I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest,
Laid him on mine own couch to rest,
Then made the Earth my bed, and seemed
In Eden's garden while I dreamed.
Stripped, wounded, beaten, nigh to death,
I found him by the highway-side ;
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment; he was healed,
I had myself a wound concealed,
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.
In prison I saw him next, condemned
To meet a traitor's doom at morn; The tide of lying tongues, I stemmed, And honored him 'mid shame and scorn.
My friendship's utmost zeal to try,
He asked, if I for him would die.
The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill,
But the free spirit cried,-"I will !"
Then, in a moment, to my view
The stranger started from disguise; The tokens in his hand I knew,—
My SAVIOR Stood before my eyes. He spake, and my poor name he named,-"Of me thou hast not been ashamed;
These deeds shall thy memorial be,
Fear not thou didst it unto me."
THE RICH MAN AND THE BEGGAR BOY.
A beggar boy stood at a rich man's door
"I am houseless and friendless, and faint and poor," Said the beggar boy, as a tear-drop rolled
Down his thin cheek, blanched with want and cold. "Oh! give me a crust from your board to-day,
To help the beggar boy on his way!"
"Not a crust, nor a crumb," the rich man said, "Be off, and work for your daily bread !"
The rich man went to the parish church,
His face grew grave as he trod the porch,
And the thronging poor, the untaught mass,
Drew back to let the rich man pass.
The service began, the choral hymn
Arose and swelled through the long aisles dim;
Then the rich man knelt, and the words he said
Were, "Give us this day our daily bread!"
The
way is long, my children-long and rough
The moors are dreary and the woods are dark:
But he who creeps from cradle on to grave,
Unskilled save in the velvet course of fortune,
Hath missed the discipline of noble hearts.
How much, preventing God! how much I owe,
To the defences thou hast round me set!
Example, Custom, Fear, Occasion slow-
These scorned bondsmen were my parapet!
THE TASK OF A GOOD PASTOR.
This too the task, the blest, the useful task
To invigor order, justice, law and rule;
Peace to extend, and bid contention cease;
To teach the words of life; to lead mankind
Back from the wild of guilt and brink of wo,
To virtue's house and family; faith, hope,
And joy to inspire; to warm the soul
With love to God and man; to cheer the sad,
To fix the doubting, rouse the languid heart;
The wandering to restore; to spread with down
The thorny bed of death; console the poor
Departing mind, and aid its lingering wing.
THE CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON
A parish priest was of the pilgrim-train ;
An awful, reverend, and religious man.
His eyes diffused a venerable grace
And charity itself was in his face.
Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor;
As God had clothed his own ambassador,
For such, on Earth, his blest Redeemer bore.
Of sixty years he seemed, and well might last
To sixty more, but that he lived too fast;
Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense;
And made almost a sin of abstinence.
Yet, had his aspect nothing of severe,
But such a face as promised him sincere.
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see :
But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity;
Mild was his accent, and his action free.
With eloquence innate his tongue was arm'd;
Though harsh the precept, yet the people charm'd ;
For letting down the golden chain from high,
He drew his audience upward to the sky :
And oft with holy hymns he charm'd their ears
(A music more melodious than the spheres,)
For David left him, when he went to rest,
His lyre; and after him he sung the best;
He bore his great commission in his look;
But sweetly tempered awe, and softened all he spoke.
He preached the joys of Heaven, and pains of Hell,
And warned the sinner with becoming zeal ;
But on eternal mercy loved to dwell.
He taught the gospel rather than the law,
And forced himself to drive; yet loved to draw.
For fear but freezes minds: but Love, like heat,
Exhales the soul sublime to seek her native seat,
To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard,
Wrapped in his crimes against the storm prepared ;
But when the milder beams of Mercy play,
He melts and throws his cumbrous cloak away.
Lightning and thunder (Heaven's artillery)
As harbingers before the Almighty fly :
Those but proclaim his style, and disappear;
The stiller sound succeeds, and God is there.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden flow'r grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had change'd, nor wish'd to change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for pow'r,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain;
The long remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won
Pleas'd with his guests the good man learn'd to glow,
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