And thus unto the youth she said, told That drove them to the Bell,

This shall be yours, when you bring backd My husband safe and well.

The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain;

Whom in a trice he tried to stop,
By catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went postboy at his heels,
The postboy's horse right glad to miss
The lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road,
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With postboy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry :-

Stop thief! stop thief!-a highwayman
Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that passed that way
Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.

512

EPISTLE TO A LADY IN FRANCE.

And so he did, and won it too, n work we slida Ci

Nor stopped till where he had gotupr

He did again get down.

Now let us sing, Long live the king,
And Gilpin long live he;

And, when he next doth ride abroad,

May I be there to see!

AN EPISTLE.

TO AN AFFLICTED PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.

MADAM,

A STRANGER'S purpose in these lays
Is to congratulate, and not to praise.
To give the creature the Creator's due
Were sin in me, and an offence to you.
From man to man, or e'en to woman paid,
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,
A coin by craft for folly's use designed,
Spurious, and only current with the blind.

The path of sorrow, and that path alone,
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown:
No trav'ller ever reached that blest abode,
Who found not thorns and briers in his road.
The World may dance along the flowery plain,
Cheered as they go by many a sprightly strain,
Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread
With unshod feet they yet securely tread,
Admonished, scorn the caution and the friend,
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end.

But He, who knew what human hearts would prove,
How slow to learn the dictates of his love,

That, hard by nature, and of stubborn will,
A life of ease would make them harder still,
In pity to the souls his grace designed
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Called for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said, "Go, spend them in the vale of tears."
O balmy gales of soul-reviving air!
O salutary streams that murmur there!
These flowing from the fount of grace above,
Those breathed from lips of everlasting love.
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys;
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys;
An envious world will interpose its frown,
To mar delights superior to its own;
And many a pang, experienced still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, Sin;
But ills of every shape and every name,

Transformed to blessings, miss their cruel aim;
And every moment's calm that soothes the breast.
Is given in earnest of eternal rest.

Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast

Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste!
No shepherds' tents within thy view appear,
But the chief Shepherd even there is near;
Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain
Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain;
Thy tears all issue from a source divine,
And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine-
So once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found,
And drought on all the drooping herbs around.

UNWIN, I should but ill repay
The kindness of a friend,

Whose worth deserves as warm a lay

As ever friendship penned, Thy name omitted in a page,

That would reclaim a vicious age.

A union formed, as mine with thee,
Not rashly, or in sport.
May be as fervent in degree,

And faithful in its sort,

And may as rich in comfort prove,
As that of true fraternal love

The bud inserted in the rind,
The bud of peach or rose,
Adorns, though differing in its kind,
The stock whereon it grows,
With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair,
As if produced by Nature there.

Not rich, I render what I may,
I seize thy name in haste,
And place it in this first essay,

Lest this should prove the last.
'Tis where it should be in a plan,
That holds in view the good of man.

The poet's lyre, to fix nis fame,
Should be the poet's heart;
A ffection lights a brighter flame
Than ever blazed by art.
No muses on these lines attend,
I sink the poet in the friend.

AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, Esq.

DEAR JOSEPH-five and twenty years ago-
Alas how time escapes! -'tis even so-
With frequent intercourse, and always sweet,
And always friendly, we were wont to cheat
A tedious hour-and now we never meet!
As some grave gentleman in Terence says,
('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days,)
Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings-
Strange fluctuation of all human things!
True. Changes will befall, and friends may part,
But distance only cannot change the heart:
And, were I called to prove the assertion true,
One proof should serve a reference to you.

Whence comes it then, that in the wane of life,
Though nothing have occurred to kindle strife,
We find the friends we fancied we had won,
Though numerous once, reduced to few or none?
Can gold grow worthless that has stood the touch?
No; gold they seemed, but they were never such.
Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe,

Swinging the parlour-door upon its hinge,
Dreading a negative and overawed

Lest he should tresspass, begged to go abroad.