Love. Now look to him who lose from th' grave again, And reascended to the realms above.

Dread not the stroke, though great may be the pain, And hard to bear, for it will work thy gain!

III.—A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN DENT. [Who lost his life by an accident in raising a barn.]

1843.

A task so painful, yet so justly due To thee, my dear, my much respected Brother, Rightly devolves on me whose heart beats true In Zion's cause; yet, would it were another!

But as it is, my Muse, though rude, shall sing— Used as she is to such a mournful strain— That I may cause true sympathy to spring Ere long, for those who feel for thee most pain.

'Tis scarce a week since thou, in manhood's prime, Of things quite dear to both hadst spoke with me! 'Tis now my lot to tell, in mournful rhyme, How short a space there was 'twixt Death and thee.

Ere thou wert well aware the fatal dart Met thee amongst thy fellows, shot by Death; Ev'n now I feel that dread from friends to part Methinks thou felt, though thou wast strong in faith.

O, that I could but paint in language strong, Regarding truth, thy sufferings so severe; Yes, then I'd sing, in pure and holy song, Of Him whose presence cheered thee much while here.

"Fear not," saith God, to all his people dear; Just then thy heart responded, "Fear ye not!" O, what a precious truth our hearts to cheer! How sure to reconcile us to our lot.

Now is the time to glorify our God, Depending on His gracious arm to keep Each footstep treading in the narrow road. Nor let us murmur, though constrained to weep The while o'er those who now in Jesus sleep.



IMPROMPTU.

TO MY FRIEND, J. W——T.

When troubles arise, my friend, lift thine eyes To that Being who died on the cross!— Rest assured of this: the Mansions of Bliss Ne'er were reached without some seeming loss!



AN ADDRESS TO BRANTFORD.

1853.

Hail, truly pleasant, fast increasing Town! Thee I address, in rude but earnest strains. My own adopted place! Some sixteen years Have rolled fast o'er my head since first my eyes Got sight of thee, from off yon Eastern hill. How welcome was the sight! O, how cheering, Grand and beautiful, to a mind like mine! I oft had heard of thee before I came— Had heard the name thy beauteous river bears; As oft had wondered if I e'er should live To cross the broad Atlantic's deep blue waves, And reach the shores of that vast Continent, Whose many wonders, in my boyish days, I tried to sing, and still longed much to see. As often tried to picture, in my mind, The appearance thou presented to the view; I fancied thee much less than what thou wert— Consisting of a few small, straggling huts, Both rude in shape, and ruder far in things Which make home, what it always ought to be, The dearest place that men possess on earth! I next would paint thy river deep and broad As great "Saint Lawrence," or the giant streams That everywhere abound throughout this land! In this I was deceived; its name misled My loving fancy; for I surely thought It must be great, indeed, beyond compare, In such a country to receive such name. [Footnote: The "Grand River."]

This great mistake corrected; I have found Some wonders rare, though of a different kind; And often have I wandered on the banks Of thee, sweet River! where maple, elm or oak Have spread their boughs and verdant foliage, And have felt the cool, refreshing breezes Which blew from off thy stream in Summer's heat. There I would indulge, awhile, my fancy; Give her the reins, and let her soar aloft Into the vast infinitude of space, Or try to tie her down to earthly things;

Make her portray what now the prospects were, That this fair Town had placed before her view. Would she soon rise to eminent estate? Or would she struggle vainly, for a while, To reach to greatness, and so just remain— A monument of ruin and decay? As I have stood upon the pleasant hills By which thou art encircled, I have cast My eye from East to West, from North to South, And often marked the vast extent of ground Which thou may'st fill; laid out by God's own hand To be a glorious city—and that soon!

Then "put thy shoulder to the wheel!" Arise, In all thy might, and let thy hardy sons Put forth united efforts in the work. Deepen thy Canal; let thy Railroads make Both quick and certain progress; and neglect No proper means to push the town ahead!

But, while thou strivest thus in temporal things, Oh, forget not things of greater moment! Strive to purge away all that's offensive To true Virtue. Let the groggeries cease To deal out liquid fire to kill thy sons! Strengthen the hands of those who would maintain Good wholesome laws. Give adequate support To those who minister in holy things, That they, unfettered, may aloud proclaim Christ's great Salvation to a ruined World! Let all true Christians in thy midst unite, In holy efforts and God's strength, to stem The torrent great of foul Iniquity. Yes, fellow Christians, let our lives be such As many commend the Truth which we believe, Unto the consciences of all around. Let those of us, especially, who claim A parent's honored name, now boldly stand, And show in bonds conjugal, faithfulness; Still manifesting love and tenderness Unto our partners; always aim to make Our homes the scenes of happiness and peace! Then will our children rise and call us blessed; And generations yet unborn will tell— That Brantford was determined to be great In every thing which is both wise and good!

STANZAS.

WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER SEEING THE "HURON" LOCOMOTIVE, FOR THE FIRST TIME, AT CAINSVILLE, JANUARY 6, 1854.

