O Thou by whom we come to God, A V.-A POOR WAYFARING MAN. 1826. POOR wayfaring man of griet Hath often cross'd me on my way, Once, when my scanty meal was spread, I gave him all; he bless'd it, brake, I spied him, where a fountain burst He heard it, saw it hurrying on: I ran to raise the sufferer up; Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup, Dipt, and returned it running o'er; I drank, and never thirsted more. 'Twas night; the floods were out; it blew A winter hurricane aloof; I heard his voice abroad, and flew To bid him welcome to my roof; I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest, Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death, Wine, oil, refreshment; he was healed; In prison I saw him next, condemned And honoured him midst shame and scorn ; My friendship's utmost zeal to try, He ask'd, if I for him would die ? The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill; But the free spirit cried, "I will.' Then in a moment to my view The stranger darted from disguise; My Saviour stood before mine eyes! VI.-THE FIELD OF THE WORLD. 1832. OW in the morn thy seed, Sow At eve hold not thine hand; To doubt and fear give thou no heed, Broad-cast it o'er the land. Beside all waters sow; The highway furrows stock; Drop it where thorns and thistles grow: Scatter it on the rock. The good, the fruitful ground, Expect not here nor there; O'er hill and dale, by plots, 'tis found: Thou know'st not which may thrive, Grace keeps the precious germs alive, When and wherever strown. And duly shall appear, In verdure, beauty, strength, Thou canst not toil in vain : Cold, heat, and moist, and dry, Thence, when the glorious end, The angel-reapers shall descend, And heaven cry-"Harvest home." THE GRAVE, 1804. JAMES MONTGOMERY, HERE is a calm for those who weep, The rest for weary pilgrims found, They softly lie and sweetly sleep The storm that wrecks the winter sky I long to lay this painful head For Misery stole me at my birth, On thy dear lap these limbs reclined Hark! a strange sound affrights mine ear; "The GRAVE, that never spake before, "Art thou a wretch of hope forlorn, "Do foul misdeeds of former times Wring with remorse thy guilty breast? Murder thy rest? "Lash'd by the furies of the mind, From Wrath and Vengeance wouldst thou flee? "By all the terrors of the tomb, By the dread secrets of my womb; "I charge thee, LIVE!-repent and pray; There yet is mercy ;-go thy way, "Art thou a Mourner ?-Hast thou known The joy of innocent delights, Endearing days for ever flown, And tranquil nights? "O LIVE!—and deeply cherish still |