And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus, to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side;
But, in his duty prompt at ev'ry call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new fleg'd offspring to the skies :
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed, where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd
The rev'rend champion stood: At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last fault'ring accents whisper'd praise.
At church adorn'd with meek and unaffected
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway
And fools who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran;
Ee'n children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown to share the good man's smile;
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd,
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settle on its head.
O'er the mount and through the moor
Glide the Christian's steps secure ;
Day and night, no fear he knows;
Lonely, but with God, he goes:
For the coat of mail, bedight
In his spotless robe of white;
For the sinful sword, his hand
Bearing high the olive-wand.
Through the camp, and through the court,
Through the bandit's gloomy fort,
On the mission of the dove
Speeds the minister of love;
By a word the wildest tames
And the world to God reclaims;
War, and wrath, and famine cease,
Hushed around his path of peace.
The idea in the following lines, we are told, was really expressed by a little boy five years old:
Oh! I long to lie, dear mother,
On the cool and fragrant grass,
With naught but the sky above my head,
And the shadowing clouds that pass.
And I want the bright, bright sunshine
All around about my bed;
I will close my eyes and God will think
Your little boy is dead.
Then Christ will send an angel
To take me up to him;
He will bear me slow and steadily,
Far through the ether dim.
He will gently, gently lay me
Close to the Saviour's side,
And when I'm sure that we're in Heaven, My eyes I'll open wide.
And I'll look among the angels
That stand about the throne,
Till I find my sister Mary,
For I know she must be one.
And when I find her, mother,
We will go away alone,
And I will tell her how we've mourned
All the while she has been gone.
Oh! I shall be delighted
To hear her speak again,
Though I know she'll ne'er return to us—
To ask her would be vain.
So I'll put my arms around her,
And look into her eyes,
And remember all I said to her,
And all her sweet replies.
And then I'll ask the angel
To take me back to you-
He'll bear me slow and steadily
Down through the ether blue.
And you'll only think, dear mother,
I have been out at play,
And have gone to sleep beneath a tree
This sultry summer day.
THE PHILANTHROPIST.
O rock-bound Isle of Albion !
A lofty fame is thine,
And o'er the world the glory beams
Of the old Saxon line;
Won through successive ages
By deeds on land and main,
By calm-reflecting sages
And bards of magic strain.
But not a name, O Britain!
Is thine of loftier worth
Than his who from his pleasant home
At mercy's call went forth,
Lured by no hopes of glory,
Ambition's path to tread,
Yet lives his name in story,
The noblest of thy dead.
Through many a blooming region
The traveller held his way;
But not for all their loveliness
Did he his course delay.
From gay Parisian pleasures,
Italian art and grace,
He turned to find his treasures
In misery's dwelling-place.
The dungeon of the felon,
By all mankind abhorred,
Drew to its vault of wretchedness
The servant of the Lord.
He passed o'er land and ocean,
In suffering's fearful quest,
While every kind emotion
Burned in his dauntless breast.
Where raged the fatal fever.
In the dismal quarantine,
He, in the cause of God and man,
Unveiled the fearful scene;
The mortal danger braving
Of each polluted cell,
From wo the prisoner saving,
He triumphed though he fell.
O God, who to his spirit
Didst give that lofty will,
Through pain, and toil, and banishment,
His mission to fulfil,—
Like him supreme in kindness,
Who came on earth to save,
To lighten human blindness,
To ransom from the grave!-
Grant, Lord, to us thy children
A soul of zeal and faith,
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