[Footnote: This piece was the second that was printed in a Brantford paper, I would here take the opportunity to say that Henry Lemmon, Esq., of the Courier, though differing from me in politics, was exceedingly courteous in giving my rhymes free admission into his journal. The same testimony I also willingly hear to the late Herald, and the Expositor, still flourishing.]

The Iron Horse has reached at last Cayuga's heights so near; Look out, ye men of Brantford, now, for soon he will be here! He brings with him a weighty load, his way before him feels, As slowly o'er the new-laid track he moves his ponderous wheels.

Mechanics, use your utmost skill, and ply each brawny arm, Let sight of yon huge iron steed your very heart's-blood warm; Nor let cold Winter's raging storms your progress now retard, But quickly get the bridges built; nor doubt a rich reward.

Be steady, men! the hammers lift, send home the sturdy nails; Make every fixture quite secure, and solid lay the rails; 'Tis done right well! and now, again, the Monster moves along, But cautiously, for fear the work should not prove very strong.

He does resemble very much the mighty Elephant, That let our new-made wooden bridge his courage sadly daunt; Who, when he came to cross the stream which flows right through our town, Did fancy his great clumsy foot would break the fabric down.

So slowly moves this horse along, but soon his speed he'll quicken— Nor care a straw though Winter's snow right in his track may thicken; For when the works are finished well, he'll seem to snuff the breeze, And fly at such a rapid rate as may his masters please.

Look out, ye men of Brantford, now! See, he has reached your doors; He heaves and pants, he snorts and looks to sweat through all his pores; And yet he stands in harness trim, not cares a fig for rest, But is quite ready still to move, and waits but your behest.

And now, above his whistle shrill, is heard a deafening noise— The people all, in loud hurrahs, give vent to heartfelt joys; The cannon roars, while all around is vigorous effort made To make this Celebration throw all others in the shade!

Processions form, the banners wave; now mark those hardy Bands— The Fire Brigade—who well deserve much honor at our hands; For they in war-like deeds excel, yet not in bloody fight— The battle with destroying fire, by day as well as night!

These form, with others in their rear, a very numerous host; The Marshal gives command, and now each company takes its post; The drums are beat, sweet music fills the ear with much delight, And splendid Fireworks are prepared to grace the coming night.

O, ye who have the management of this most glorious fete, My Muse would your attention crave, and earnestly entreat, That you would not forget the poor, but give to them a share Of all your choicest eatables, as much as you can spare.

And let them have a good supply of tea and coffee, too; They well deserve as rich a treat as either I or you; For do they not, with constant toil, such works as this complete? Then welcome them unto the board, and bid them freely eat.

Now I will close my hasty rhyme, with earnest wish expressed, That all our town would well behave to each and every guest; Let all our conduct on that day be orderly and quiet, And none lay out a single cent in drunkenness and riot.

THE YOUNG MOTHER'S VISION

1854.

I saw a fair young mother sitting, With a babe upon her knee; Fast through 'er mind sweet thoughts were flitting— So it did appeal to me.

Her eyes with fondest smiles were beaming On that infant's lovely face; She seemed upon the future dreaming, And I tried her dream to trace.

While her face with love was glowing, As her babe looked up and smiled; Thus I sketched her numbers flowing Freely forth unto her child:

"Charming boy, in beauty vieing With the fairest rose I see; This I need not be denying, That thou dearer art to me.

"Whilst thou slept, I fell to musing On thy present happy lot; And thy future for thee choosing, Soon all other thoughts forgot.

"Thus I chose at first to paint thee— Growing up toward thy teens; No corruption near to taint thee Passing through thy boyish scenes.

"Then I traced out all the labor Which I would bestow on thee, That thou mightest grow in favor With the Lord, as well as me.

"Next I viewed thy mind expanding, With the best of knowledge stored: Light divine, and understanding Gained from God's most holy Word.

"Years flew by; thou wert approaching Very near to man's estate, And, to those, around, wert broaching Thy deep thoughts, with soul elate!

"Again I saw thee; thou wert coming To the heights of world-wide fame; My fears arose, I saw ills looming, And bid thee guard thy spotless name.

"I looked again, and found thee wooing Damsel modest, rich and fair; And wicked men sought thy undoing, Ere thou wert the least aware.

"But, thanks to God! He did preserve thee— Gave thee, too, a lovely wife; For duty this afresh did nerve thee, Struggling with the ills of life.

"Again the vision passed before me, But some years had fled away; Thou hadst been sick, the Lord restored thee— Children were around at play.

"I saw thy wife and thee were growing In sweetest chaste conjugal love; To things of God attention showing, Fitting you for bliss above.

"The curtain drops: thy smiles recall me To discharge my duties right; Rich mercies I enjoy console me For the loss of Vision bright."



STANZAS.

TO THE AUTHOR OF "LITTLE RAGGED NED, AN ORPHAN."

1854.

Friend, I've read thy touching verses Poured from gentle, loving heart, Glad that sense of thy own mercies Gives thee-zeal to act thy part In bringing sweet, poetic art To bear upon the orphan's case, And show as by a sunbeam's trace How such as he are made to smart.

