Midnight Reflections and Other Poems.

]> Midnight Reflections and Other Poems.Blanchard, Anne.Jared Campbell,creation of electronic text.Electronic edition94 KbBritish Women Romantic Poets ProjectShields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956162002BlanAMidni

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series89Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorMidnight reflections and other poemsBlanchard, Anne J. Arliss, Printer and PublisherLondon, 1822[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. ISuppl:72. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler ISuppl:72mf.]

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[Title Page]

POEMS.MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS, AND OTHER POEMS.BY ANNE BLANCHARD.LONDON:JOHN ARLISS, PRINTER AND PUBLISHER, GUTTER‐LANE, CHEAPSIDE.M.DCCC.XXII.TO THE HONOURABLE HENRY RYDER,

Lord Bishop of Gloucester,FOR HIS INESTIMABLE VIRTUES, AND GREAT EXERTIONS IN THE CAUSE OF TRUTH, THESE REFLECTIONS, WITH FEELINGS OF PROFOUND RESPECT ARE INSCRIBED

BY THE AUTHORESS.MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS.MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS.NIGHT THE FIRST.THE clock has struck its last; the parting soundStill vibrates on my ear. Hark! how the chimes,In high and solemn strains, strike thro' the soul,And in the stillness of the night afar,In soft and soothing murmurs, die away.Again 'tis still; no sounds disturb the night,Save but the owl from yon high tow'ring elm,That hoots its sorrows to the midnight moon."Now is the very witching time of night, When church‐yards yawn," and should it then prove true,And should the sepulchre that holds thy dust,Departed friend, again cast forth its charge,In form and likeness as thou once wast known,Would then my soul appal'd shrink back in fear?Ah! surely no. But, hark! methink e'en nowI hear the well‐known accents of thy voice;Methink I hear thee say, prepare for death,E'en now he's at the door, and soon will knock.—But no, 'tis Fancy—whither would'st thou leadMy wand'ring thoughts? Stay, restless rover, stay,—Quit vain shade, let go these wild chimeras,No supernatural aid is wanting nowTo tell me I must die; through every veinI feel the subtle treach'rous miner Death,Working his way. Soon will the mandate comeTo call me hence, and lay me in the dust.O Death, what art thou? Many have essay'dTo draw thy portrait; but who e'er can traceThy true resemblance; none have ever burstThe tomb's strong jaws, to tell us ought they know;And they alone can tell us what thou art.But I shall know thee soon.—O had we notThe strong assurance of another life,How should I shudder at the frightful gulfThat then would yawn to shut me in for ever.Annihilation! 'tis a dreadful thought,—To be for ever wrench'd from those we love,Torn from the comforts of domestic life,And all the pleasures of this busy world:From all the hard‐earn'd learning, which perchance,For years the active mind has toil'd to gain,And when success has crown'd the utmost wish,Then to be snatched away and lost for ever.Or after toiling through a weary life,Beset with woes, opposed to calumny,To meet at length th' unerring stroke of death,Without a gleam of hope. But, no! my soulCan pierce beyond the grave, and unappal'dCan meet th' uplifted arm of death and smile;Can smile at what? a bless'd eternity,Where every suff'ring of the present hourShall in the vast expanse of bliss be lost.Eternity! there's rapture in the thought—How my soul kindles at the spark divine.—The soul! that immaterial part of man,Can earthly bounds confine its noble flight?What tho' my mortal frame in sickness pines,Worn out with pain; though sleep affrighted fliesM'uneasy pillow, though my fev'rish brain,Throbs with a violence unfelt before,Yet still my soul is free, no outward painCan quench her fire; for ever on the wingE'en now she contemplates, though faint her view,That scene of bliss she knows will soon be her's;When disencumber'd from this clog of clay,She'll soar at large, thro' yon wide fields of ether.There trace the vast extent of nature's laws,Watch the revolving planets stated round,Explore the cause, and see the great effectOf each phenomenon display'd throughoutThe whole creation. Her unbounded viewWill take in all the vast and mighty worksOf earth and heav'n, and find an ample storeOf wonders to employ the utmost lengthOf time, that may elapse till that dread hourWhen the last trump shall sound, and this frail frame,The cage that now confines her struggling powr's,Be summon'd to the bar; then will she meetHer well known partner, every facultyEnlarged, enobled, fitted to partakeWith her the high delights surpassing allThe thoughts of man can reach, which then unveil'd,Shall burst at once on her astonished sight.And why is Death so dreaded, when alone'Tis his prerogative these joys to give?Why is eternity denied, when allOn earth is transient, subject to decay?Perplex'd with cares and thick beset with woesIs human life, our very friends are false,And should we chance, thro'out our weary course,To meet with one who haply may prove true,How soon does Death divide the sacred bandsWhich friendship form'd; and if no other lifeSucceeded this, how vain, how fruitless 'twereTo seek for friendship which so soon would beDissolved for ever; but this is not so;In that bright realm of bliss, which shall succeedThis passing world, each friend again shall meetThere none are false; unkindness never dwellsAmid these bless'd abodes; but each in all,And all in each, are sure to find a friend.NIGHT THE SECOND.SEASON of gen'ral rest at this still hour,What numbers on the hardest pillow laid,Enjoy a sleep more sweet and undisturbedThan many who on downy couch repose.And numbers too now woo the god of sleepStretched on the bed of pain, but woo in vain.E'en now my sleepless eyes have frequent turn'dT'wards the dark window with an anxious wishO'er yonder sky to see the morning dawn.—I'll ope my casement. 'Tis a gloomy night;No star appears to light the care‐worn wretchWho destitute of house and home pursuesHis weary way amid the dismal gloom.Whilst all the little warblers of the grove,That erst were wont with melodations sweetTo sooth the sorrows of his aged breast,Are sunk in soft repose, and every throatIs still; yet on the wretched traveller goes,And every moment hopes a candle's gleamMay pierce the gloom, from some lone cottage near,Where he may ask a shelter for the night;But not a shed appears; his weary limbsSink down, oppress'd with age fatigue and want.Haply on our bless'd isle, no rav'nous wolves,Nor furious tygers nightly for their prey,Proul through the woods and with their lengthen'd roarRe‐echoed in the stillness of the nightMake the deep gloom more dismal. Thou poor wretchUpon the dew‐clad sod may'st rest in peace;And underneath the canopy of heav'nThou may'st enjoy a tranquil sleep, more sweetThan the gay votary of pleasure knows.What solemn silence reigns; how peaceful allAt this still hour of night; here no rude mirthNor midnight revelry, with clam'rous shoutOf sensual pleasure, (such as from the boardOf Bacchanalian feast re‐echoes throughThe wide metropolis, and rends the air,)Disturb the contemplative mind; e'en thoseWho are so wont to close each weary dayWith sad intemperance are all gone forth,And yonder ale‐house door is safely barr'd.Now has the thief begun his nightly round;Full well he knows each lane and mazy pathThrough which to turn, where none at this late hourSave but himself will ever venture forth.And cautiously he shuns the house he knowsTo be well guarded by the faithful dog.Now he essays each well known art to turnThe lock's strong wards, but should a trusty boltOr bar oppose his entrance, 'tis in vainHe strives to force his way, but when the lockYields to his art how lightly does he tread,Lest any listening ear should trace his steps.—And does he sin secure? Though mortal eyeBe closed in sleep; though earthly justice ne'erMay stop his wild career, yet sill he bearsWithin his breast a monitress severe.—Though with repeated crimes his callous heartBe grown more hard than adamant, yet stillA time will come when conscience will be heard,Spite of his efforts to repress her voice.And what if she delay her just reproachTill death's strong arm arrest his sinful courseThen, then, will death be dreadful; then his crimes—His unrepented crimes will harrow upHis very soul; annihilation then,Would prove a refuge; but his shrieks, his groans,Too plainly show he now no longer doubtsAnother life.