I trust to what the Scriptures tell,
He hath done always all things well.'
Quoth Jack, 'I'm lately grown a wit,
And think all good a lucky hit.
To Prove that Providence can err,
Not words but facts the truth aver.
To this vast oak lift up thine eyes,
Then view that acorn's paltry size;
How foolish on a tree so tall,
To place that tiny cup and ball.
Now look again, yon pompion* see,
It weighs two pounds at least, nay three
Yet this large fruit, where is it found?
Why, meanly trailing on the ground.
Had Providence ask'd my advice,
I would have chang'd it in a trice;
I would have said at Nature's birth,
Let Acorns creep upon the earth;
But let the pompion, vast and round,
On the oak's lofty boughs be found.'
He said and as he rashly spoke,
Lo! from the branches of the oak,
A wind, which suddenly arose,
Beat showers of acorns on his nose;
Oh! oh ' quoth Jack, I'm wrong
And God is wiser far than me.
For did a show'r of pompions large,
Thus on my naked face discharge,
I had been brus'd and blinded quite,
What heav'n appoints I find is right;
Whene'er I'm tempted to rebel,
I' think how light the acorns fell;
Whereas on oaks had pompions hung,
My broken skull had stopp'd my tongue

I see,

THE LADY AND THE PIE:

OR KNOW THYSELF.

A WORTHY Squire of sober life
Had a conceited boasting wife:
Of him she daily made complaint,
Herself she thought a very saint.
She lov'd to load mankind with blame,
And on their errors build her fame.
Her fav'rite subject of dispute
Was Eve and the forbidden fruit.
'Had I been Eve,' she often cried,
Man had not fall'n, nor woman died;
I still had kept the orders giv'n,
Nor for an apple lost my heav'n ;
To gratify my curious mind
I ne'er had ruin'd all mankind
Nor from a vain desire to know,
Entail'd on all my race such wo.'
The squire reply'd; 'I fear 'tis true,
The same ill spirit lives in you;
Tempted alike, I dare believe,
You would have disobey'd like Eve.'
The lady storm'd, and still deny'd
Sin, curiosity, and pride.

The squire, some future day at dinner,
Resolv'd to try this boastful sinner;
He griev'd such vanity possest her,
And thus in serious terms address'd her:
Madam, the usual splendid feast,
With which our wedding day is grac'd,
With you I must not share to-day
For business summons me away.
* Gourd

Of all the dainties I've prepar'd,
1 beg not any may be spar'd;
Indulge in ev'ry costly dish,
Enjoy, 'tis what I really wish.
Only observe one prohibition,
Nor think it a severe condition;

On one small dish which cover'd stands,
You must not dare to lay your hands
Go-Disobey not on your life,

Or henceforth you 're no more my wife.'

The treat was serv'd, the squire was gone,
The murm'ring lady din'd alone :
She saw whate'er could grace a feast,
Or charm the eye, or please the taste:
But while she rang'd from this to that.
From ven'son haunch to turtle fat;
On one small dish she chanc'd to light,
By a deep cover hid from sight:
O! here it is—yet not for me!

I must not taste, nay, dare not see;
Why place it there? or why forbid
That I so much as lift the lid ?
Prohibited of this to eat,

I care not for the sumptuous treat
I wonder if 'tis fowl or fish,

To know what's there I merely wish
I'll look-O no, I lose forever,

If I'm betray'd, my husband's favour.
I own I think it vastly hard,
Nay, tyranny, to be debarr'd.
John, you may go-the wine's decanted,
I'll ring or call you when you 're wanted.
Now left alone, she waits no longer;
Temptation presses more and stronger.
'I'll peep-the harm can ne'er be much,
For though I peep, I will not touch;
Why I'm forbid to lift this cover,
One glance will tell, and then 'tis over
My husband's absent; so is John,
My peeping never can be known,'
Trembling, she yielded to her wish,
And rais'd the cover from the dish:
She starts-for lo! an open pie
From which six living sparrows fly.

She calls, she screams, with wild surprise,
'Haste, John, and catch these birds,' she crie
John hears not; but to crown her shame,
In at her call her husband came.
Sternly he frown'd as thus he spoke
Thus is your vow'd allegiance broke!
Self-ign'rance led you to believe
You did not share the sin of Eve
Like hers, how blest was your condition!
Like heav'ns, how small my prohibition!
Yet you, though fed with every dainty
Sat pining in the midst of plenty;
This dish, thus singled from the rest,
Of your obedience was the test;
Your mind, unbroke by self-denial,
Could not sustain this tender trial.
Humility from this be taught,
Learn candour to another's fault,
Go know, like Eve, from this sad dinner
You're both a vain a curious sinner.'.