Would I had thy skill in writing; I would give thee tribute meet, Showing those too fond of slighting Th' orphan's cause, that it is sweet, Pure modest worth with love to greet, Though that worth may not appear In form bedecked in gorgeous gear, But one in tattered garb complete.

Well indeed hast thou depicted What the ragged boy endured; How his soul with grief afflicted Could alone by One be cured. O, would that such could be allured At once to fly to Jesus' arms— To prove how great are all his charms; And thus have peace of mind ensured.

Poor dear ragged orphan, weep not; There is one thy Friend above. Know then that this Friend will sleep not But watch over thee in love. He will thy foes in wrath reprove. For this he strongly pledged his word, Which should true comfort thee afford Till death all thy sad woes remove.

Did thy mother die confiding In the Saviour's precious blood? 'Neath that covert be thou hiding, If thy soul would seek its good. Yes, dearest child, have faith in God, Then the rich blessings he can give Will all be thine while thou dost live; As from the Word is understood.

I would join this friend and others. Who have hearts and feelings right, To acknowledge for our brothers Such as thou; though foulest spite May be displayed in earnest quite, By those who are so fond of self That they cant spare a little pelf To make your saddened faces bright.



I SAW A YOUTHFUL MOTHER LIE

I saw a youthful mother lie Upon the bed of death. No bitter tears bedimmed her eye Though parents, spouse, and friends were nigh, Expecting her last breath.

And when a little daughter came To see her mother dear, She did not call her child by name, But, quite composed, appeared the same As if she were not near.

I asked myself what made her act In this way to her kin? Was her poor frame with torture racked, Or was it consciousness she lacked, Or dreadful fears within?

I well divine 'twas none of these Concerned this mother's mind. 'Tis true her cough gave her no ease, That she was sinking from disease, And was to all resigned.

O, was it the dear Saviour's call That she was listening to? It was, and rapture filled her soul, Feeling content to leave them all, With heaven in her view.

And then, by some strong impulse led, She wished us next to sing. We sang the praise of him who bled On Calvary in the sinner's stead, That he to us might bring

Salvation from both sin and hell, A song she much admitted, And one on which she loved to dwell; One suited to her case so well That of true joy inspired.

And oh, methought were she but strong, She would have raised her voice To join us in that pleasing song, And let it waft her soul along To Him who was her choice.

Yet doubtless then her spirit sung, Yea joined us too in prayer; And now her golden harp is strung Which will ne'er be "on willows hung," In weakness or despair.



FAMILY PIECES

TO MY BELOVED WIFE, DURING AFFLICTION, 1842.

Ann, we have lived in peace for three long years. Much pleasure we have had, some crosses too; Enough to show that in this Vale of Tears Affliction's needed still to bring us through.

Why should it not be so? Our God is good; He also wise, and better far doth know What's best for us, and if we understood Our interest well we should confess it so.

A man both wise and good did once aver— "At th' hands of God we have received good; And shall not we, who are so prone to err, Receive our evil too, as best we should?"

My dearest Ann, let not your spirits down, But with me kiss the rod that God hath sent His promise is that he will not disown Those dear to him, though by sore troubles bent.

O, that the sacred influence of truth Which we profess may ever dwell within; That we may bear the yoke now in our youth, And always flee the devious paths of sin.

O, that the Holy Book which does contain The greatest charter our kind God can grant, May prove to be like precious heavenly rain To nourish, strengthen, and keep us from want.

Then, hand in hand in unity and love, In holiness we'll walk before our God, And have affections fixed on things above, Our feet with "gospel preparation shod."

And thus may we hold on Life's journey through; Nor e'er forsake pure Wisdom's sacred path. Still as we journey always keep in view Those glorious things "the righteous nation" hath.

In sure and certain prospect, far beyond In point of worth this world and all its toys, Treasure in heaven, beside the blissful sound Of Jesus' voice, with sweetest heavenly joys.

And may our children all likewise receive The richest dews of heavenly blessing now. O, may the Lord make each of them believe The gospel pure, and to its teachings bow.

And then indeed should we be called to part While in this world, we all shall meet above, Where we with every power and all our heart Will praise the Saviour's name and sing his love.

O, blest, blest thought! through vast Eternity In purest bliss and holiness to dwell. There our glad eyes shall Jesus ever see, And hear the Saints his greatest wonders tell.

TO MY DAUGHTER MARY ANN, ASLEEP.

1842.

Sweetly asleep is Mary Ann, In calmest infantile repose Her lovely face no longer wan, Seems lovelier still when in a doze.

Sleep on, my babe, I'll not disturb, Thy silent rest I love to view; For now thou needest not the curb I use in trying to subdue

Thy peevish temper, which, I ween Needs constant care from me, thy site, While through thy childish ways are seen Thy passions strong in wildest fire.

Sleep on, my child, some future day May see thee walking in God's ways. For this great blessing will I pray Still guided by the Truth's clear rays.

Sleep on, my little girl, till morn, And when awake pursue thy play; Yet, when grown up, may'st thou adorn The sphere in which thou mov'st by day.

Sleep on, my daughter, sleep in peace. Thou has been toiling through the day. Thy little tongue doth seldom cease From talking much in thy own way.

