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And see the cherub MERCY from above,1
Descending softly, quits the sphere of love!
On Britain's Isle she sheds her heavenly dew,
And breathes her spirit o'er th' enlighten'd few;
From soul to soul the generous influence steals,
Till every breast the soft contagion feels.
She speeds, exulting, to the burning shore,
With the best message Angel ever bore;
Hark! 'tis the note which spoke a Saviour's birth,
Glory to God on high, and peace on Earth!
She vindicates the Pow'r in Heaven ador'd,
She stills the clank of chains, and sheathes the sword;
She cheers the mourner, and with soothing hands
From bursting hearts unbinds th' Oppressor's bands;
Restores the lustre of the Christian name,

And clears the foulest blot that dimm'd its fame.

FAITH IN HUMBLE LIFE.

Thy triumphs, Faith, we need not take
Alone from the blest martyr's stake;

In scenes obscure, no less we see

That Faith is a reality;

An evidence of things not seen,

A substance firm whereon to lean.
Go, search the cottager's low room,
The day scarce piercing through the gloom;
The Christian on his dying bed,
Unknown, unlettered, hardly fed;
No flattering witnesses attend,
To tell how glorious was his end;
Save in the Book of Life, his name
Unheard; he never dreamed of fame:
No human consolation near,

No voice to soothe, no friend to cheer;

Of every earthly stay bereft,

And nothing but his Saviour left;
Fast sinking to his kindred dust,
The Word of Life is still his trust;
The joy God's promises impart
Lies like a cordial at his heart;
Unshaken faith its strength supplies,

He loves, believes, adores, and dies!

This was written before England set to the world that noble example of humanity, in giving liberty to her slave population in all her colonies throughout her empire.

A RIDDLE.

I'm a strange contradiction, I'm new and I'm old,
I'm often in tatters, and oft decked with gold;
Though I never could read, yet letter'd I'm found;
Though blind, I enlighten; though loose, I am bound.
I'm always in black, and I'm always in white,
I'm grave and I'm gay; I am heavy and light.
In numbers I vary; I'm eight and I'm four;

And though I am twelve, I can't reach half a score.

In form, too, I differ; I'm thick and I'm thin;

I've no flesh, and no bone, yet I'm covered with skin.

I've more points than the compass, more stops than the flute;

I sing without voice, without speaking confute.

I'm English, I'm German, I'm French, and I'm Dutch;

Some love me too fondly, some slight me too much;

I often die soon, though I sometimes live ages,
And no monarch alive has so many pages.

IMPORTANCE OF TRIFLES.

Since trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our misery from our foibles springs;
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease,
And tho' but few can serve, yet all may please;
O let th' ungentle spirit learn from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence!
To spread large bounties, tho' we wish in vain,
Yet all may shun the guilt of giving pain.

To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth,
With rank to grace them, or to crown with health,
Our little lot denies; yet, liberal still,

God gives its counterpoise to every ill;

Nor let us murmur at our stinted powers,

When kindness, love, and concord may be ours.

The gift of minist'ring to others' ease,

To all her sons impartial Heaven decrees;

The gentle offices of patient love,

Beyond all flattery, and all price above;

The mild forbearance at a brother's fault,

The angry word suppress'd, the taunting thought;
Subduing and subdued the petty strife

Which clouds the color of domestic life;

The sober comfort, all the peace which springs -
From the large aggregate of little things;

On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend,
The almost sacred joys of Home depend:
There, Sensibility thou best may'st reign;
Home is thy true legitimate domain.

From Sensibility.

THE TWO WEAVERS.

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 tired 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 ignorance 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.

"Seest 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 out."

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 Gon.

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"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 seem 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."

THE THEATRE.-SHAKSPEARE.

What the stage might be under another and an imaginary state of things, it is not very easy for us to know, and therefore not very important to inquire. Nor is it indeed the soundest logic to argue on the possible goodness of a thing, which, in the present circumstances of society, is doing positive evil, from the imagined good that thing might be conjectured to produce in a supposed state of unattainable improvement. Would it not be more safe and simple to determine our judgment as to the character of the thing in question on the more visible, and therefore more rational, grounds of its actual state, and from the effects which it is known to produce in that state?

I have never perused any of those treatises, excellent as some of them are said to be, which pious divines have written against the pernicious tendency of theatrical entertainments. The convictions of my mind have arisen solely from experience and observation. I shall not, therefore, go over the well-trodden ground of those who have inveighed, with too much justice, against the immoral lives of too many stage professors, allowing always for some very honorable exceptions. I shall not remark on the gross and palpable corruptions of those plays which are obviously written with an open disregard to all purity and virtue; nor shall I attempt to show whether any very material advantage would arise to the vain and the dissipated, were they to exclude the theatre from its turn in their indiscriminate round of promiscuous pleasure. But I would coolly and respectfully address a few words to

those many worthy and conscientious persons who would not, perhaps, so early and incautiously expose their youthful offspring to the temptations of this amusement, if they themselves could be brought to see and to feel the existence of its dangers.

The question, then, which with great deference I would propose, is not, whether those who risk everything may not risk this also, but whether the more correct and considerate Christian might not find it worth while to consider whether the amusement in question be entirely compatible with his avowed character? whether it be altogether consistent with the clearer views of one who professes to live in the sure and certain hope of that immortality which is brought to light by the Gospel?

A Christian in our days is seldom called in his ordinary course to great and signal sacrifices, to very striking and very ostensible renunciations; but he is daily called to a quiet, uniform, constant series of self-denial in small things. A dangerous and bewitching, especially if it be not a disreputable, pleasure, may, perhaps, have a just place among those sacrifices: and if he be really in earnest, he will not think it too much to renounce such petty enjoyments, were it only from the single consideration that it is well to seize every little occasion which occurs of evidencing to himself that he is constantly on the watch; and of proving to the world that, in small things as well as in great, he is a follower of Him who pleased not himself.

It is generally the leading object of the dramatic poet to erect a standard of Honor in direct opposition to the standard of Christianity. And this is not done subordinately, incidentally, occasionally; but worldly honor is the very soul, and spirit, and lifegiving principle of the drama. Honor is the religion of tragedy. It is her moral and political law. Her dictates form its institutes. Fear and shame are the capital crimes in her code. Against these, all the eloquence of her most powerful pleaders; against these, her penal statutes, pistol, sword, and poison, are in full force. Injured honor can only be vindicated at the point of the sword; the stains of injured reputation can only be washed out in blood. Love, jealousy, hatred, ambition, pride, revenge are too often elevated into the rank of splendid virtues, and form a dazzling system of worldly morality, in direct contradiction to the spirit of that religion whose characteristics are "charity, meekness, peaceableness, long-suffering, gentleness, forgiveness." "The fruits of the Spirit" and the fruits of the Stage, if the parallel were followed up, as it might easily be, would perhaps exhibit as pointed a contrast as human imagination could conceive.

A learned and witty friend, who thought differently on this

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