THE PLUM-CAKES:

Or, the Farmer and his Three Sons. A FARMER, who some wealth possest, With three fine hoys was also blest ;

The lads were healthy, stout and young,
And neither wanted sense nor tongue.
Tom, Will, and Jack, like other boys,
Lov'd tops and marbles, sport and toys.
The father scouted that false plan,
That money only makes the man;
But, to the best of his discerning,

Was bent on giving them good learning;
He was a man of observation,
No scholar, yet had penetration;
So with due care, a school he sought,
Where his young sons might well be taught.
Quoth he, I know not which rehearses
Most properly his themes or verses;
Yet I can do a father's part,

And school the temper, mind, and heart;
The natural bent of each I'll know,
And trifles best that bent may show.'

'Twas just before the closing year,
When Christmas holidays were near,
The farmer call'd to see his boys,
And ask how each his time employs.
Quoth Will, There's father, boys, without,
He's brought us something good, no doubt.'
The father sces their merry faces,
With joy beholds them, and embraces.
Come, boys, of home you'll have your fill.'
Yes, Christmas now is near,' says Will;
'Tis just twelve days-these notches see,
My notches with the days agree.'
'Well,' said the sire, 'again I'll come,
And gladly fetch my brave boys home!
You two the dappled mare shall ride,
Jack mount the pony by my side;
Meantime, my lads, I've brought you here
No small provision of good cheer.
Then from his pocket straight he takes,
A vast profusion of plum-cakes;
He counts them out, a plenteous store,
No boy shall have or less or more;
Twelve cakes he gives to each dear son,
When each expected only one;

And then, with many a kind expression,
He leaves them to their own discretion;
Resolv'd to mark the use each made
Of what he to their hands convey'd.

The twelve days past, he comes once more,

And brings the horses to the door
The boys with rapture see appear
The poney and the dappled mare;

Each moment now an hour they count,

And crack their whips and long to mount.
As with the boys his ride he takes,
He asks the history of the cakes.

Says Will, Dear father, life is short, So I resolv'd to make quick sport; The cakes were all so nice and sweet, I thought I'd have one jolly treat; Why should I balk, said I, my taste? I'll make at once a hearty feast. So snugly by myself I fed, When every boy was gone to bed; I gorg'd them all, both paste and plum, And did not spare a single crumb; Indeed they made me, to my sorrow, As sick as death upon the morrow; This made me mourn my rich repast, And wish I had not fed so fast.' Quoth Jack, I was not such a dunce, To eat my quantum up at once;

And though the boys all long'd to clutch 'em
I would not let a creature touch 'em ;
Nor though the whole were in my pow't,
Would I one single cake devour;
Thanks to the use of keys and locks,
They 're all now snug within my box;
The mischief is, by hoarding long,
They 're grown so mouldy and so strong,
I find they won't be fit to eat,

And I have lost my father's treat.'

་

Well, Tom,' the anxious parent cries, 'How did you manage?' Tom replies, 'I shun'd each wide extreme to take, To glut my maw, or hoard my cake; I thought each day its wants would have, And appetite again might crave; Twelve school-days still my notches counted To twelve my father's cakes amounted : So ev'ry day I took out one,

But never ate my cake alone;
With ev'ry needy boy I shar'd,
And more than half I always spar'd.
One ev'ry day, 'twixt self and friend,
Has brought my dozen to an end:
My last remaining cake to-day
I would not touch, but gave away;
A boy was sick, and scarce could eat,
To him it prov'd a welcome treat:
Jack call'd me spendthrift not to save,
Will dubb'd me fool because I gave;
But when our last day came, I smil'd,
For Wiil's were gone, and Jack's were spoil'd
Not hoarding much, nor eating fast,
I serv'd a needy friend at last."

These tales the father's thoughts employ:
By these,' said he, 'I know each boy:
Yet Jack, who hoarded what he had,
The world will call a frugal lad;
And selfish gormandizing Will

Will meet with friends and fav'rers still
While moderate Tom, so wise and cool,
The mad and vain will deem a fool:
But I, his sober plan approve,
And Tom has gain'd his father's !ve.'

