THY judgments, Lord, are just; thou lov'st to wear
The face of pity, and of love divine;

But mine is guilt-thou must not, can'st not, spare,
While Heaven is true, and equity is thine.

Yes, oh, my God!-such crimes as mine, so dread,
Leave but the choice of punishment to thee;
Thy interest calls for judgment on my head,
And even thy mercy dares not plead for me!
Thy will be done-since 'tis thy glory's due,

Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow;
Smite-it is time-though endless death ensue,

I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood,

That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning blood?

POEMS

OF A LATER DATE.

VOL. II.

I

TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS,

Who, when Henry reasoned with him calmly, asked,

"If he did not feel for him."

"Do I not feel!” The doubt is keen as steel.
Yea, I do feel-most exquisitely feel;

My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye
1 chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:
Deep buried there I close the rankling dart,
And smile the most when heaviest is my

heart.

On this I act-whatever pangs surround,
'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound.
When all was new, and life was in its spring,
I liv'd an unlov'd solitary thing;

Even then I learnt to bury deep from day,
The piercing cares that wore my youth away.
Even then I learnt for others' cares to feel,

Even then I wept I had not power to heal;

Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom,

I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's

doom.

Who were my friends in youth?—The midnight fire--

The silent moon-beam, or the starry choir;

To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight,

To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;