—He breathes his last.—But stay—Say not he dies the victim of despair—Mercy may reach e'en him: He, who, to saveThe sinking world from woe, pour'd out his life,And rescued man from the deep yawning gulphOf everlasting ruin;—He may nowExtend his mercy t'wards this wretch, if not,Who lives and sins not? And who then am IThat dare to judge another when I knowMyself will soon be judged by him who sees And searches out the secrets of the heart?"Is Death at distance—no, he has been on me,"And given sure earnest of his final blow;"Has bid my soul let go her hold on earth;Quit her vain schemes of sublunary bliss,Forego all hopes, and fears, and fix her eye,Her stedfast eye, on that eternal scene,Which now will soon be her's. How poor, how meanDoes all the gew‐gaws of this world appearAt this still hour, when contemplation wingsHer way t'wards heav'n, and perched amongst the stars,Pleased with her eminence, looks down on earthAs vain and transient; all will soon be o'er;A few short fleeting years will surely endThis painful course; but a much shorter dateFor me perchance is destin'd, some few months, At most; perhaps some weeks, or even days,May end my race; though premature the call,Yet life is full of woe, and death perchanceMay snatch me from a galling load of pain,Of care and grief. What though some trifling joysThe world may boast, soon will they satiate, soonTheir charms be lost; but in that world of blissBeyond the confines of the narrow grave,Pleasures will never cloy, nor pain be felt.And thither I am hasting, soon these eyes—These waking, watching eyes that now in vainWould seek to close their lids, shall wake no moreTill the archangel's brazen trump shall sound. NIGHT THE THIRD. CYNTHIA, when last with thee, in converse sweet,I passed the solemn hour, when mortal eyeFast closed in sleep, when each forgot his woe,And was in peace; when solemn silence sat,And reign'd o'er nature; then my soul repleteWith every joy, and big with hopes of life,—Eternal life, while musing on that scene,She thought indeed almost within her ken.Yes then I thought the world and all it's toys,To me were disappearing; then my soul Looked backwards on the past, and thought how vain Had been the cares, and turmoils of this life— How trifling the pursuits that had so long, Too much engrossed my thoughts, and wasted time.Yes to a soul just on the verge of heav'n,The trifles of the world appear beneathIt's slightest thought; the gay and gorgeous trainOf human grandeur, (royalty itselfSinks in esteem, and) seems but fopperies,That cheat vain silly mortals of their time;Cheat them of time! nay fix their thoughts on earth,And cheat them too of heav'n. The world's gay sons,Who follow pleasure's satiating round,And tire invention to find out new schemes,To vary folly, and devise fresh plans,For each succeeding day, to change the garbOf ill‐clad vice, and make her seem more fair;If not more fair, yet by variety,And change of dress, to make her please anew.And those who best are skilled in killing time, The world applauds and fashionables court,But I would ask, ye who thus spend your daysIn one continued round of vain pursuits,How will ye meet the certain stroke of death?(For tho' delay'd for years 'tis certain still,And may perchance surprise you unawares)How will ye quit the world, where all your thoughts,Hopes, wishes, and affections all are placed?How will ye quit your noisy Bacchanals,To banquet worms, and moulder in the grave!Say can you look beyond? Does not the shroud,The coffin and the damp dark sepulchre,Bound all your prospects? Did your souls e'er mountOn contemplation's wings, above the spheres?No, surely no, for souls incumber'd thusCan never soar beyond the narrow boundsThis earth affords, nor can their prospects reach Beyond the confines of the present world.And is it pleasure then to banish thought,To drive reflection from the sickly soul,—Sickly for want of more substantial foodThan aught your vicious passions will allow.Though routed conscience may not sound alarms,(Yet she in ambush lies and will e'er longIf not before, when death shall point his dart,Return with three‐fold terrors to the field.)Tho' she is absent, yet the soul recoils,And turns disgusted from those scenes of vice,Each day anew presented to her sight.Ye sensualists who at your midnight feasts,Now give a loose to loud opprobrious mirth,And whilst intemperance reigns around the board,Whilst fell disease in every goblet lurks,And each relinquish'd bowl is big with death, What do ye loose? What real joys forego?Joys that ne'er satiate, joys that never tire,The contemplation of a world of bliss,Which the good man enjoys above the reachOf vain pursuits, the haven of his hopes,Where all his wishes tend, towards that bless'd shoreHe points his steadfast gaze, and whilst his barkRides o'er the uneven sea of human life,Sits calmly at the helm and guides her courseWith steady arm, and persevering still,(Though on the waves the dancing sunbeams sportAnd tempt his longer stay) he presses on,And for the mark of his high calling's prizeUrges his vessel; if the clouds look blackAnd scowl along the sky, if from afarHe hears the rattling tempest hast'ning onT'wards his frail bark, he arms him for the worst,Prepares to face the storm, yet hopes to reachOr e'er the cloud may burst, his destin'd shore.But though the storm o'ertakes him tho' the wavesRoll mountains high, yet still his little bark.Bears on amid the jaring elements,Buffets the billows whilst his steadfast soulViews unappall'd the raging sea around.Secure within himself, no outward stormsCan shake his courage, and at length arrivedAt the long wish'd for port he rests secure,Far from the tempest; there no adverse windsCan ever blow, eternal sunshine reigns,And joys unknown, unmix'd and without end.But mark the man who gives his passions scope;He to the mercy of the ruthless windsTrusts his gay skiff, and trifles on the waves;Sports in the sun nor heeds the rising storm.And when it comes it finds him unprepar'd,He cannot guide the rudder, his weak bark,For pleasure only framed, at random drives,Still whirl'd about by th' impelling stream,Till on the horrid rocks of black despairThe vessel strikes; and founder'd thus at onceSinks to the depth of misery and woe:And where's the charms of vice? ye madmen sayWhat tempt ye thus to run this wild career?To stake‐eternal happiness, and sellYour souls, for what? for pleasure of an hour?Doubt ye there is a God to judge the earth?Read yonder characters on heavens high arch,(Yon countless orbs inhabited perhapsBy beings like ourselves, or happy souls Who from their state of innocence ne'er fell,Ne'er forfeited their maker's love, ne'er knewThe woes by sin entail'd on Adam's race.Who placed those orbs on high? What of the pow'rOf gravity which to their centres passAn equilibrium keeps; supports and guidesIn their respective orbits round the sun,Each planet of our system, (and those orbsTo us unknown, far, far beyond the reachOf philosophic eye, round other suns.)But could the laws of gravity directTheir course from west to east, or cause at firstSuch bright resplendent bodies to appearTo spring from chaos, and to bid them shine.You'll argue too, "their light is not their own,But borrow'd from the regent of the day."—And does not he shew forth his maker's praise,Could chance blind chance have form'd the glorious ball?Could chance have thrown his atmosphere around,And caused his lucid clouds to give us light?—Go to the man immured amid the gloomOf Sweden's mines, within whose dreary caves,As in a subterraneous town, remoteFrom human commerce, he has passed his days;Transport him to the surface of the earth,Tell him no more than what a vulgar mindCan easily conceive, shew him the sun;The great bright source of life, of health, of joy.Reason would tell this man, some pow'r divine(If he had never heard Jehovah named)Must at the first have form'd the shining ball,And fixed it in its place. But raise his mind(If it were possible) above the mists,In which dark ignorance so long has keptHis soul envelop'd, teach him to look upAnd with great Herschell's philosophic eyeExplore the wonders of creative pow'r;Then tell him there are those who would be thoughtDeep learn'd and yet deny a Deity;—Deny that aught beside necessity,And chance call'd forth these great and mighty works,Would he not think them mad and shun their haunts,Lest mischief should befall him from their hands?An atheist would appear to him a wretchNot worthy life, nor yet prepared to die.But need we to the heav'ns alone confineOur search for wonders, and midst other worlds,And other atmospheres explore the worksOf heavn's great King, when our terraqueous globeIs every where surrounded by the pow'rOf an Almighty hand?