APPLICATION.

So when our day of life is past,
And all are fairly judg'd at last;
The miser and the sensual find

How each misused the gifts assign'd.
While he, who wisely spends and gives,
To the true ends of living lives;
'Tis self-denying moderation
Gains the Great Father's approbation.

TURN THE CARPET :

OR, THE TWO WEAVERS.

IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN DICK AND JOHN As at their work two weavers sat, Beguiling time with friendly chat; They touch'd upon the price of meat, So high, a weaver scarce could eat. 'What with my brats and sickly wife,' Quoth Dick, I'm almost tir'd of life; So hard my work, so poor my fare, 'Tis more than mortal man can bear 'How glorious is the rich man's state! His house so fine! his wealth so great'

Heav'n is unjust, you must agree;
Why all to him? why none to me?
In spite of what the Scripture teaches,
In spite of all the parson preaches,
This world (indeed I 've thought so long)
Is rul'd, methinks, extremely wrong.
'Where'er I look, howe'er I range,
'Tis all confus'd, and hard, and strange;
The good are troubled and oppress'd
And all the wicked are the bless'd.'
Quoth John: Our ign'rance is the cause
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws;
Parts of his ways alone we know,
'Tis all that man can see below,
'See'st thou that carpet, not half done,
Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun?
Behold the wild confusion there,

.

So rude the mass it makes one stare!
'A stranger, ign'rant of the trade,
Would say, no meaning's there convey'd ;

For where's the middle, where 's the border ?
Thy carpet now is all disorder.'

Quoth Dick, My work is yet in bits,
But still in ev'ry part it fits;
Besides, you reason like a lout,
Why, man, that carpet 's inside ut.'

THE TRUE HEROES: Or, the Noble Army of Martyrs

You who love a tale of glory,

Listen to the song I sing; Heroes of the Christian story,

Are the heroes I shall bring. Warriors of the world, avaunt!

Other heroes me engage: Tis not such as you I want, Saints and martyrs grace my page. Warriors, who the world o'ercame Were in brother's blood imbru'd; While the saints of purer fame,

Greater far, themselves subdu'd. Fearful Christian! hear with wonder, Of the saints of whom I tell; Some were burnt, some sawn asunder, Some by fire or torture fell; Some to savage beasts were hurl'd, One escap'd the lion's den; Was a persecuting world

Worthy of these wond'rous men? Some in fiery furnace thrown,

Yet escap'd unsing'd their hair; There Almighty pow'r was shown: For the Son of God was there. Let us crown with deathless fame

Those who scorn'd and hated fell; Martyrs met contempt and shame, Fearing nought but sin and hell. How the show'r of stones descended, Holy Stephen, on thy head! While his tongue the truth defended, How the glorious martyr bled! See his fierce reviler Saul,

How he rails with impious breath! Then observe converted Paul, Oft in perils, oft in death.

Says John, Thou say'st the thing i mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen;
This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt,
Is but a carpet inside out.

'As when we view these shreds and ends,
We know not what the whole intends;
So when on earth things look but odd,
They 're working still some scheme of God
No plan, no pattern, can we trace,
All wants proportion, truth, and grace;
The motley mixture we deride,
Nor see the beauteous upper side.
'But when we reach that world of light,
And view those works of God aright,
Then shall we see the whole design,

And own the workman is divine.

'What now seems random strokes, will there All order and design appear;

Then shall we praise what here we spurn'd, For then the carpet shall be turn'd.'

Thou 'rt right, quoth Dick, 'no more I'll grumble

That this sad world's so strange a jumble;
My impious doubts are put to flight,
For my own carpet sets me right.'

'Twas that God, whose sov'reign pow'r,
Did the lion's fury 'swage,
Could alone, in one short hour,
Still the persecutor's rage.
E'en a woman-women hear,
Read in Maccabees the story!
Conquer'd nature, love, and fear,
To obtain a crown of glory.
Seven stout sons she saw expire,

(How the mother's soul was pain'd.)
Some by sword, and some by fire,
(How the martyr was sustain'd!)
E'en in death's acutest anguish,
Each the tyrant still defy'd;
Each she saw in torture languish,
Last of all the mother dy'd.
Martyrs who were thus arrested,

In their short but bright career, By their blood the truth attested,

Prov'd their faith and love sincere. Though their lot was hard and lowly, Though they perish'd at the stake, Now they live with Christ in glory, Since they suffer'd for his sake. Fierce and unbelieving foes

But their bodies could destroy; Short though bitter were their woes Everlasting is their joy.

