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Exalted on his pedestal of pride,
And fumed with frankincense on every side,
He begs their flattery with his latest breath,
And smothered in't at last, is praised to death.

Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store; ;
Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night'
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit,
Receives no praise; but though her lot be such,
(Toilsome and indigent) she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true-
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;
And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

Oh happy peasant! Oh unhappy bard! His the mere tinsel, her's the rich reward; He praised perhaps for ages yet to come, She never heard of half a mile from home:

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He lost in 'errors his vain heart prefers,
She safe in the simplicity of her’s.

Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound
In science, win one inch of heavenly ground
And is it not a mortifying thought
The poor should gain it, and the rich should not?
No—the voluptuaries, who never forget
One pleasure lost, lose heaven without regret;
Regret would rouse them, and give birth to prayer,
Prayer would add faith, and faith would fix them

there. Not that the Former of us all in this, Or aught he does, is governed by caprice; The supposition is replete with sin, And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in. Not so--the silver trumpet's heavenly call Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all: Kings are invited, and would kings obey, No slaves on earth more welcome were than

they: But royalty, nobility, and state, Are such a dead preponderating weight,

That endless bliss (how strange soever it seem);
In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam. :
'Tis open, and ye cannot enter-why? ''.
Because ye will not, Conyers would reply-
And he says much that many may dispute
And cavil at with ease, but none refute.
Oh blessed effect of penury and want,
The seed sown there, how vigorous is the plant !
No soil like poverty for growth divine,
As leanest land supplies the richest wine.
Earth gives too little, giving only bread,
To nourish pride, or turn the weakest head:

To them the sounding jargon of the schools ; . Seems what it is a cap and bell for fools: si

The light they walk by, kindled from above, ..
Shows them the shortest way to life and love:
They, strangers to the controversial field,
Where deists, always foiled, yet scorn to yield,
And never checked by what impedes the wise,
Believe, rush forward, and possess the prize. .

Envy, ye great, the dull unlettered small: ',
Ye have much cause for envy-but not all.

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We bcast some rich ones whom the gospel sways,
And one who wears a coronet and prays;
Like gleanings of an olive-tree they show, . .
Here and there one upon the topmost bough.

How readily upon the gospel plan,
That question has its answer-What is man?
Sinful and weak, in every sense a wretch;
An instrument, whose chords upon the stretch,
And strained to the last screw that he can bear,
Yield only discord in his Maker's ear:
Once the blest residence of truth divine,
Glorious as Solyma's interior shrine,
Where, in his own oracular abode,
Dwelt visibly the light-creating God; .
But made long since, like Babylon of old,
A den of mischiefs never to be told:
And she, once mistress of the realms around,
Now scattered wide, and no where to be found
As soon shall rise and re-ascend the throne,
By native power and energy her own, .
As nature at her own peculiar cost,
Restore to man the glories he has lost. . in

Go-bid the winter cease to chill the year, i
Replace the wandering comet in his sphere,
Then boast (but wait for that unhoped-for hour)
The self-restoring arm of buman power.
But what is man in his own proud esteem?
Hear him-himself the poet and the theme:
A monarch clothed with majesty and awe,
His mind his kingdom, and his will his law,
Grace in his mien, and glory in his eyes,
Supreme on earth, and worthy of the skies,
Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod,
And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God!

Sosings he,charmed with his own mind and form,
The song magnificent--the theme a worm!
Himself so much the source of his delight,
His Maker has no beauty in his sight.
See where he sits contemplative and fixt,
Pleasure and wonder in his features mixt:
His passions tamed and all at his controul,
How perfect the composure of his soul! !
Complacency has breathed a gentle gale
Over all his thoughts, and swelled his easy sail :

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