—What man is heWho sees the light invest, as with a robe,The world which we inhabit, and yet doubts;(He may as well his own existence doubt,)Doubts the existence of a Deity?That Deity who bade the sun send forth,His emanations, and illume the world.And though the subtile particles thrown offBy his emiting rays, for ages pastHave been the same, yet undiminish'd stillThe matter yet remains, and could blind chanceHave kept him thus so constantly supplied— Would not his fruitful source, long, long e'er this,Have been exhausted, and that chance which firstForm'd him from chaos, would again have leftThe world in utter darkness? We had knownNo sweet returns of spring, no autumn's fruits;Nay life itself e'er this had been extinct.But tis beyond the pow'r of human pen To number up the wonders wrought by him,Who is all wonderful, the utmost heightOf finite wisdom; the united skillOf scientific learning, which has shoneThrough ages past, has never yet attain'dMore than a glympse of the minutest partOf the creation; nor could man know moreStrain'd to the highest pitch his finite pow'rsCould bear; the deepest learn'd can only knowAn atom, when compared with the great whole.But though no mortal eye can ever see,All the great works the universe contains,Yet still enough is known to raise the soul,(That e'er contemplated the glorious scenesTo man display'd) from off the little artsOf human greatness, and to fill the mind,With most exalted sentiments of him,The great Divine Original. That manWho studies nature's universal laws,Looks through its medium up to nature's God.He feels an ardour run through every vein,(Unfelt, unknown by him whose sole delightIs sensual pleasure,) he alone enjoysThe true delights of life, whilst he beholdsIndelibly inscribed on yonder arch,In shining characters, his Maker's name;Nor does he less Jehovah's footsteps traceThrough every field; and in each blade of grass,Marks where the finger of his God has been.And through the many changes of his life,He sees and feels the present Deity.With cautious vigilance he guards each word,Each thought and deed, convinced that DeityMarks every action with impartial eye, And whilst his confidence is solely placedIn the supreme Disposer of events,He meets resigned each adverse stroke of fate,Convinced that his superior will is best.And when amid the solitude he loves,His soul above this planetary globeThen soars aloft, beyond the starry frame:(For earthly bounds can't check her noble flight,The soul was ne'er designed to brood on earth;Her sight was form'd for more exalted views,Herself immortal, nought can satisfyHer craving appetite, that falls far shortOf immortality, no prospect boundHer piercing ken, this side eternity.)And there in search of the eternal God(On whom all nature for supper depends,)Roves unconfined, amid th' immense display,Of his infinitude, of wisdom, power,And love to man; till by degrees his thoughts,His reason, understanding, all is drawnFrom finite objects, and terrestrial things,Up to the scenes of everlasting bliss;"Till every bound, at length shall appear"And infinite perfection close the scene."NIGHT THE FOURTH.SINCE then all nature cries a God! a God!And atheists tremble, whilst they half believe,What else can prompt mankind to hurry on,(Spite of the warning voice whose whispers speakIn every bosom; and tho' stifled oftWill yet be heard,) in the sure road to death,Eternal death! can any be so lost,So dead to every feeling of the soul,As not to shudder at eternal death?Can any vainly think this earth their home,Their final home, (nor raise a singe thoughtAbove its confines, still content to dwellFor ever here, nor aim at higher life?)Daily experience tells us the reverse,Witness yon churchyard, read what numbers there,Are mould'ring in the dust; numbers who onceShone like the spangles on yon azure vault,Amid the gay, and numbers too who woreThe wreath of fame, of honour, and renown.Yet naught could ward the stroke of death, or buyOne moment's life, the great, the rich, the gayThe poor, and mean, must all alike submitTo th' all conquering victor's pow'rful arm—For all men are appointed once to die.And what is death? a rest from care and toilFrom pain and grief, which all on earth must bear,The world is full of woe with which weak man,(Whilst all the frailties of his sinful heart,Still fight against him) wages constant war; Fatigues himself in vain, tries every artTo vanquish woe, and shun the spectre care;Pursues each path to which the varied choice,May chance to point in search of happiness,And all in vain. How many ways the croudPursue the flying goddess, yet how fewO'ertake her flight. How few attain the endsFor which they strive, and if they are attain'dHow distant still the happiness they thoughtWas centred in th' attainment of these ends.Well did our great nocturnal bard remark,"Our very wishes give us not our wish."We seek for sublunary bliss in vain,No state of life, howe'er by fortune crown'd, Is free from care, none knows the joys of peace,Quiescent only in the silent grave;And thither all are hastening; though awhile Life's turmoils harrass, and distress us, stillIt's checquer'd paths are all concentred there.And I had thought e'er this, to have been laidWithin the tomb's retreat, had thought e'er now,The clay cold sod had press'd my weary head;Then I no more had felt the barbed dartOf disappointment, which so oft has tornThis aching breast. But life again revives;My soul that late was on the verge of heav'n—That late just caught a glimpse of that bright realmShe thought almost her own, (and with the sightEnraptured, long'd to burst the bands that heldHer struggling pow'rs confined,) is now againReturn'd, equipp'd afresh to bear the stormOf human life; which may, perhaps, beat hardOn my devoted head, but heav'n aloneKnows what is best, and heav'n alone can tellTo what I am reserved; if fortune frowns,If dire distress assail, tis mine to meetWith firm undaunted mind the gen'ral foe,'Tis midnight—and to me the solemn hour,And this nocturnal gloom, that now investsThe whole creation, is more pleasing farThan the bright blaze of the meridian sun.A total stillness reigns throughout the air;No intermeddling noise disturbs the thoughts;Imagination now has room to soar,Though through the day confined amid the dinOf busy life, unable or to mount,Or stretch her view beyond the spot of earth,That kept her nobler faculties enchain'dWithin its narrow bounds; but now the soul,—Now when the night befriends her, upwards mounts,All passions lull'd to rest, save that aloneWhich prompts the active mind of man to searchFor knowledge half divine,—knowledge deep hidFrom the blind reveler who now invadeThis sacred hour: they ne'er can know the joysThat flow from contemplations such as theseWhich he indulges who holds converse sweet,With yon bright spheres; to him alone reveal'dIs nature's wonders; her phenomenaHe views impress'd with awe, whilst he adoresThe pow'r divine that call'd these wonders forthFrom ancient chaos. Those who waste the nightIn riot, revelry, and mad debauch,Un‐nerve their every faculty, unfitTheir pow'rs for action, and their minds for thought.But 'tis the man who steadily adheres,To the long tried, approved, and easy rules,Of sober temp'rance; he who at this hour,Wakes to behold the beauties of yon dome,Erected by an architect divine,Wakes not to riot, but awake to diveDeep into nature's works, not pleased aloneTo skim alone the surface, and to suchDoes she unveil her face,—to such aloneDisclose her wonders: What amazing scenesDoes she exhibit! Who can contemplateHer great designs unmoved? What man is heWho studiously pursues her mazy path,And does not feel a sacred fire pervadeO'er all his frame? Divine philosophy! By heav'n in kindness sent to human race,A meliority to smooth the path,The rough, the rugged path, which all must tread.What! is philosophy an useless toil?A study that embarrasses the mind,And robs it of the more