A CHRISTMAS HYMN.

O how wond'rous is the story
Of our blest Redeemer's birth!
See the mighty Lord of Glory
Leave his heav'n to visit earth!
Hear with transport, ev'ry creature,
Hear the Gospel's joyful sound;

Christ appears in human nature,
In our sinful world is found;
Comes to pardon our transgression,
Like a cloud our sins to blot;
Comes to his own favour'd nation,
But his own receive him not.
If the angels who attended

To declare the Saviour's birth,
Who from heav'n with songs descended
To proclaim good will on earth:
If, in pity to our blindness,

They had brought the pardon needed,
Still Jehovah's wond'rous kindness
Had our warmest hopes exceeded:
If some prophet had been sent

With Salvation's joyful news,
Who that heard the blest event
Could their warmest love refuse?
But 'twas He to whom in Heav'n
Hallelujahs never cease:
He, the mighty God, was given,

Given to us a Prince of Peace.
None but He who did create us

Could redeem from sin and hell; None but He could reinstate us

In the rank from which we fell. Had he come, the glorious stranger, Deck'd with all the world calls great; Had he liv'd in pomp and grandeur,

Crown'd with more than royal state; Still our tongues with praise o'erflowing, On such boundless love would dwell; Still our hearts, with rapture glowing, Feel what words could never tell. But what wonder should it raise

Thus our lowest state to borrow!
O the high mysterious ways,

God's own Son a child of sorrow!
'Twas to bring us endless pleasure,
He our suff'ring nature bore;
'Twas to give us heav'nly treasure,
He was willing to be poor.
Come, ye rich, survey the stable
Where your infant Saviour lies;
From your full o'erflowing table

Send the hungry good supplies.
Boast not your ennobled stations,
Boast not that you're highly fed;
Jesus, hear it, all ye nations,

Had not where to lay his head.
Learn of me, thus cries the Saviour,
If my kingdom you'd inherit;
Sinner, quit your proud behaviour,
Learn my meek and lowly spirit.
Come, ye servants, see your station,
Freed from all reproach and shame;
He who purchas'd your salvation,

Bore a servant's humble name.
Come, ye poor, some comfort gather
Faint not in the race you run,
Hard the lot your gracious Father
Gave his dear, his only Son.
Think, that if your humbler stations,
Less of worldly good bestow,
You escape those strong temptations
Which from wealth and grandeur flow.

See your Saviour is ascended!

See he looks with pity down! Trust him all will soon be mended,

Bear his cross, you'll share his crown.

A HYMN OF PRAISE,

FOR THE ABUNDANT HARVEST OF 1796,
After a year of scarcity.

GREAT GOD! when famine threaten'd late
To scourge our guilty land,

O did we learn from that dark fate
To dread thy mighty hand?
Did then our sins to mem'ry rise?
Or own'd we God was just?
Or rais'd we penitential cries?
Or bow'd we in the dust?
Did we forsake one evil path?
Was any sin abhor'd?
Or did we deprecate thy wrath,
And turn us to the Lord?
'Tis true we fail'd not to repine,
But did we too repent?

Or own the chastisement divine,
In awful judgment sent?

Though the bright chain of Peace he broke
And War with ruthless sword,
Unpeoples nations at a stroke,

Yet who regards the Lord?
But God, who in his strict decrees,
Remembers mercy still,

Can, in a moment, if he please,

Our hearts with comfort fill.
He mark'd our angry spirits rise,
Domestic hate increase;
And for a time withheld supplies,

To teach us love and peace.
He, when he brings his children low,
Has blessings still in store;

And when he strikes the heaviest blow,
He loves us but the more.

Now Frost, and Flood, and Blight* no more
Our golden harvest spoil!

See what an unexampled store
Rewards the reaper's toil!

As when the promis'd harvest fail'd
In Canaan's fruitful land;
The envious Patriarchs were assail'd

By Famine's pressing hand!
The angry brothers then forgot
Each fierce and jarring feud;
United by their adverse lot,

They lov'd as brothers should.
So here, from Heav'n's correcting hand,
Though Famine fail'd to move;
Let Plenty now throughout the land,
Rekindle peace and love.
Like the rich fool, let us not say,
Soul! thou hast goods in store!
But shake the overplus away,

To feed the hungry poor.
Let rich and poor, on whom are now
Such bounteous crops bestow'd,
Raise many a pure and holy vow
Of gratitude to God!

