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THE STRANGER AND HIS FRIEND, &C.
THE STRANGER AND HIS FRIEND. Matt. xxv. 40.
A POOR wayfaring Man of grief
Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
I spied him, where a fountain hurst
'Twas night; the floods were out; it hlew
A winter-hurricane aloof;
I heard his voice ahroad, and flew
To hid him welcome to my roof;
I warm'd, I clothed, I cheer'd my guest,
Laid him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the hearth my hed, and seem'd
In Eden's garden while I dream'd.
Stript, wounded, heaten, nigh to death,
In prison I saw him next, condemn'd
To meet a traitor's doom at morn;
The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd,
And honour'd him 'midst shame and scorn:
My friendship's utmost zeal to try,
He ask'd, if I for him would die;
The flesh was weak, my hlood ran chill,
But the free spirit cried, " I will."
Then in a moment to my view,
MARY ANOINTING THE FEET OF JESUS.
It is a solemn chapter, and is graced By one good action left upon record; That woman's pious deed, whose seeming waste By those around was thoughtlessly rleplor'd:— She who upon her Saviour's head ontpour'd The hox of ointment! doing "all she could," Against the hurial of her gracious Lord, And winning that pure flame which virtue should, From Him whose lips prouounc'd the work she wrought was good.
O! how that action, 'mid the chronicle Of darkest crimes, with which the chapter teems, Shines forth with lustre inexpressihle, Unearthly hrightness shedding from its heams: All uneclips'd its gentle glory seems By the dense clouds that wrap our lower sphere;
SAUL JOURNEYING TO DAMASCUS, &c,
We turn to it, from those more painful
themes, Iscariot's treachery, and Peter's fear, The priest's hypocrisy, the soldier's cruel
From such we turn to it,—as to a thing Gentle, compassionate, pure, holy, good! And the heart's hetter feelings as they cling Unto its memory, lead us as they should, To genuine virtue's most congenial mood; Not tanght hy speculative creeds,which draw The mind's attention from its heavenly food; We feel this trnth impressed with holy awe, That Lo v B is in itself, fulfilment of God's law.
SAUL JOURNEYING TO DAMASCUS. Acts ix. 1—0.
Whose is that sword—that voice and eye of
flame That heart of unextingoishahle ire? Who hears the dungeon-keys, and honds,
and fire? Along his dark and withering path he came— Death in his looks, and terror in his name, Tempting the might of heaven's Eternal Sire. Lo! Thr Lioht shone! the sun's veiled
heams expire— A Saviour's self a Saviour's lips proclaim! Whose is yon form, stretched on the earth's
cold hed, With smitten soul and tears of agony Mourning the past? Bowed is the lofty
head— Rayless the orhs that flashed with victory. Over the raging waves of human will The Saviour's spirit walked—and all was
DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM. Rom. si. 24, 26.
Fallen is thy throne, O Israel I Silence is on thy plains:
Thy dwellings all lie desolate;
Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee
On Etham's harren shore?
That fire from Heaven which led thee,
Now lights thy path no more!
Lord, thou didst love Jerusalem!
Then sank the star of Solyma;
"Go," saith the Lord, " ye conquerors!
"But soon shall other pictur' d scenes,
In hrighter visions rise,
When Zion's sun shall seven-fold shine
O'er all her mourner's eyes;
And on her heanteous mountain stand
The messenger of peace:
"Salvation hy the Lord's right hand!"
They shout and never cease!
THE DESTRUCTION OF BABYLON, &C.
My heart is happy in itself,
Enough, I reckon wealth;
That mean, the surest lot, That lies too high for hase contempt,
Too low for envy's shot.
My wishes are hut few,
All easy to falfil;
The hounds unto my will.
I feel no care for gold,
"Well-doing is my wealth; My mind to me an empire is,
While grace affordeth health.
Spare diet is my fare,
My clothes more fit than fine; I know, I feed, and clothe a foe,
That pamper'd, would repine.