important partOf human duty? Or elates the man,In his own self conceit, above the rest:His fellow insects crawling in the mire?Can it not leave a space for heav'nly things?Nor kindle in the soul devotion's flame?Yes surely, yes, to him who does arightAppreciate its worth, 'tis the great sourceOf pure religion, it uplifts his soul,In adoration to Jehovah's throne:He sees throughout the universe display'dHis love to man; he feels in every placeA present God: and whilst he contemplatesHis universal goodness, seeks to prove,His own returns of gratitude and love.Nor does it rob the mind of aught that's great,That's good or noble! No, that man whose kenCan reach the farthest, has the greatest Soul,—The most expanded views of heav'nly things;And whilst impress'd with his great Maker's love,His heart with true philanthropy o'erflows.NIGHT THE FIFTH.'TIS long since I have hail'd the midnight hourAlone and unobserved; long since I've heldConverse with thee majestic queen of night;Or watch'd uninterrupted yonder orbsRevolve amid th' immeasurable spaceMark'd out by their great Maker's boundless pow'r.And yet e'er while, when sleep forsook my eyes,By pain affrighted; night, succeeding night,I used to sit, and muse upon the stateOf this terraqueous globe; or raise my mind,When harrassed and disturb'd, above the sceneOf human life;—above the starry vault,To that bless'd region of eternal rest,Where care will be forgot; till by degreesMy soul was tranquilized, and join'd againCalm and composed, the busy bustling crowd. But I have known since this, full many a changeAnd sad vicissitude; corroding griefHas worn my spirits; I have felt the stingOf faithless friendship; but my soul has look'dUp to that friend above, who ne'er forsakes,No, not one moment, those who trust in him.And can I call myself a friendless thing,—One unregarded, unobserved, unknown;Though all the world should shun me, whilst my GodRegards, observes, and knows me, whilst his handIs stretch'd to succour, whilst his ready earIs ever open to my slightest moan?No, I possess in him a friend beyond,Far, far beyond the worth of earthly friends.And shall I then neglect his well‐known will,And with deliberation rush on sin?Shall I though oft enticed forsake the pathOf moral rectitude, and join the crowdTo follow pleasure, in her mazy roundOf vanity and vice; and there forgetHim who has led me through the thorny wayOf busy life, and 'mid those adverse scenesI have encountered in the toilsome march,Has sooth'd my drooping spirits, and has pour'dThe balm of consolation on my heart?No, though I may incur "the world's dread laugh,"Still will I persevere, when once convinc'dOf what is right; no pow'r on earth shall shakeMy firm resolves; no, nor the fiends of hell,Form'd in array against me, shall prevailTo thwart my purpose, or draw back my soul.—And why, have I sufficient strength for this?Can I of mine ownself escape the snares,And deep laid artful wiles, of him who reignsThe prince of darkness? No, but there is oneWho is not only able but delightsTo succour the distress'd; He who hath said"My grace shall be sufficient," and in himIs all my hope, for sure I am that heWill never leave me. What though he permitsTh' apostate angels to exert their pow'r,And tempt my soul with some enticing sin:Yet He who in like manner knew on earthThe same temptations, and who now on highPities our weakness, will point out a wayOf safe escape, and guide my steps arightInto the paths of peace; that peace which noneOn earth can give; that peace which only flowsFrom a well grounded faith. Oh! that my soulPossessed more fully this transcendent good!This chief of blessings! then should I enjoyA bliss the foretaste of the world above.—But well I know that He who hath begunA good work in me, will continue stillTo carry on progressively the means,That shall accomplish the great end at last,—A free salvation! O! that I could yieldThe pen like Virgil! then nor idle dreams,Nor fictious Deities, nor tales well toldOf actions ill achiev'd, and deeds perform'dThat but create disgust, and serves to raiseThe actor's monument of lasting shame.No, not all this should then employ that pen; Far nobler themes I'd trace, themes which no tongueCan ever amplify; the deep laid schemeOf man's redemption; and the joyful soundOf gospel‐peace. And O! that I could winAttention from the gay unthinking crowd!How would I then expose the hideous formsOf their lov'd vices; and draw back the veil,Which now conceals the fatal scorpion's brood,Nurtur'd by sin, each day acquiring strengthTo sting more deadly; then in contrast drawA sketch, though faint, of what the christian feels,What he enjoys, (a heaven begun on earth)And his bright prospects in the world to come.And call ye this a fiction, sceptic? say, Would ye persuade mankind no heaven, no hellExisted, but in their creative brains? And why persuade them so? should ye succeed,And if one half the world be brought to placeImplicit faith on your hypothesis,What then! what scenes will follow? Will they thusLive more united in the sacred bondsOf brotherly affection? Will the worldBe then more free from every public illThat now infests society at large?Will sin be more controlled, will murder cease!Will rapine and extortion, with the trainOf various vices, which perplex our life,Become less frequent? No most surely no.—How many are there who amid the crowdAnd bustle of the world, would sin secure;Those whom no human laws could ever reach—But now they tremble at the awful thought,Of an all‐seeing Judge, whose strict accountWill one day be display'd, when every sinA sun‐beam will point out. No subterfuge,No plausible excuse will then avail.Each sin uncancel'd has drawn down a curse, And heav'nly justice will award to each,Distinct and separate, it's true deserts.These, and such thoughts as these now prove a barTo many sins, with those who would not liveA life of moral rectitude, if onceThe doctrine of rewards and punishmentsShould be annull'd. The hideous form of ViceWould cease to raise disgust, and Virtue's selfWould prove too weak to draw them to her paths,Or even keep them there; for few now deemHer charms sufficient to engage their heartsFor her own sake alone, abstracted fromAll farther views than those this life affords.And if no other life succeeded thisIf it indeed was all, where then would beDomestic quiet, peace and happiness,Such as the world now gives? If man might actFree from constraint, uninterrupted war,Discord, and riot would for ever reign.Our sabbaths would be useless, nay would beNo longer sabbaths; and what tends so muchTo keep mankind united, and to aweThe more abandoned? What so much creates,Supports, and nourishes true charity,As each returning day of rest, when allFreed from their weekly toil awhile lay byTheir worldly cares, and with united voice,(Regardless of distinction's sounding names,)Approach the throne of grace? If this should ceaseFarewell, to every virtue.—Some againOf Hell's prime agents, would by slow degreesBut not less sure the fatal consequence,Sap the foundation where on all ourOf future happiness alone must rest.—Would own a Deity, a heaven, a hell;And yet deny to Christ that homage dueTo him, as equal e'er the world beganIn glory with Jehovah. Could a man—Meer man, as they would have him, stand insteadOf a whole lost, undone, and guilty world?Could he have born our sins upon the crossNo, 'twas a load too heavy. Farther still,Could he have lived a life of innocence,Of spotless innocence, of what availWould that have been to us? Had he perform'dEach tittle of the law, 'twas yet no moreThan as a man would have procured himselfA title to eternal life; how thenCould he have had to spare, that we might claimA share in him, and have his righteousnessImputed to us? Or if he was sentAs an example only, sure his lifeWas of no use to us; we cannot liveUp to the standard thus prescribed; what thenIs the result? If we come short we die.And thus it always stood, and still must stand,If no attonement has been made. If Christ,Was nothing more than man, eternal deathIs yet the doom of all!—We cannot gainA crown of glory by our own good works;And where then must we look? An angry GodAlone is visible. Socinians sayCould ye now meet that God, and unappall'dTrust to yourselves? You cannot surely placeYour confidence in one you have despised!And yet again you cannot, dare not say,That you have follow'd the example setBy him we call our Lord; that you have livedA life of perfect innocence, like him.Will ye not then plead guilty? And if so,What does guilt merit? Death! eternal death!Which a just judge will surely give unlessA perfect compensation can be found.