Sleep on, sweet prattler, and may bright Angelic Spirits guard thee round, Till Sol with his resplendent light Doth break thy slumbers quite profound.

Yes, sleep, my child, through every night, As fast revolving years proceed. By day enjoy the heavenly light, Of which we in the Bible read.

But oh, sleep not when duties bid My girl awake to run the race Which Christians run, when thorns amid May make her see her need of Grace.

And oh, sleep not in ways of sin, For dangers lurk with serpent wiles; And false security within, Each unsuspecting mind beguiles.

And when the solemn time arrives For thee to sleep in death at peace, And thy pure spirit strongly strives To gain her longed-for wished release,

O, may she mount to yon abode Where God's blest Saints and Angels dwell; And there rejoice in him who trode The path to death to save from hell.

TO ELLEN AND WILLIE.

Ellen, my prattler dear, Willie, my darling boy, My children need not fear, They shall my gift employ.

To you, by great neglect, I have no rhyme addressed. This you would scarce expect, So much you've been caressed.

For it I now will try To make amends quite ample, And trust the time is nigh When you can read this sample.

Ellen, I think I see That thou resemblest mother; Thou'rt not so much like me As Willie, thy young brother.

One thing I wish you both, That you in your behaviour Like her, may not be loath To follow Christ, the Saviour.

For never have I seen One of a lovelier spirit; No mortals do, I ween, Such loveliness inherit.

She was of temper mild, Was often smiling sweetly, In malice was a child, As a Christian walked discreetly.

To have this said of you Would give your father pleasure. It would be worth, if true, To me a world of treasure.

So Ellen, prattler dear, Willie, my darling boy, While father's stay is here, O, fill his heart with joy.

As soon as you can read, Peruse the Bible's page, And to your ways take heed As you advance in age.

Then to the Savior fly, Who, only, you can save From woes that never die, In death beyond the grave.

That we may meet at last In Heaven, that happy place, When every storm is past, To view our Jesus' face.

TO MR. AND MRS. C. BATTY.

1847.

Parents-in-law, a Rhymer much in debt Deems it full time to try his debts to pay; And as some large arrears are standing yet, To give this mite I will no more delay.

And if I cannot make a full discharge, Perhaps I may induce you to forbear, For though this portion is not very large, 'Tis quite as much as I can freely spare.

Preliminaries settled, I proceed To seek the assistance of my humble Muse; Well knowing that she will in time of need Give forth such numbers as you'll not refuse.

Impelled by gratitute for kindness shown, I bless my God I now so long have known That sweet connection in which I have stood With you and yours. Thoughts of it make the blood Run freely through my veins; they cheer my mind, Revive my spirits, make me leave behind Vile carking cares, dispel my melancholy, Fire my devotion with desires most holy,

Fill my sad soul! Thus am I drawn away, And in imagination soar to-day To those blest regions where my Ann has gone, And feel that even now I'm not alone. For her pure spirit is with mine Holding fellowship divine. Hark! she whispers in the skies, "Let thy prayers to Heaven arise; Let thy songs ascend above; Sing evermore Redeeming Love; For all those who here do enter Cleave to Jesus as their Centre, And we now on holy ground Join in one unceasing round Of purest pleasure, and do raise Our voices in the Saviour's praise And thus throughout Eternity Dwell in sweetest harmony. To all my kindred I would say. Work while 'tis called 'to-day.' Always listen to the voice Of Jesus, and in him rejoice. Make his righteousness your boast, For without it you are lost. Listen now, he calls to-day; Flee, Oh, flee to him away!" She ceased to speak, and back her spirit fled To yon bright Mansions where her Saviour led; And we are left confined in tents of clay, To "groan, being burdened," for Redemption's day. Oh, then, dear parents, let us not forget The "still small voice" of Mercy's speaking yet. Let us put on afresh our heavenly armor, The Christian warfare is but growing warmer. Should our weak courage fail, let us in meekness Look still to him who gives us strength in weakness. And thus supported, may our lives declare How blest the portion which through grace we share.

TO MY INFANT ANNIE.

1847.

Motherless babe, I can't forbear to make Some rhyme to thee for thy dear mother's sake. Thy pleasant looks, thy smiles, thy temper mild Do much surprise me in so young a child. In thy sweet face I view in embryo My lost wife's charms; it is, it must be so. Quiet thy ways, and smiling oft through tears, An earnest surely this for future years, That the same lovely conduct may be shown Which marked thy mother's life, as is well known. Then as thou dost advance to womanhood, May God's own Word by thee be understood. Can I look forward to the time When thou shalt reach a woman's prime? When youth and beauty, linked with grace May beam forth from thy smiling face? Alas, the future, hid from sight Of all but Him who dwells in light, May see us numbered with the dead. And knowing this may I be led To train my children in the way That leads to Heaven's eternal day.

STANZAS.

IN MEMORY OF ANNIE, DIED JULY 11, 1847.

Thou'rt gone, thou lovely gem, I trust To grace the crown of Zion's King; And we thy body to the dust Commit with faith unwavering.

