WHEN raging storms deform the air,
And clouds of snow descend;
And the wide landscape, bright and fair,
No deepen'd colours blend;
When biting frost rides on the wind,
Bleak from the north and east,
And wealth is at its ease reclin'd,
Prepar'd to laugh and feast;
When the poor trav'ller treads the plain, `.
All dubious of his way,
And crawls with night increasing pain
And dreads the parting day;
When poverty in vile attire,
Shrinks from the biting blast,
Or hovers o'er the pigmy fire,
And fears it will not last;
When the fond mother hugs her child
Still closer to her breast;
And the poor infant, frost beguil'd,'
Scarce feels that it is prest;-
Then let your bounteous hand extend
Its blessings to the poor;
Nor spurn the wretched while they bend
All suppliant at your door.
Acknowledgment of Divine Favours.
WHENE'ER I take my walks abroad,
How many poor I see !
What shall I render to my God,
For all his gifts to me!
Not more than others I deserve,
Yet God has given me more;
For I have food while others starve,
Or beg from door to door.
How many children in the street,
Half naked, I behold!
While I am cloth'd from head to feet,
And cover'd from the cold!
While some poor creatures scarce can tell
Where they may lay their head,
I have a home wherein to dwell,
And rest upon my bed.
While others early learn to swear,
And curse, and lie, and steal,
Lord! I am taught thy name to fear,
And do thy holy will.
Are these thy favours, day by day,
To me above the rest?
Then let me love thee more than they,
And try to serve thee best.
Gratitude to the Supreme Being.
How cheerful along the gay mead,
The daisy and cowslip appear;
The flocks, as they carelessly feed,
Rejoice in the spring of the year.
The myrtles that shade the gay bowers,
The herbage that springs from the sod,
Trees, plants, cooling fruits, and sweet flowers,
All rise to the praise of my God.
Shall man, the great master of all,
The only insensible prove?
Forbid it, fair Gratitude's call!
Forbid it, devotion and love!
The Lord, who such wonders could raise,
And still can destroy with a nod,
My lips shall incessantly praise.
My heart shall rejoice in my God.
FRIENDSHIP, peculiar boon of heav'n,
The noble mind's delight and pride,
To men and angels only giv'n,
To all the lower world denied.
While love, unknown among the blest,
Parent of thousand wild desires,
The savage and the human breast
Torments alike, with raging fires.
With bright, but oft destructive gleam,
Alike o'er all his lightnings fly,
The lambent glories only beam
Around the fav'rites of the sky.
Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys,
On fools and villains ne'er descend;
In vain for thee the tyrant sighs,
And hugs a flatt'rer for a friend.
Directress of the brave and just,
O guide us through life's darksome way;
And let the tortures of mistrust
On selfish bosoms only prey.
Nor shall thine ardours cease to glow,
When souls to peaceful climes remove:
What rais'd our virtue here below,
Shall aid our happiness above.
Compassion and Forgiveness.
I HEAR the voice of wo;
A brother mortal mourns:
My eyes with tears, for tears o'erflow;
My heart his sighs returns.
I hear the thirsty cry,
The famish'd beg for bread:
O let my spring its streams supply;
My hand its bounty shed.
And shall not wrath relent,
Touch'd by that humble strain,
My brother crying, "I repent,
Nor will offend again?"
How else, on sprightly wing,
Can Hope bear high my pray'r, Up to thy throne, my God, my King, To plead for pardon there?
Tenderness of Mind.
I HAVE found out a gift for my fair;
I have found where the wood pigeons breed;
But let me that plunder forbear!
She will say 'tis a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er can be true, she averr'd,
Who can rob a poor bird of its young;
And I lov'd her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
I have heard her with sweetness unfold,
How that pity was due to a dove;
That it ever attended the bold;
And she call'd it the sister of love.
How foolish they who lengthen night,
And slumber in the morning light!
How sweet, at early morning's rise,
To view the glories of the skies,
And mark with curious eye the sun
Prepare his radiant course to run!
Its fairest form then nature wears,
And clad in brightest green appears.
The sprightly lark, with artless lay,
Proclaims the entrance of the day.
How sweet to breathe the gale's perfume,
And feast the eyes with nature's bloom!
Along the dewy lawn to rove,
And hear the music of the grove!
Nor you, ye delicate and fair,
Neglect to taste the morning air;
This will your nerves with vigour brace,
Improve and heighten every grace;
Add to your breath a rich perfume;
And to your cheeks a fairer bloom;
With lustre teach your eyes to glow,
And health and cheerfulness bestow.
ALL in a garden, on a currant-bush,
Two Goldfinches had built their airy seat;
In the next orchard liv'd a friendly thrush,
Not distant far, a wood lark's soft retreat.
Here, blest with ease, and in each other blest,
With early songs they wak'd the neighb'ring groves
Till time matur'd their joy, and crown'd their nest,
With infant pledges of their faithful loves.
And now, what transport glow'd in either's eye!
What equal fondness dealt th' allotted food!
What joy each other's likeness to descry,
And future sonnets in the chirping brood!
But ah! what earthly happiness can last!
How does the fairest purpose often fail!
A truant schoolboy's wantonness could blast
Their flatt'ring hopes, and leave them both to wail.
The most ungentle of his tribe was he;
No gen'rous precept ever touch'd his heart: With concord false, and hideous prosody,
He scrawl'd his task, and blunder'd o'er his part.
On mischief bent, he mark'd with rav'nous eyes,
Where, wrapt in down, the callow songsters lay;
Then rushing, rudely seiz'd the glitt'ring prize,
And bore it in his impious hands away!
But how shall I describe in numbers rude,
The pangs for poor Chrysomitris decreed,
When from her secret stand, aghast she view'd
The cruel spoiler perpetrate the deed!
"O griet of griefs!" with shrieking voice she cried, "What sight in this that I have liv'd to see!
O! that I had in youth's fair season died,
From all false joys, and bitter sorrows free.
Was it for this, alas! with weary bill,
Was it for this I pois'd th' unwieldly straw; For this I bore the moss from yonder hill,
Nor shunn'd the pond'rous stick along to draw? Was it for this I pick'd the wool with care, Intent with nicer skill our work to crown; For this, with pain, I bent the stubborn hair, And lin'd our cradle with the thistle's down?
Was it for this my freedom I resign'd,
And ceas'd to rove at large from plain to plain; For this I sat at home whole days confin'd,
To bear the scorching heat and pealing rain?
Was it for this my watchful eyes grow dim?
For this the roses on my cheek turn pale?
Pale is my golden plumage, once so trim !
And all my wonted unirth and spirits fail!"
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