—And can ye find it? Whither will ye look?No arm, but His, who died on Calvary,Can bring you help. This, this alone, must proveHis power almighty. Yet, if after all,The Christian's hopes should prove but fantaciesLet him enjoy them; they support his soulAmid the cares and miseries of life:—Whilst he who shuns these fantacies is voidOf every consolation in the hourOf dark distress. Though for a awhile amusedWith earthly pleasures, during the gay sceneOf active life; though eager in pursuitOf some one darling object; shelter'd too,Perhaps, from thought, by a continued roundOf worldly business; yet the time will comeWhen the most prosperous may feel the strokeOf adverse fortune. If an atheist—Where can he look for help? Within himselfAll is distraction, all without is lost;He has no God; prosperity is flown;The world forsakes him, and he dies the preyOf desperation. If an infidel—He who affects to disbelieve the planOf man's redemption, is he more secureFrom the attacks of conscience in that hour?No, he looks back with horror on the past,Where he sees nought but crimes that harrow upHis very soul; and in his present woesHe sees a God incensed, now come to takeFull vengeance on his head. O! I have seenThis horrid picture—seen the sinner's frameDistorted by his agony of mind,And felt most deeply for his wretched state.—Whilst his wan features and his hollow eye,Too well convinced me, Death, with hasty strides,Was making t'wards him. Unprepar'd to go—What were his future prospects? May we judgeFrom nights of sleepless misery, and daysSpent only in vicissitude of woe?Yes, sure we may; no inward peace can dwellIn such a tenement. How wretched thenA state like this; and when the last sad sceneIs drawing to a close, "when earth recedesBefore his swimming eye," how dark must riseThe prospect next appearing; well convincedHis soul must still exist, and yet afraidOf that existence; catching at each hope,Each feeble hope, presented to his viewBy superstition; whilst unnumber'd crimesRise up, and haunt his mind; his burning brainBecomes delirious; and at length appearsThe gulf of black despair. Headlong, at onceHe plunges downward, and the scene is closed.But what a contrast is the Christian's life!Amid the storms of rude adversityHe sees a God, not coming to avengeHis past impiety, but to prepareHis ling'ring soul for the bless'd world above,By weaning it from this. He views the past,Not with abhorrence, but with heartfelt joy;And calls to mind eash season of delightHe oft has known, when in close fellowshipWith his almighty friend: And now he looksTo the same friend for succour; knowing wellHe is a present help in time of need.—But when at length he feels the near approachOf the last enemy, he does not shrinkWith terror from his stroke; he sees on high(By faith's strong piercing sight) his advocate,At the right of God; and feels convinc'dThat all his crimes are cancel'd by the' pow'rOf Christ's attoning blood, which he has madeHis only plea; and now he goes to takePossession of the bless'd inheritanceThat blood has purchas'd for him; far awayFrom all distress, where he with Christ shall reignTriumphantly, in glory without end.SONNETON MRS FRY'S LEAVING ENGLAND TO VISIT THE PRISONS IN SCOTLAND.WHEN great Elijah in the fiery carSoar'd upwards, when the opening skies receivedHim from his servant's sight, his spirit fellAnd fill'd Elisha's breast. And when bereavedOf Howard, his best friend, in the damp cellThe prisoner heard his rumoured death from far;He thought his every earthly hope was fled.But no, his spirit warmed a female breastWhere every solid virtue reigns confest.And she in Howard's path has dared to tread,Has dared like him to rend each social tie;Religion's healing balsam to impartTo the poor distant prisoner's wounded heart,And teach the suffering culprit how to die.SONNETON SEEING TWO BOYS QUARREL FOR A FEATHER.TOO true an emblem of the world's vain strife,The constant wrangling and perpetual broilsThat with incessant jar imbitter life!For what is all this passing world can boast?What it's reward for all the ceaseless toilsOf erring man? Why all it's joys at mostAre but a feather in the scale of things.Fame and renown, what are they but the breathOf passing multitudes as light as air?And riches fly away on swiftest wings.Soon friendship's sacred bands are broke by death,And hope full oft gives place to black despair:E'en all our pleasure's but as feathers weigh,All take their flight, as light and swift as theySONNETON THE DEATH OF MISS H. H*****G.I KNEW her once; she was a lovely girl,(Or e'er death's sallow hue her cheek o'erspread,)When first her prime bade every charm unfurl;Then the bright lustre of her sparkling eyeShone like the spangles on yon azure sky;But now she's number'd with the silent dead.—Through a sad life of sorrow she bemoan'dOne fatal step! Ye fair who never fellFrom honour's path, let not your bosoms swellWith proud contempt; for now on high enthroned,Her soul is pure as your's; her ordeal past;—And ye who would not stretch your hand to saveA feeble victim from the threat'ning grave,Now o'er her faults let Lethe's waves be cast!SONNETON THE SAME.I MARK'D the hectic flush usurp her cheek,The native vermeil of the roses fade;I saw the dew‐drop glisten in her eyeAnd heard the bursting, but half stifled sigh,Too oft the anguish of her heart bespeak.But when consumption's meagre form confess'dStood bending o'er her and towards death's cold shadePointed her view, no more her labouring breastWith anguish heav'd; calm resignation play'dO'er her wan features; an approaching restDimpled her cheek with smiles; and now she's laidIn the dark sepulchre, her breast no moreShall feel remorse; the painful struggles o'er;For one false step her forfeit life has paid.SONNETTO MR. P——.AND do the wounds of conscious guilt ne'er rendYour haughty bosom? Does not the fair formOf her whose innocence you late betray'd,Stalk round your bed, your perjur'd faith upbraidAnd call ye murderer? Does she not attendYour midnight revelry? Can Bacchus warmYour soul to mirth? Can you a pleasure knowUnpoison'd by the thought of her whose woeHas cost her life? But now the blush of shame,—Of conscious shame, shall tinge her cheek no more;Nor can you longer trifle with her fame;Her soul is flown, your short‐lived triumph's o'er!And now to unavailing grief a prey,With just reproach you'll wear your life away.SONNET ON DEATHTAKEN FROM MR. CALCUT'S PROSE EXTRACTS.SEE, the green tyrant death each hour extendsHis conquests o'er mankind. We all are madeOf the same mould, and all alike must fade,And crumble into dust. This day the friendsOf him, whose cheek betoken'd rosy healthSome few short hours ago, pursue his bierIn mournful silence; when a few more sandsHave run, they too must go; the friendly tearAnd all the pomp and pageantry of wealthWill be of no avail; the ready handsOf the cold‐hearted sexton have preparedTheir final home, and the drear mansion mustReceive it's tenants. None are ever spared—Great, rich, and gay, all fall alike to dust.SONNETON THE PROSPECT OF ADVERSITY.I SEE the gathering cloud, it hastens on,Yet still my breast is calm; I do not fearIt's swift approaches now; e'er while a dreadHad seized my trembling soul, but soon 'twas gone.A heaven‐born maid appeared; the spectre fled,And Hope ('twas she) soft whisper'd, peace is near.Perchance or e'er the threat'ning cloud may burstYou will have reached the haven of your rest,Safe from the storm; if not that hand which erstHath held you up, will be again your guard;Will shield you through the tempest, and will wardThe fiery bolt from your defenceless breast:—Then harmless shall the rattling thunders rollNor shake the steady temper of your soul.SONNETTO THE REV. MR.——.