Thou wast just long enough with us To charm our hearts and claim our low; And now thou'rt gone. Why is it thus? Did Jesus need thy soul above?

For twenty weeks thy lovely face, Thy pleasing smiles, thy temper mild, Have made thy father hope to trace The mother in her darling child.

And yet thou hast for some time seemed Too fair a flower to bloom below. Thy death but proves our Father deemed It best that thou in Heaven should'st grow.

And knowing, as I well may know That this vain world is full of trial, I would not say against the blow, Though it may cause me self-denial.

Now, while I write, my thoughts ascend More fleetly than the lightning's flame To that blest place where lowly bend God's saints, In worship of his name.

And there methinks I see thee join With mother and a numerous throng. In praise of Him who is Divine, To whom all honor does belong.

Why should we grudge to part with thee? Thou went our Heavenly father's own; And he far better knows than we What's best to do, as will be shown.

And yet it seems so hard to part—, To part with those we love so dearly, That, though the keenness of the smart Is gone through Jesus' death most clearly,

We cannot help but mourn and weep At losing for a time such treasure. But we'll, rejoice that those who sleep In Christ, shall, in unbounded measure,

Enjoy true happiness and peace In yon fair World, where pain not tears. Are either felt or seen; where cease All sorrow and perplexing fears,

TO MRS. H. BATTSON.

1847.

To you, dear sister, I would now address A rude production of my rhyming brain; And if it does increase your happiness, Of this intrusion you will not complain.

Margaret, nine years have nearly rolled away, Since I first met on at your father's place. Well I remember, to the very day, My first glad glimpse of your young smiling face.

More, I remember for, almost forlorn, I was received well 'neath that friendly roof, And such pure kindness unto me was shown As put my gratitude to strongest proof.

May I not hope that our dear Saviour took As done to him what then was done for me? If so, your names are written in his book, As an assembled universe may see.

'Tis now, when one not only dear to me, But to you all, has reached the World of Bliss, That I am led more clearly still to see The grandeur which in our Religion is.

May I not hope that in some small degree, The exercise of my poor gifts did tend To lead the youthful, loving sisters three Beneath Christ's yoke their willing necks to bend?

And now what shall I say? You are a wife; A mother's joys, I trust, will soon be ours. O, may you still in blest conjugal life Find that true grace which evermore endues.

And may you live for many years to come That life which none but Christians true can live. Press forward now to reach your heavenly home; A sacrifice to God your being give.

And may the Lord give Grace to one and all, That we may serve him while we stay below; Then, in due time He will our spirits call To share that bliss he can alone bestow.

TO MR. AND MRS. W. BATTY, OF PARIS.

1847.

Brother and sister dear, my stay I prolong here, While an effusion can flow from my pen. May it you gratify, your minds now satisfy, That I may have courage to try it again.

Do thou, my dear brother—for there is no other Has a claim upon me if thou be denied— Accept from me the lay I in gratitude pay For services rendered when I was so tried.

When by great sickness low, I was some years ago, Thy interest with mine was clearly as one. For me thou wast striving, thyself wast depriving Of needful repose when thy day's work was done.

In view then of thy strong affection As shown to me, my feelings flow; And, while I enjoy reflection, I'll strive my gratitude to show.

I saw thy conduct with emotion, Prayed my God to own and bless What thou didst through love's devotion, To increase my happiness.

'Twas then I sought thy soul's Salvation; In prayer besought the Lord to make What proved to me severe probation A blessing to thee for Christ's' sake.

And now I see thee with thy wife, Ranked amongst the heirs of Glory, Partakers of Eternal Life Through faith in sweet Redemption's Story.

A blessing this, which fleeting Time Can not unfold in all its brightness, As 'twill be seen when in Heaven's prime We walk its streets in robes of whiteness.

Hail happy day! thy near approach Inspires our hearts with joy and gladness, Enables us to bear reproach, Takes from our hearts much of their sadness.

Brother and sister dear, let us while we are here Cling unto Jesus, our very best friend; That when Death shall come we may soon reach our home, And gain Felicity never to end.

FIRESIDE THOUGHTS OF ANN, MY FORMER WIFE.

Wrapt of late in solemn musing On the checkered scenes of life, Peace was o'er my mind diffusing As I thought of Ann, my wife.

Pure in life and conversation, Full of smiles and modest worth, Showing calmest resignation When sad trials called it forth.

Sweet and softly o'er me stealing, Like a pleasant zephyr's breath, Came pure faith, my sore heart healing As I thought of Ann in death.

In her prime and beauty dying, Full of love and heavenly joy, Safe in Christ, stern Death, defying Nothing could her peace destroy.

Faith and fancy both combining, Blessings to me freely given, Keep my soul from e'er repining, As I think of Ann in Heaven.

TO MY BROTHER JAMES.