And while his gracious name we praise,
For bread so kindly given;

Let us beseech him all our days,

To give the bread of heav'n.

In that blest pray'r our Lord did frame,

Of all our pray'rs the guide,

We ask that Hallow'd be his naine,'

These three visitations followed each che in qua succession

OR, THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT.

Being Suitable Thoughts for a New Year.
HERE bliss is short, imperfect, insincere,
But total, absolute, and perfect there.
Here time's a moment, short our happiest state,
There infinite duration is our date.
Here Satan tempts, and troubles e'en the best,
There Satan's pow'r extends not to the blest.
In a weak sinful body here I dwell,
But there I drop this frail and sickly shell.
Here my
best thoughts are stain'd with guilt and
fear,

But love and pardon shall be perfect there.
Here my best duties are defil'd with sin,
There all is ease without and peace within.
Here feeble faith supplies my only light,
There faith and hope are swallow'd up in sight.
Here love of self my fairest works destroys,
There love of God shall perfect all my Joys.
Here things, as in a glass, are darkly shown,
There I shall know as clearly as I'm known,
Frail are the fairest flow'rs which bloom below,

THE HONEST MILLER

OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE.

A True Ballad.

Or all the callings and the trades
Which in our land abound,
The miller's is as useful sure
As can on earth be found.
The lord or squire of high degree
Is needful to the state,
Because he lets the land he owns
In farms both small and great.
The farmer he manures the land,
Or else what corn could grow?
The ploughman cuts the furrow deep,
Ere he begins to sow.

And though no wealth he has, except
The labour of his hands;
Yet honest Industry's as good
As houses or as lands.

The thrasher he is useful too

To all who like to eat;
Chioss he winnow'd well the corn,

There freshest palms on roots immortal grow.
Here wants or cares perplex my anxious mind,
But spirits there a calm fruition find.

Here disappointments my best schemes destroy
There those that sow'd in tears shall reap in joy
Here vanity is stamp'd on all below,
Perfection there on ev'ry good shall grow.
Here my fond heart is fasten'd on some friend,
Whose kindness may, whose life must have an
end;

But there no failure can I ever prove,
God cannot disappoint, for God is love.
Here Christ for sinners suffer'd, groan'd, and
bled,

But there he reigns the great triumphant head: Here, mock'd and scourg'd, he wore a crown of thorns,

A crown of glory there his brow adorns.
Here error clouds the will, and dims the sight,
There all is knowledge, purity, and light.
Here so imperfect is this mortal state,
If blest myself I mourn some other's fate
At ev'ry human wo I here repine,
The joy of ev'ry saint shall there be mine.
Here if I lean, the world shall pierce my heart,
But there that broken reed and I shall part.
Here on no promis'd good can I depend,
But there the rock of Ages is my friend.
Here if some sudden joy delight, inspire,
The dread to lose it damps the rising fire;
But there whatever good the soul employ,
The thought that 'tis eternal crowns the jo

The chaff would spoil the wheat.
But vain the squire's and farmer's care,
And vain the thrasher's toil;
And vain would be the ploughman's pains
Who harrows up the soil;

And vain, without the miller's aid,
The sowing and the dressing;
Then sure an honest miller he
Must be a public blessing.
And such a miller now I make

The subject of my song,

Which, though it shall be very true,
Shall not be very long.

This miller lives in Glo'stershire,
I shall not tell his name;

For those who seek the praise of God,
Desire no other fame.

In last hard winter-who forgets
The frost of ninety-five?
Then was all dismal scarce, and dear,
And no poor man could thrive.
Then husbandry long time stood still,
And work was at a stand; ;
To make the matter worse, the mills
Were froze throughout the land.
Our miller dwelt beside a stream,

All underneath the hill;

Which flow'd amain when others froze,
Nor ever stopp'd the mill.

The clam'rous people came from far
This favour'd mill to find,

Both rich and poor our miller sought,

For none but he could grind. His neighbours cry'd, 'Now miller seize The time to heap up store,

Since thou of young and helpless babes
Hast got full half a score.'

For folks, when tempted to grow rich,
By means not over nice,

Oft make their numerous babes a pioa
To sanctify the vice.

Our miller scorn'd such counsel base,

And when he ground the grain,