—— 'TIS thine to bend the stubborn soul—The fiery passions in the breast to quell;The starting tear of anguish to controul,Whilst on thy lips persuasion's accents dwell.See mute attention fixes every eye,Each sound is hush'd, e'en every breath is still;And thro' each nerve the quick vibrations thrill,Whilst our rapt souls with heav'nly transports swell,And mount on strong devotion's wing on high.Enthusiastic spurn the world's vain toys,And soar with thine beyond the distant sky. Still persevere, and for the public weal,Exert thy powers. In heav'n eternal joysAwait to crown thy firm unshaken zeal.SONNETON SEEING BLENHEIM CASTLE.THE great reward of many a glorious deed;Of England rescued from the galling chain,Perchance of slav'ry. Yet this wide domain,To my mind's eye, presents the scene of death.Where Churchill fought I see each hero bleed;Hear his last groan; hear his departing breath,Whilst stretched supine along the blood‐stained field,Sigh forth a pray'r that heav'n his wife would shield,Then breathe it's last. I see the orphan weep;Left to the mercies of a ruthless world.I see the widow her sad vigils keep,Whilst unavailing sorrow swells her breast.But on ambition vengeance has been hurl'd,And heav'n has bid the world's vain tumults rest.SONNETTO MR. ——THOUGH diff'ring int'rests clash, though factions rendOur former friendship, yet within this breastThe stamp of gratitude is deep impress'd,—Too deep for civil discord to erase.Great is my debt. Though fortune ne'er will lendTo me her blessings, no high sounding name,Or pompous equipage, will ever graceMy humble dwelling, yet this heart shall glowWith the just sense of obligations pastLong as the vital spark of life shall last;And when the feeling spirits cease to flow,And every pulse is still, a purer flameOf heart‐felt gratitude shall then arise,And shine with brighter lustre in the skies.SONNETTO THE MOON.CYNTHIA, as near my casement I recline,And watch thy waning face, bright and serene,I think of life, and to myself I sigh;I think how swift it's sweetest pleasures fly,—How many clouds of sorrow intervene!Oh! none can boast a course so calm as thine,Tho' full as short, e'en life is but a day,A fickle April day, a chequered scene,Of good and ill, of troubles cares and joys:But ah! how soon do all its charms decay,How soon it's best loved pleasures fade away,And death our schemes of earthly bliss destroys.Yes, life and all it's dreams will soon be o'er,And sink unlike to thee, to raise no more.SONNETTO PAIN.Yes, yes I know thee well; 'too long hast thouBeen my attendant: yet I like thee not,Though habit has accustomed me to feelWith suff'ring less acute thy presence nowThan I did once; nor is the time forgotWhen I have met thy terrors with a tear.But now I've learned to bear thy frowns severeWith calmness, and almost without a sigh.I've learn'd at Resignation's shrine to kneel,And now no more a tear shall dim my eye:But I will patiently await the hourThat will e'er long bid every sorrow cease;Soon the cold hand of death will bring me peace,And free me from thy fierce, tyrannic power.SONNETTO ELIZA.ELIZA we on earth shall meet no more,The grave will part us—soon my aching head,And this poor care‐worn frame will rest in peace:Death calls away, and all will soon be o'er:Then will these throbbings in my bosom cease!But when I sleep upon my clay cold bed;When from its cage my longing soul is fled,Eliza grieve not, friendship never dies.The grave will snatch me from a load of pain,Of care and grief, but when again I riseTo second life beyond the distant skies,Where never‐fading bliss and friendships reign!Think then my friend, with every joy replete,Eternal and secure again we meet.SONNETFROM THOUGHTS WHICH OCCURRED DURING THE VOLUNTARY IN DIVINE SERVICE.A SOLEMN pause for contemplation's flight;—Rise, rise my soul on true devotion's wings;Above all vain and sublunary things;Rise to the source of health, of life and light.Approach with awe the footstool of his throne,And there forget life's trivial transient toys;Contemplate there the pure and lasting joys,Awaiting those whose lives their Saviour own.Hark! hear I not e'en now a strain more sweetThan that which from the pealing organ flows!List! list again; 'tis heav'n's angelic choirHymning their maker's praise, whilst o'er the lyreTheir fingers sweep, and at each solemn closeTh' eternal hallelujah they repeat.SONNETON LEAVING CLIFTON.CLIFTON how highly thy lov'd scenes I prize;But I must go, life's business calls awayTo other scenes far distant; yet I'd stay,Would gladly stay where thy brown cliff's arise.Yes I would wish to spend my future daysNear to thy rocks, then I should often seekThy winding path, or thy high summit bleak;And thou should'st sometimes hear my simple lays.For on a craggy eminence reclined,I'd woo the muse of poesy. And thereList to the murmurs floating on the air.Or watch the vessels' streamers in the wind,And as they reach their destin'd port would say,I too shall shortly rest as well as they.SONNETTO HEALTH.O HEALTH! thou choicest blessing from on high,Why dost thou leave me? whither dost thou go?Ah! wherefore from thy suppliant dost thou fly?Oh! 'tis unkind, for full well thou dost know,Whilst with me thou wast never yet abused,Nor were the blessings thou didst give, misused.Beside, I'm young, and I was always told, That thou dost follow youth, and quit the old.But thou dost fly from me, whilst I pursueIn vain; my steps will ne'er arrest thy flight,But I shall quit the chace, shall sue no more;Hope's cheering prospect opens to my sight,Points to the peaceful grave my anxious view,Where I shall shortly rest, and all these pains be o'er.SONNETTO HOPE.YES, thou art still the inmate of my breast,The sweet companion of each languid hour;The solace of my life, the cheering ray,That shows the prospect of eternal rest.'Tis by the influence of thy matchless pow'rI learn to scorn the pageants of a day:—I learn to rise superior to the woesOf human life; superior to the painsOf this weak frame; to fix my stedfast eyeOn the approaching season of repose:The horrors of death's gloomy night to brave:Yes, and to look beyond the silent grave,—Beyond the confines of yon azure sky,To where eternal bliss and pleasure reigns.LINESADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY WHO COMPLAINED OF THE INFIDELITY OF A FRIEND.ELIZA, your's is but the common lot;When fortune smiles mankind their homage pay;But when she frowns, their idol is forgot,And all their boasted friendship fades away.I can Eliza, from experience, tellWhat 'tis you feel; yet trust Time's healing balm,Though now your bosom may with anguish swell,The tumultuous throbbings soon will calm.I had a friend, who once her trust betray'd,And then, like you, I thought all peace was flown;But Time's all‐powerful hand my grief has stay'd,And in your friendship joy again I've known.And though none else your shatter'd bark attend,Still will I prove through life your constant friend.LINESON A MINISTER'S LEAVING HIS RESIDENCE.AH! woe's the day! Yes he has said adieu:—Bring me the willow, let me dress my lyreWith the dark cypress; to no sounds of mirth,Shall its neglected, unstrung chords give birth;But on some tree, robb'd of its verdant hue,Shall hang, and it's harmonious notes expire;Whilst o'er its strings the passing breezes sweep,Shall notes of woeDiscordant flow,And piety shall hang her head and weep.—I see, I see a hideous train appears,—Lo! Discord comes with fury on her crest; See where aloft the brandish'd torch she rears,Swift, Swift it's dire contagion fills each breast.;And now she darts her fiery eyes around,With feuds and strifeHer steps are rife;And deep mouth'd clamour's lengthen'd roars resound.She waves her torch, and see what numbers flyTo join her banners! Ah! t'wards us she bends,And spreads her baneful influence. See, mild PeaceFlies swift at her approach, and mounts the sky,Her native home; and on her flight attendsHer handmaid, Concord. Now will order cease,And wild contention reign supreme and sole.Now union flies,Religion sighs,Unable longer riot to control.Ah! this my Muse,—this is the sad effectOf his adieu, Ah! wherefore did he go,Just as his real worth we learn'd to know,And his exalted virtues to respect?—Just as he gain'd the love of every heart,To leave us thus! But cease, 'tis heav'n's behest!The Great Supreme decreed that we should part;And we, resign'd,Must bear in mind,That His decrees are greatest, wisest, best.TO A FRIENDIN DISTRESS.WHY sigh my friend? Your sorrowWill surely soon be o'er;Perchance upon the morrowThis grief will be no more.If not, yet life is hast'ningTowards its final close;And as its sands are wastingO! think how short our woes.When looking on the ocean,Whose surges rise and swell,(Tost by the tempest's motion;)Where unknown dangers dwell;I think how life's distressesAre like the troubled deep;How hard it's mis'ry presses,"And leaves the wretch to weep."Alas! what sorrows vex us,And rob our minds of peace;What constant cares perplex us,And bid our pleasures cease,But whilst I thus am sighing,The gloomy clouds dispel;The scowling tempest's flying,No more the surges swell.Thus though with inward anguish,Our souls be tempest tost;Though now with grief we languish,Soon will our cares be lost.