James, 'tis full time for me to write Some rhymes to you in earnest quite. I've promised long, and now I'll try My promise to fulfill, and why? Because you have a claim on me Which, when paid off, will set me free, To run awhile again in debt, Which in its turn shall sure be met. But this is trifling, you may say. Perhaps it is, but trifles may Effect some good; they often do, And quite as often please us, too. Who's free from trifling? I would ask. To find out one would prove a task. But then I candidly confess That we should surely trifle less. Well, let me see; can any theme Be started? Yes, I had a dream [FOOTNOTE: Fact.] The other night. Both you and I Were standing on a hill so high, And soon there came a mighty stream Which did not leave of hope a gleam. But suddenly a plank we found, That brought us safely to dry ground. Then I awoke devoid of fear, And you the Moral true shall hear.

All mortals now are sailing down The stream of time, as you must own; And waters roar, and dash, and foam. Then say—how shall we reach our home? There is a plank, as we have seen, And it is safe, most safe, I ween. 'Tis in the Gospel clearly shown, 'Tis by all Christians fully known. We have its merits long since tried, And glory in the Lamb who died. Then let us prize it as we ought, And serve him who our souls has bought. For surely this our duty is If we would reach eternal bliss.

TO MY DAUGHTER ELLEN, ON HER WEDDING DAY, MARCH 20, 1859.

Ellen, on this glad occasion I address to you a rhyme, And in tones of sweet persuasion Would advise you at this time.

If full measure of enjoyment You would seek in married life, Make it daily your employment To avoid what leads to strife.

Prize, O prize, both now and ever, Joseph's confidence of love. See that fits of temper never Drive him forth from home to rove.

Should he show unlooked for weakness, Hide the secret in your breast, And expostulate with meekness When you have God's Throne addressed.

Always aim to dress with neatness, Though your clothes be e'er so plain; Add to this your mother's sweetness, If you would love's sway maintain.

Should yours prove a life of trial, May you both still look above. Exercise in self-denial Strengthens pre-existing love.

I have found that constant blessing Springs from troubles sanctified, And when needs have been most pressing, God himself those needs supplied.

To His care I therefore leave you, Bid you lean upon his arm; May naught soon arise to grieve you, Naught to damp affection warm.



MURDER WILL OUT; OR, THE POWER OF CONSCIENCE.

A tale of Jealousy and Revenge, by Bernard Gray.

Turned into a Ballad and some new Scenes added.

1854

[Footnote: I would not wish exactly to be held responsible for what the reader may deem unchristian-like language or statements in this ballad, as I have copied the original in such matters.]

Sullen sat in jealous mood, A most brutal-looking man; Purpose foul served him for food. Against a maid he lately wooed His dreadful purpose ran.

Long he sat with vacant stare, Large his eyes, quite gray and full; Fell in tangled locks his hair, O'er his dirty forehead there, Fit covering for such skull.

Stands in the room a crazy bed And two wretched, worn-out chairs. That had rested limbs and head, These now served for that instead; Thus ill the villain fares.

Heard he on that gloomy night Demon foul to urge the deed? Would he tremble at the sight If some horrid goblin sprite Came his strong wrath to feed?

He would welcome as his friend Ev'n proud Satan, prince of Hell, If he would assistance lend So that he could gain his end In crime—so very fell.

She who thus had roused his ire, Lived a little distance off. With his jealous soul on fire Cudgel stout suits his desire; He has one stout and tough.

Soon he reached her shabby home, Rapped aloud upon the door. "Yes, John Bristol, you may come," Said a voice within that room So high on the third floor.

Near the window, very sad, Sat she, deeply wrapped in thought And appeared but thinly clad. Brown her hair, blue eyes she had As e'en with love were fraught!

She asked the man to take a seat. He "preferred to stand awhile, Had been sitting much of late." Now, as if impelled by fate, He has recourse to guile.

Says she, "Glad I am you've come For I thought you took offense." Little dreams she of the doom Hanging o'er her in that room, Or she would flee from thence.

He her conduct now reproves, She replies in innocence. Softly he behind her moves, Right behind the girl he loves, In cowardly pretence.

Ere suspicion could arise In the hapless victim's mind, Up the sturdy cudgel flies, Downward on its aim it flies, And strikes her as designed.

Right upon her temples fair, Murder foul has done its part. Eyes assume a strange, fixed stare, Flows the blood among her hair, No longer throbs the heart.

Now the villain lifts her arm, Now he finds the pulse has fled; He can do no further harm; Conscience sounds a loud alarm, For surely she is dead.

Now he flees in haste away; Shifts the scene again to her: She is found by friends next day Stiff and gory as she lay, And they create a stir.

Quickly gathers round a mob, Fleetly flies the horrid news, Making hearts more strongly throb; Women shriek, and cry, and sob As each the body views.

Come the officers of law; Cries are heard to let them pass. Through, the crowd they forward go, To behold the scene of woe; Suspense now holds the mass.

Shifts the scene unto the sea, Nears a port a stately sail; Joyful seems the crew to be, Dream they not of misery From an approaching gale.

Swiftly comes—a dreadful storm; Fast the rigging's torn away; Broken masts the ship deform, All is terror and alarm Amidst the dashing spray.

Angry roars the foaming deep; Death now stares them in the face; There is found no time to sleep, Nor would it avail to weep In such a woeful case.

Lift they up a prayer to God; Does He heat them in distress? See, He waves his righteous Rod, For they've on his precepts trod; His might they now confess.

