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Bring each benighted soul, great God, to thee,
And with thy wide salvation make them free!

Hannah More.


There is a state serenely blest,
The vestibule of heavenly rest,
So calm, so bright, so pure, so fair,
Angels themselves might linger there.
'Tis not to soar where Newton soared,
To know all Bacon has explored,
Nor crowns and empires to obtain,
Nor India's gems and gold to gain.
To reach this clime so seldom trod,
Is simply to repose on God;
To cast those soul-consuming cares
On him who all creation bears,
Who rolls yon comet o'er the ball,
And gently guides the sparrow's fall
Him whom the soul can fully trust—
The succour of created dust.
It asks no more, but sweetly still
Meets bliss in all a father's will.

Should friends deceive, betray, depart,
Or wound with scorpion stings the heart,
'Tis but the voice of mercy's rod,
To bring or bind us to our God.



Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise;

We love the play-place of our early days;
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone
That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
The wall on which we tried our growing skill,
The very name we carved, subsisting still,
The bench on which we sat, while deep employed,
Tho' mangled—hacked—and hewed—yet not destroyed-
The little ones unbuttoned, glowing hot,
Playing our games, and on the very spot;
As happy as we once, to kneel and draw
The chalky rings, and knuckle down at taw;
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat,
Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat
The pleasing spectacle at once, excites,
Such recollection of our own delights;

That, viewing it, we seem almost t'obtain
Our innocent sweet simple years again.



In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my grief, and God has given my share—
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting my repose:
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And as a hare, whom hounds and horn pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return, and die at home at last.

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreat from care, that never must be mine!
How blest is he, who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease;

Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!



The summer winds sing lullaby

O'er Mary's little grave;

And the summer flowers spring tenderly,

O'er her their buds to wave;

For oh! her life was short and sweet,
As the flowers that blossom at her feet.

A little while the beauteous gem

Bloomed on the parent's breast;

Ah 1 then it withered on the stem,

And sought a deeper rest,

And we laid o'er her gentle frame the sod,
But we know that her spirit is gone to God.

The birds she loved so well to hear
Her parting requiem sing;
And her memory lives in the silent tear,
Which the heart to the eye will bring;

For her kind little feelings will ne'er be forgot
By those who have mourned—her early lot



'You are old, father William,' the young man cried,

'The few locks that are left you are grey;

'You are hale, father William, a hearty old man,

'Now tell me the reason, I pray?'

'In the days of my youth,' father William replied,
'I remembered that youth would fly fast;
'And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
'That I never might need them at last.'

'You are old, father William,' the young man cried,
'And pleasures with youth pass away;
'And yet you lament not the days that are gone,
'Now tell me the reason, I pray?'

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