I must not taste, nay, dare not see;
Why place it there? or why forbid
That 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.
Il look-O no, I lose forever,

If I'm betray'd, my husband's favour.
Town 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.
Il 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 pye
From which six living sparrows fly.
She calls, she screams, with wild surprise,
'Haste, John, and catch these birds,'

cries.

she

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-in'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 slender 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 and curious sinner.'

THE PLUM-CAKES :

Or, the Farmer and his Three Sons. A FARMER, who some wealth possest, With three fine boys was also blest; The lads were healthy, stout, and young, And neither wanted sense nor tongue. Tem, 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; VOL, I.

8

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 sees 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 strait 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'r, 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 cach 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 Will'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 love.'

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 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 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 carpet sets me right,'

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.

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.

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 he 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 ennobi'd 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.

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.

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

Here on no promis'd good can I dépend, 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 joy.

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 ;

Unless he winnow'd well the corn,

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 plea
To sanctify the vice.

Our miller scorn'd such counsel base,
And when he ground the grain,
With steadfast hand refus'd to touch
Beyond his lawful gain.

"When God afflicts the land,' said he,

'Shall I afflict it more?

And watch for times of public wo
To wrong both rich and poor?
Thankful to that Almighty Pow'r
Who makes my river flow,
I'll use the means he gives to sooth
A hungry neighbour's wo.
My river flows when others frecze,
But 'tis at his command;
For rich and poor I'll grind alike,

No bribe shall stain my hand.'
So all the country who had corn

Here found their wants redrest; May ev'ry village in the land

Be with such millers blest!

KING DIONYSIUS AND SQUIRE DAMOCLES;

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD STORY. Proper to be sung at all feasts and merry meetings. THERE was a heathen man, sir,

Belonging to a king;
And still it was his plan, sir,

To covet ev'ry thing.
And if you don't believe me,
I'll name him if you please,
For let me not deceive ye,

'Twas one squire Damocles, He thought that jolly living

Must ev'ry joy afford;
His heart knew no misgiving,
While round the festive board.
He wanted to be great, sir,

And feed on fare delicious;
And have his feasts in state, sir,
Just like king Dionysius.
The king, to cure his longing,
Prepar'd a feast so fine,
That all the court were thronging
To see the courtier dine,