—Be lost in joy, unbounded,When Christ our King appearsBy all his saints surrounded,And hails us Glory's heirs.LINESWRITTEN ON A FRIEND'S FEARING TO DIE, UNCERTAIN OF THE FUTURE STATE.UNCERTAIN! surely not; in this bless'd land,Where Christ's ambassadors each day unfold,The joys reserved in heaven, at his right hand,For those who on his cross by faith lay hold.If on ourselves alone, our hopes were fix'd;If our own merits only could obtainOur future peace; well might our thoughts be mix'dWith fearful doubtings of eternal pain.But, thanks to God, our help is surely laidOn One who is Most Mighty; who to saveA ruin'd world from woe, the tribute paid,"And for our sins, himself a ransom gave."O! then to Christ, without reluctance, fly,And claim his righteousness, and plead his death;On him our surety steadfastly rely,He will not quit you at your latest breath.TO A FRIENDAT PARTING.DISTANT from the friend I treasure,When I've bade the last adieu,Then will every late gone pleasure,Brighten as it flies from view.Busy mem'ry backwards glancing,Still will paint the joys I've known,(Every present grief enhancing)Whisp'ring they are ever flown.Though ill‐fortune may betide us,Yet nor change of times nor place,Though the roaring waves divide us,Can my friendship e'er erase.Think not fickle fortune changing,E'er shall change my love for yon;For no second friend o'er ranging,To the first for ever true.What though empires us shall sever,Though we part no more to meet,Shall I then forget you? never,Whilst my memory holds her seat.And when death shall waft us overTo the distant wish'd for shore;And new scenes of bliss discover,We shall meet to part no more.LINESWRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.COLD damps hang on my lately feverish brow,My brain turns dizzy, and my trembling knees,Unable to sustain their wonted load,(Though my poor crazy frame is worn awayTo half its usual weight) sink down oppress'd,And nerveless with accumulated pain,Oh death! are these thy harbingers, art thouSo near my door, and wilt thou call so soon?And must I go and quit this busy worldTo moulder in the silent gloomy grave?Go, and so young! go e'er I've tasted aughtThe joys this life afford! Oh, dismal thought!How oft I've wooed the Muse, and fondly hop'dShe'd one day listen to my earnest suit;But vain has been the wish; no future wreathOf fame shall round my temples be entwined;Death will cut off my prospects and my hopes,And blend me with the dust: a few short weeksPerchance my friends (and few are these) may mourn;May drop a silent tear, and then my nameWill sink in dark oblivion; after agesWill never know that such a being lived.O! I had hop'd far otherwise; had hop'dI should or ere the silver chord was loosedHave gained some interest in the breath of fame.Yes, I had hop'd, or ere death called me hence,High up Parnassus' steep and slippery side,With toil unceasing, to have gained, and thenI should have left some vestige that had shewnI once had been, and would have snatch'd my nameFrom the oblivious gloom of Lethe's waves.But, no! this must not be! my time is short,My glass ebbs fast, the sands are almost run;And quickly I must go and bid adieuTo all my hopes—long cherished hopes of fame.And yet who knows, perchance if death's strong armHad not arrested the ærial flightFond fancy had indulged, the Muse might stillHave unpropitious proved; I might have spentThe bloom of life in restless, anxious care;Have toiled in vain a tedious length of years;And by repeated disappointments soured,Have met at length the chill embrace of age,And then have sunk into the grave unknown,As I shall now. But be it as it may—'Tis Heaven's supreme decree, and I submit.LINESCOMPOSED ON THE BANKS OF THE AVON.SUPPOSED TO BE THE REFLECTIONS OF A PERSON, WHO, SOME SHORT TIME BEFORE, INTENDED TO HAVE PRECIPITATED HIMSELF INTO IT'S STREAM.IS life still worth the keeping, fully fraughtWith every ill that malice can devise,Or envy forge, leagued with the powers of hell,And man's own sinful nature? Passions strongAre ever struggling in his troubled breastTo gain the mastery; whilst the arch fiendTriumphantly exults, and fans the fireThat lights up every sin, which stings the mindWith horrid after‐thought, and far outweighsThe dear‐bought pleasures which those sins can yield.But wherefore call them pleasure? Sin at bestIs but a stupefaction of the soul,Whilst reason sinks lethargic. And why thenIs man so prone to crime? Is it becauseSatan holds captive his deluded heart?And can he not the tyrant's bonds unlooseCan he not free himself? Ah, no! I feelHe is unequal to the task, or else I would not thus have strove so long in vainThese galling fetters to shake off. But stayThe threads of life are weak, and may be snaptWith little pains, and then I shall be free.E'en at my feet the mean presents itself;Here I may find a cure for every woe.—One plunge and all were o'er; in this deep streamI should at once forget each misery,And end a life but little worth; a lifeReplete with sin and wretchedness—Yet thereWould all be ended? No, within my breastA something tells me, th' immortal soulCan never die. And would if I cast offThis frail incumbrance, this poor clod of earth,That now confines her pow'rs? Would she then soarAt large, and unconfin'd seek where she lists,Amid the stars, or in some place remote,Unknown to mortal ken; her resting place?Or would she yet again embodied joinThe human race, or herd amongst the beasts,Or animate a senseless stock or tree,As some have thought?—Or in Elysian fields?—No! rather say in hell, with fiends and fire,And fellow souls in torment, raving fierce,With curses dread, and blasphemy more direThan mortal can conceive, she would be whelm'd.What then! the time will come, perhaps e'er long,When she must feel these torments; none can liveFor ever here, and my poor soul is doom'd,Nor undeserving doom'd, to endless pains.Why then thus should I hesitate, when hereI feel within me every pang begun,That can by the accursed souls be knownIn hell's deep fathomless abyss.—Away!Ye doubts and scruples!—I will tempt my fate,And end uncertainty at once. Thus thenI bid adieu to every earthly scene.—Thou great Supreme if thou beholdest aughtThat passes in this world, thou know'st my soul,Thou see'st it thick beset with horrors black,And more tormenting than my mortal frameCan longer bear; here then I cast myselfUpon thy mercy.—Mercy did I say!What word is this! can mercy ever reachA soul like mine, so foul with every sin?O that I could believe it! Surely then,If it were so, I need not rush on deathTo find it's soothing influence: even hereI may obtain it; and e'en now methinkI feel a struggling hope unknown before,That quite unmans my purpose.—Ah, what thoughtsAre these that rush upon my wildered soul.—A something seems to stir within my breast;My heart beats quicker; what can this portend?'Tis sure of heavenly origin! The gloomThat erst absorb'd my mind, dispels apace,Despair recedes, and hope's bright rays break in.Methink I seem again to wish for life;It grows more sweet, and if there is a hope,It must be here, there can be none hereafter.And yet one moment more, and I had beenBeyond its reach.—I shudder at myself.—What could have thus induced my vagrant steps?In spite of reason, hitherward to bend.In spite of reason? No, appall'd, she fledAnd yielded up her reign; her vacant seat,Wild frenzy seized; 'twas she impell'd me on;—I list'ned to her voice, and would have forc'dMy wretched soul, with all her hideous sinsUnpardoned, unrepented, to have metHer great High Judge uncall'd, and reeking stillWith her own blood. O horrible! e'en now,But for that mercy which I erst despised,I might have been o'erwhelm'd in the blue lake"Of ever burning sulphur," but againReason resumes her empire. I am spar'd—And spared to own the Lord of heaven and earthIs sure a God of mercy; one who ne'erForsakes his wretched people; nor destroys,E'en though provok'd each day anew, he stillHolds out his hand to save—that hand which nowHas snatch'd me from perdition. I will liveAnd speak his praise; will cast my every careOn him who careth for me; who hath said,I am the Lord thy God, I ne'er will leave,—Ne'er will forsake thee.