Two alone survive the rest, These are clinging to a spar. One with secret in his breast Is by sense of guilt oppressed, Which keeps his mind ajar.

Can the reader guess his name? "Bristol?" yes, he was the one; He a sailor soon became, Nor felt any sense of shame Till life had nearly gone.

Now Hell's terrors seize his soul; Now he sees the murdered maid In her blood before him fall; Hears her for God's vengeance call, And ask why it's delayed.

Feels the elements at war Nothing to the strife within, Therefore to his brother tar His locked heart he does unbar, To ease him of his sin.

Tells him how some months ago He a harmless maiden slew. Jealousy had wrought his woe, Made him give the fatal blow; 'Twas very wrong he knew.

"Speak her name!" the other cries; "Mary Markham," Bristol screams. Rage gleams from that other's eyes, As he at John Bristol flies, To end his mortal dreams.

Soon he's by the murderer's side, Now he fiercely drags him down. "Here thou shalt no longer bide; Sink, fiend! sink into the tide, And all thy baseness drown!"

Loud and louder roars the wind; The new murderer is alone And has lost his peace of mind. Will he seek a port to find And there his sin atone?

Fellow sinner, think not hard Of the poor remaining one. He from proper light debarred, Thought it duty to reward Bristol for that deed done.

Why? He to the murdered maid Was a brother by his birth. His love for her did not fade, And this journey home he made In hopes to yield her mirth.

Shifts the gloomy scene once more, To a narrow, crooked street; In a wretched liquor store Sits a man we've seen before, Musing on things not sweet.

He might seem to view intent Watered spirits in a glass, For his eyes on that are bent, But his thoughts are wandering sent Alter that murdered lass.

In this street—the very same, That most shocking act was done; It had nearly lost its fame, Yet remembered was the name Of that pool maiden lone.

When her name was spoke 'tis said Chilling honor seized the soul Of both high and lowly bred; All who heard were filled with dread Which they could scarce control.

Seems the man irresolute About the drink before him placed. Now, his gestures are not mute, Showing feelings most acute, And such as might be traced.

Bodingly he shakes his head, Deep-drawn lengthy sigh then heaves His broad chest, for her now dead! Bitter tears are freely shed As he for sister grieves.

In plain sailor's clothes he's dressed, Anchor blue is on his hand. A woman's eyes now on him rest, Who, with babe upon her breast, Speaks him in accents bland.

"Does the liquor suit your taste? Is there nothing else you need?" From his seat he rose with haste, On the floor his feet he braced; "I'm thinking of that deed!"

Quickly swallows he the drink, Then asks, "Is not this the street?" "What street? Come, yourself bethink!" "I will; yet from it I shrink. Sweet girl, we ne'er shall meet!"

"Tell, good woman, if you can, Where she "—Once again a pause. Turns she now afresh to scan The face of that most wretched man. So very full of woes.

Anxious to relieve his mind, Stays she still within the room; Then says, "Man, what would you find? I to serve you am inclined." "Where met that girl her doom?"

Now she needs no other clue; Says, "You'll see the place from here. Fouler deed I never knew; Was she anything to you? Come, tell me without fear."

"Was my sister, that was all;" Soft he said, then paid his bill. Something seemed on him to call; Speedily away he stole, But not with ready will.

Radiant Sol is sinking low, And Night coming on apace; Roofs in the setting sunbeams glow, And his purple tints they show, Till he has run his race.

At this time does Markham sit In that lonely, dirty room; Heeds not how the shadows flit, Asks not if such place be fit To drive away his gloom.

Felt he quite constrained to see That house, where his sister dwelt, And refresh his memory, Thinking what she used to be, When he so happy felt.

Now he tries to realize Scenes that harrow up his soul. While, successfully, he tries, Fancies he can hear her cries! This does his heart appal.

Thus engaged, he quickly hears Soft steps coming to the door! This does not arouse his fears; Strong his nerves, it now appears, As ere they were before.

Timid hand has lift the latch; One more man is now within. Very soon he strikes a match; Candle's lit! Can Markham catch Those features—dark with sin?

Soon. But what a sight to see; Eyeballs from their sockets start! Trembles he convulsively; Should he try he could not flee; He's struck, as by a dart!

Bristol locks the door inside, And scans well the room around; His grey eyes are opened wide— Who's that on the other side? Too soon the truth he found!

Markham springs now on his feet, While his eyes with passion glow; Bristol's these defying meet! Firm they stand, nor seek retreat; They well each other know!

First the brother silence broke; "Villain! Come you here again? Who did your light doom revoke? Died on not from my just stroke Upon the stormy Main?

"You've the impudence to come To the place she occupied! Your foul presence taints the room Which to her was as a home, Till, by your hands, she died!

"You hardened wretch! Take, quickly take Your polluted soul from here! Who, for you, Death's fetters brake? Satan his own child forsake! He'll have you, never fear!

"Monster! you're not fit to live, Neither yet to die, at all?" Bristol does no answer give; The torments no one can conceive, Endured by his vile soul!

