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Can length of years on God himself exact?
Or make that fiction, which was once a fact?
No-marble and recording brass decay,
And like the graver's memory pass away;
The works of man inherit, as is just,
Their author's frailty, and return to dust;
But truth divine for ever stands secure,
Its head is guarded as its base is sure;
Fix'd in the rolling flood of endless years,
The pillar of the eternal plan appears,
The raving storm and dashing wave defies,
Built by that Architect who built the skies.
Hearts may be found, that harbour at this hour
That love of Christ, and all its quickening power;
And lips unstain'd by folly or by strife,
Whose wisdom, drawn from the deep well of life,
Tastes of its healthful origin, and flows
A Jordan for the ablution of our woes.
O days of Heaven and nights of equal praise,
Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days,
When souls drawn upwards in communion sweet,
Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat, .
Discourse, as if released and safe at home,
Of dangers past, and wonders yet to come,
And spread the sacred treasures of the breast
Upon the lap of covenanted Rest.

What, always dreaming over heavenly things,
Like angel heads in stone with pigeon wings?
Canting and whining out all day the word,
And half the night? fanatic and absurd!
Mine be the friend less frequent in his prayers,
Who makes no bustle with his soul's affairs,
Whose wit can brighten up a wintry day,
And chase the splenetic dull hours away;

Content on earth in earthly things to shine, Who waits for Heaven ere he becomes divine, Leaves saints to' enjoy those altitudes they teach, And plucks the fruit placed more within his reach.

Well spoken, Advocate of sin and shame, Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name. Is sparkling wit the world's exclusive right? The fix'd fee simple of the vain and light? Can hopes of Heaven, bright prospects of an hour, That come to waft us out of Sorrow's power, Obscure or quench a faculty, that finds Its happiest soil in the serenest minds? Religion curbs indeed its wanton play, And brings the trifler under rigorous sway, But gives it usefulness unknown before, And, purifying, makes it shine the more. A Christian's wit is inoffensive light, A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight; Vigorous in age as in the flush of youth, 'Tis always active on the side of truth; Temperance and peace insure its healthful state, And make it brightest at its latest date. Oh, I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain, Ere life go down, to see such sights again) A veteran warrior in the Christian field, Who never saw the sword he could not wield; Grave without dulness, learned without pride, Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen eyed; A man that would have foil'd at their own play A dozen would-be’s of the modern day; Who, when occasion justified its use, Had wit as bright as ready to produce, Could fetch from records of an earlier age, Or from philosophy's enlighten'd page,

His rich materials, and regale your ear
With strains it was a privilege to hear;
Yet above all his luxury supreme,
And his chief glory, was the Gospel theme;
There he was copious as old Greece or Rome,
His happy eloquence seem’d there at home,
Ambitious not to shine or to excel,
But to treat justly what he loved so well.

It moves me more perhaps than folly ought,
When some green heads, as void of wit as thought,
Suppose themselves monopolists of sense,
And wiser men's ability pretence.
Though time will wear us, and we must grow old,
Such men are not forgot as soon as cold,
Their fragrant memory will outlast their tomb,
Embalm’d for ever in its own perfume:
And to say truth, though in its early prime,
And when unstain'd with any grosser crime,
Youth has a sprightliness and fire to boast,
That in the valley of decline are lost,
And Virtue with peculiar charms appears,
Crown'd with the garland of life's blooming years;
Yet age, by long experience well inform’d,
Well read, well temper'd, with religion warm’d,
That fire abated, which impels rash youth,
Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth,
As time improves the grape's authentic juice,
Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use,
And claims a reverence in its shortening day,
That 'tis an honour and a joy to pay.
The fruits of age, less fair, are yet more sound
Than those a brighter season pours around;
And, like the stores antumnal suns mature,
Through wintry rigours unimpair'd endure,

But sage

What is fanatic frenzy, scorn'd so much, And dreaded more than a contagious touch? I grant it dangerous, and approve your fear, That fire is catching if you draw too near;

observers oft mistake the flame, And give true piety that odious name. To tremble (as the creature of an hour Ought at the view of an almighty power) Before his presence, at whose awful throne All tremble in all worlds, except our own, To supplicate his mercy, love his ways, And prize them above pleasure, wealth, or praise, Though common sense, allow'd a casting voice, And free from bias, must approve the choice, Convicts a man fanatic in the extreme, And wild as madness in the world's esteem. But that disease, when soberly defined, Is the false fire of an o'erheated mind; It views the truth with a distorted

eye, And either warps or lays it useless by: 'Tis narrow, selfish, arrogant, and draws Its sordid nourishment from man's applause; And while at heart sin unrelinquish'd lies, Presumes itself chief favourite of the skies. "Tis such a light as putrefaction breeds In fly blown flesh, whereon the maggot feeds, Shines in the dark, but, usher'd into day, The stench remains, the lustre dies away.

True bliss, if man may reach it, is composed Of hearts in union mutually disclosed; And, farewell else all hope of pure delight, Those hearts should be reclaim’d, renew'd, upright. Bad men, profaning friendship’s hallow'd name, Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame:

A dark confederacy against the laws
Of virtue, and religion's glorious cause:
They build each other up with dreadful skill,
As bastions set point blank against God's will;
Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt,
Deeply resolved to shut a Saviour out;
Call legions up from Hell to back the deed;
And, cursed with conquest, finally succeed.
But souls, that carry on a bless'd exchange
Of joys, they meet with in their heavenly range,
And with a fearless confidence make known
The sorrows sympathy esteems its own,
Daily derive increasing light and force
From such communion in their pleasant course,
Feel less the journey's roughness and its length,
Meet their opposers with united strength,
And, one in heart, in interest, and design,
Gird

up

each other to the race divine. But conversation, choose what theme we may, And chiefly when religion leads the way, Should flow, like waters after summer showers, Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers. The Christian, in whose soul, though now dis

tress'd,
Lives the dear thought of joys he once possessid,
When all his glowing language issued forth
With God's deep stamp upon its current worth,
Will speak without disguise, and must impart;
Sad as it is, his undissembling heart
Abhors constraint, and dares not feign a zeal,
Or seem to boast a fire he does not feel.
The
song

of Sion is a tasteless thing,
Unless, when rising on a joyful wing,
The soul can mix with the celestial bands,
And give the strain the compass it demands.

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