—Satan hence away;Through Christ I now have conquer'd, and remainA monument through life of his free grace.REFLECTIONS.I TOO can tell that lifeIs but a chequer'd scene of woes,Of long distress and short repose,With every folly rife.What though some transient joy,May cause the care‐worn wretch to smile;And sorrow of its sting beguile,'Tis not without alloy.Some talent ill may spring,From whence we dreaded no alarm;And whilst we least suspect its harm,We feel its deadly sting.'Tis but a short‐liv'd day,And all our pleasure's will be past;Tho' hope has yet the pow'r to castA ling'ring cheering ray.Yet all will soon be o'er,E'en that which now may serve awhile,Man of his moments to beguile;Will charm alas! no more.The flow'rs that now may bloom,Will quickly fade, and pass away;So will man's boasted joys decay,And wither in the tomb.Time was I seem'd most bless'd;My heart was warm'd by friendship's beam;But now I find 'twas all a dreamA vision I possess'd.Ah! 'twas too much to last,The sweetest pleasure's quickly cloy;And every earthly high prized joy,Is always soonest past.I feel the poisonous dartWhich Envy level'd at my rest,Corroding deep within my breast,And rankling at my heart.Yet all our grief shall cease,Though wretched whilst we linger here;When stretched upon the friendly bier,We then shall rest in peace.This season of repose,Will soon arrive when those who weep,Within the arms of death shall sleep,Secure from all their woes.ON THE DEATHOF AN UNFORTUNATE FEMALE.DEEP was the groan I heard; it pierced my soul'Twas that of black despair. Stop your career,Ye votaries of pleasure!—pause awhile,And mark a child of vice expiring here.—With what a horrid glare her eye‐balls roll,Whilst the foul fiends with exultation smile.O! ruin'd and undone! for ever lost!Unhappy girl, what fraud entic'd thee on?Why didst thou listen to the siren voiceOf thy seducers? Now thou know'st the cost,Alas! too late, of thy mistaken choice;For e'en the faintest hope of life is gone.Can ye not save her?—Ye who late betray'dHer thoughtless youth? No, 'tis beyond your pow'r,Death stands prepar'd to strike the sure‐aim'd blow,And fell Destruction, ready to devour.Can ye stand by unmov'd? Her groans upbraidYour own mad course; ere long the fatal hourWill summons you; unutterable woeAwaits your souls amid the shades below.A VISION:WRITTEN AT THIRTEEN.TIRED with the busy toils of day,To a still grove I bent my way,In melancholy mood;There, seated by a riv'let's side,Where long the forest's greatest pride,The stately oak, had stood.Free from the noise of pomp and state,I envy'd not the rich or great,Whom Folly's wiles perplex'd;But happy in my sphere of life,Contented, cheerful, free from strife,No cares my spirit vex'd.The zephyr's sported in the trees,And blew a most refreshing breeze,That wanton'd round my head:Upon the bank reclin'd along,I listen'd to the feather'd throng—Sweet was my mossy bed.Sleep stole upon me unawares—Sleep that drowns sorrow, pain, and cares,In darkness and in night:I wander'd in a lovely vale,Where Philomela told her tale,Far from all mortal sight.No human footsteps marr'd the ground,No noisy riot echoed round;Calm peace presided here.I loiter'd on this fairy land,And watch'd the beaut'ous scene expand,Nor felt one chilling fear.A female form, arrayed in white,With features mild, serene, and bright,Approach'd, and seiz'd my arm.—"My name's Content, fair maid," she cried,"From childhood I have been your guide,"And kept your steps from harm."Few, all my friends, mankind can tell,"There are but few that love me well—''Content is scarcely known."Have you a secret wish at heart?"Have you a wish that we should part,"Or will you be my own?"With me true happiness you'll find;"With me alone is peace of mind—"Peace such as wealth can't give."Pursue the road you always trod;"'Tis the sure path to heav'n and God—"To blessings whilst you live."Still cherish in your heart content,"To your last hour you'll ne'er repent,"Guard well your youthful breast;"For should ambition enter there,"'Twill pay your cares with black despair,"And banish all your rest.""Ah! deign, sweet form," was my reply,"To guard me with a watchful eye,"And all my steps attend:"Still make my cottage thy retreat,"It is but humble, though 'tis neat,"And be my guide and friend."Far from the bustle of a court—"Haunts, where the rich and great resort,"I'll pass my time with you:"My days shall flow in peace, unknown"To the gay crowd, and prais'd alone"By the discerning few."I spoke, the airy vision fled,—When starting from my mossy bed,T'ward home my steps I bent—Resolved that happiness to find,Which flows alone from peace of mind,And cherish fair content.THE CHRISTIAN'S TRIUMPHOVER DEATH.YES I am safe, Death I defy thee now;Thou canst not fright me, tho' thou com'st array'dWith all thy pow'rs, tho' thy black'ned browWear three fold terrors, I can meet thy look,Stern and terrific, and no more afraidOf thine uplifted arm, can smile and say,I dread not now the records of that book,Seal'd up against the last great judgment day.Time was I thought the horrors of this hourWould harrow up my soul, but now I findAn arm stretch'd forth, of more than mortal pow'r,To give me aid. When on myself aloneMy hopes were placed, 'twas then my harrass'd mind,For e'en one crime despairing to atone,Revolted at the thoughts of death; the tombAppear'd encircled with a tenfold gloom.But now the mist dispels, hope's cheering rayIllumes the dark retreat; no more the graveAppears terrific, He who died to saveMy soul from hell, and wash my sins awayPass'd thro' it's portal, laid it's terrors low,And robb'd them of their sting; and now on highHe pleads my cause. No more I fear to die—No more I dread to meet mankind's last foe.My crimes are cancell'd; his atoning deathHas ransom'd me from hell; his merits wonEternal glory, and his dying breathDeclared it all complete; in him I trust;Convinc'd that God can pardon (yet be just)All those who plead the merits of the Son.And now I go, "O Death, where is thy sting!"O Grave where is thy boasted victory?"Lost! lost!—To die is gain.—I mount the sky,And haste to meet my everlasting king,And join the souls of the redeem'd on high.WRITTENON A FRIEND'S PROPOSING TO THE AUTHORESS A RESI‐DENCE IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY.Quit my native land for ever!Quit the shores I love so well!Shores where freedom reigns? no never,Whilst with life this breast shall swell.Though some others, prone to changing,O'er the world's wide surface roam,Here, without one thought of ranging,Still I'll dwell, best pleased with home.What! though partial nature, dressingSome few soils above our own:—We enjoy a greater blessingThan all other lands have known.Here religion's emanationsShine from superstition free;E'en the meanest lowest stations,May the glorious radiance see.Look to distant nations, dwellingIn the bond of peace and love;Hear them, whilst with rapture, tellingOf the scenes of bliss above.Nations too who once benighted,In the grossest, darkest ways,Now by Jesu's love excited,They have learn'd the song of praise.And by heav'nly pow'rs protected,Britain's sons alone display'dJesu's cross on high erected,Where the prowling tiger stray'd.Even toil and death defying,From the savage monsters fell;To themselves each joy denying,But to save one soul from hell.Is there one who hears this story,Blazon'd by the trump of fame;Is there one who would not gloryIn a Briton's envy'd name?Is there too another nation,Boast what regal pomp they may,Where so wise a legislation,Rules the land with gentle sway?Here the weak may find protectionFrom th' oppressor's cruel rage;Here the skill‐less seek direction,From the counsels of the sage.Talk not of Peruvian treasures,Mines of gold and pearly seas;England boasts far greater pleasuresThan such glitt'ring toys as these.Tell me not of eastern nations,Clad in all the pomp of dress!Call not their's the happier stations,Purple has no power to bless.Though imperial robes inviting,Mid the gorgeous painted domeWith the charms of love uniting,Woo me to forsake my home.Though Golconda too should proffer,Her immense exhaustless stores,Still I'd scorn the splendid offer,Still prefer my native shores.