Again the brother spoke in rage: "Think you to escape your doom? Other story, I engage To read, ere you quit this stage. Stern Vengeance now doth loom!

"If there be no other way, Law I'll take in my own hands." "This you've done"—did Bristol say— "At the shipwreck yesterday;" Now Markham shuddering stands.

Said he, "Yes, I did it then, And you are sent back to me; You will ne'er escape again; Trial will be but in vain— You're doomed to misery!

"Mary, my own sister dear! When I last time saw your face, Dreamt you not of cause to fear Murderer's hand upon you here, Within this very place!

"No stain was upon your name; Lively, modest girl you were; Would you ne'er had felt love's flame! Yet you had no cause to shame, But bore good character.

"If I live, your murderer's neck Pays the forfeit of his crime! Loss of time I will not reck— Nothing shall my ardor check, Should he seek other clime!"

Speaking thus, he placed his back Firm against the outer door; As he had of voice no lack, Shouted, till his face grew black, And stamped upon the floor!

Presently the neighbors come, While poor Bristol trembling stands. Now they are within the room, And proceed to seal his doom By binding fast his hands.

Shifts the scene into a Court, Near to suffocation full; Counsel unto lies resort, And the jury loud exhort To make proceedings null.

Bristol's friends had paid them gold, And they do their best to show Black is white: as, when of old, Satan, without fee, lies told, To work our Parents' woe.

Let them do their very best, There's a witness all must hear! It is in John Bristol's breast, And it cannot, will not rest, Till all the truth appear!

All his quivering lips observe, While he now attempts to speak. Conscience cries, "Come, muster nerve. You must not from duty swerve; You shall proceedings check!"

He speaks; all eyes quickly turn On the wretched culprit's face. "I my crime most deeply mourn! Thoughts of it my vitals burn; I dare not hope for grace!"

Verdict found, and sentence passed. In three days condemned to die; Thus he's caught by Law at last; Fetters bind his limbs quite fast. As he, in cell, doth lie.

Now the Devil steels his heart To refuse religion's aid; "In that thing he'll have no part, It would but increase his smart— Of death he's not afraid!"

Vainly strive God's messengers To lead him to Jesus' blood; "There's no need," he still avers, And good victuals much prefers, So asks, again, for food.

'Tis the night before he die; Swiftly speed the hours away; They, like seconds, seem to fly To a Record, kept on high, Against the Judgment Day!

Two—three—four—five! from the clock, Sound like guns fired in distress. Yet appear to give no shock To that man, with heart of rock, Though full of wretchedness!

Six! More dismal sounds are heard Than the striking of the hour; Workmen's blows loud echoes stirred, Fixing scaffold—we inferred, To rouse him has this power?

Not the least; it scarcely went To the chambers of his brain; Others thought it cried, "Repent, Bristol, ere your life be spent!" But yet the cry was vain!

Still he hardens his vile heart, And hangs sullenly his head, Seven—eight—nine—ten! Did he start? No; but fiends from him depart, And he will soon be dead.

Comes the Sheriff to his cell; Puts the cord around his neck; Now his feelings, who can tell? Still he careth not for Hell— But wait the Sheriff's beck.

Slow the dull procession moves To the fatal gallows-tree; There he sees no face he loves, Though the people come in droves His dying throes to see.

Now he hears the warrant read, Bids adieu to all around; Solemn prayer again is made, And the cap's drawn o'er his head; Signal's given; his soul has fled! The body sinks to th' ground.

"I've followed him unto the end!" Said a voice among the crowd. Warning take! Young men, attend! See the murderer's dreadful end! It speaks like thunder loud.



THE FAITHFUL PASTOR.

WRITTEN IN 1854.

"Would I describe a Preacher such as Paul Were he on earth, would hear, approve and own, Paul should himself direct me."

COWPER

BOOK I.

I.

To the deep umbrage of our North back woods, And near to Huron's wild romantic shore— Where Winter's storms are seen in angry moods, To make the Lake's waves dash with loudest roar— Came GOODWORTH, twelve years since, and brought a store Of Christian wisdom to those lonely parts: To try if he could find an open door By which to reach the settlers' sinful hearts, And them inform of what would heal their inward smarts.

II.

Firm in his mind, robust was he in frame, Of human learning having ample share; With fervent zeal, love-prompted, there he came, Pure Gospel Truth in meekness to declare, And backwoods hardships with his hearers share; He brought his loving wife and children four, Who for their own convenience showed small care; Who had with Christian heroism bore A heavy share of trial several years before.

III.

These four dear children had been early trained To take their part in every day's employ; Nor were their youthful hearts by this estranged From the kind parents, who did show their joy In manifesting no wish to annoy Their dearest offspring by undue restraint; Aware that this might very soon destroy Their influence; and who has power to paint The ills which flow from this too prevalent complaint?

IV.

Think not, kind reader, I would overdraw My pictures of sweet, chaste, conjugal bliss; All I describe I've seen, and, therefore, know I err not far—though some may doubt of this— And deem my sketches very far amiss. It matters not; those who have faithful been In wedlock pure have often found, I was, That a fair share of happiness serene Upon this earth in Christian families still is seen.