No change of fortune's calm
When fortune smiles—I smile to think
And when, in angry mood,
She proved an angry foe,
Less loss, to let her go.
THE DESTRUCTION OF BABYLON. Rev. xiv. 8. xviii. 2—23.
SBEisfall'nt sheisfall'nl from the height of her glory I And lowly in ruin she lies :— No more shall her greatness he sounded in story— No more shall her praises arise.
One moment heheld her in hrightness and heauty Erecting her head undefied; 'Tis past—and the storm, in the zeal of its duty, Has hlasted the hloom of her pride.
In the red flames of vengeance her temples are hlazing,
The smoke of her torment ascends; The scythe of destruction her glory is razing,
And widely her ruin extends.
Bewailing and wonder, distraction and weeping, At once from her millions arise; While the hreath of Jehovah is suddenly sweeping Their fav'rite, their joy, from their eyes.
But shout, O ye heav'ns t with rapture and gladness, Your harps and your voices employ; And light, in the flames of her ruin and sadness, The torch that shall kindle your joy.
The flattering deceiver, the harlot of natious, So shameless, so wanton hefore,
Like a millstone has sunk, hy her own for nications:— Her glory shall dazzle no more.
THE RESTORATION OF ISRAEL. Rev. xxi. 3.
King of the dead, how long shall sweep
'Tis done! Has hreath'd thy trumpet hlast,
The form still mark'd with many a stain,—
Brand of the soil, the scourge, the chain;
The serf of Afric's fiery ground;
The slave hy Indian suns emhrown'd;
The weary drudges of the oar,
By the swart Arah's poison'd shore,
The gathering of earth's wildest tract,
On horsts the living cataract!
What strength of man can check its speed?
They come,—the Nation of the Freed;
Who leads their march? Beneath His wheel
Back rolls the sea, the mountains reel!
Before their tread His trump is hlown,
Who speaks in thunder and 'tis done'
King of the dead! O, not in vain,
Was thy long pilgrimage of pain;
O, not in vain arose thy prayer,
When presa'd the thorn thy temples hare;
O, not hi vain the voice that cried,
To spare thy madden'd homicide I
Even for this hoar thy heart's hlood stream'd,
They come! the Host of the Redeem'd!—
What flames upon the distant sky?
And now, as nearer speeds their march,
SENTIMENTAL AND PATHETIC.
THE PLEASURES OF SENSIBILITY.
For tho* in souls where taste and sense
Let not the vulgar read this pensive strain; Their jests the tender anguish would profane: Yet these some deem the happiest of their
kind, Whose low enjoyments never reach'd the
mind; Who ne'er a pain hut for themselves have
known, Nor ever felt a sorrow hut their own; Who call romantic every finer thought Conceiv'd hy pity, or hy friendship wrought, Ah! wherefore happy? where's the kindred
mind? Where the large soul that takes in human
Where the hest passions of the mortal hreast? Where the warm hlessing when another's
hlest? Where the soft lenitives of others' pain, The social sympathy, the sense humane? The sigh of rapture, and the tear of joy, Anguish that charms, and transports that
destroy? For tender Sorrow has her pleasures too; Pleasures which prosp'roua Dulness never
knew. She never knew, in all her coarser hliss, The sacred rapture of a pain like this! Nor think the cautious only are the just; Who never was deceiv'd I would not trust. Then take, ye happy vulgar! take your part Of sordid joy, which never touch'd the heart, Benevolence, which seldom stays to choose, Lest pausing Prudence teach her to refuse; Friendship which, once determin'd, never
swerves, Weighs ere it trusts, hut weighs not ere it
serves; And aoft-eyed Pity and Forgiveness hland, And melting Charity with open hand; And artless Love, helieving and heliev'd. And gen'rous Confidence which ne'er deceiv'd; And Mercy stretching out ere Want can
speak, To wipe the tear from pale Affliction's cheek These ye have never known !—then take
your part Of sordid joy, which never touch'd the