An amorous old Woman,

Yon ancient prude, whose wither'd features show She might be young some forty years ago, Her elbows pinion'd close upon her hips,

Her head erect, her fan upon her lips,

Her eye-brows arch'd, her eyes both gone astray
To watch yon am'rous couple in their play,
With bony and unkerchief'd neck, defies
The rude inclemency of wintry skies.
And sails, with lappet head and mincing airs,
Duly, at clink of bell, to morning pray'rs.
To thrift and parsimony much inclin❜d,
She yet allows herself that boy behind.

The shiv'ring urchin, bending as he goes,
With slip-shod heels, and dew-drop at his nose;
His predecessor's coat advanc'd to wear,

Which future pages yet are doom'd to share:
Carries her bible, tuck'd beneath his arm,

And hides his hands, to keep his fingers warm.
She, half an angel in her own account,

Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount,

Pious, vain, and hypocritical.

Though not a grace appears, on strictest search,
But that she fasts, and, item, goes to church.
Conscious of age, she recollects her youth,
And tells, not always with an eye to truth,

Who spann'd her waist, and who, where'er he came,
Scrawl'd upon glass miss Bridget's lovely name;

Who stole her slipper, fill'd it with tokay,
And drank the little bumper ev'ry day.

Of temper as envenom'd as an asp;
Censorious, and her every word a wasp;

In faithful mem'ry she records the crimes,
Or real, or fictitious, of the times;

Laughs at the reputations she has torn,

And holds them, dangling at arms length, in scorn. Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride,

Of malice fed while flesh is mortified:

Take, Madam, the reward of all your pray'rs,

I

Where hermits and where bramins meet with theirs; Your portion is with them.-Nay, never frown;

But, if you please, some fathoms lower down.

No Slavery in Christianity.

Artist, attend! your brushes and your paint-
Produce them—take a chair-now draw a saint.
Oh, sorrowful and sad! the streaming tears
Channel her cheeks-a Niobe appears!
Is this a saint? Throw tints and all away-
True piety is cheerful as the day;
Will weep, indeed, and heave a pitying groan,
For others' woes, but smiles upon her own.

What purpose has the King of saints in view?
Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew?
To call up plenty from the teeming earth,
Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth?
Is it that Adam's offspring may be sav'd
From servile fear, or be the more enslav'd?
To loose the links that gall'd mankind before,
Or bind them faster on, and add still more?
The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove;
Or, if a chain, the golden one of love:
No fear attends to quench his glowing fires,
What fear he feels his gratitude inspires.

An artful and worthless Servant.

Shall he for such deliv'rance, freely wrought,
Recompense ill? He trembles at the thought.
His Master's int'rest and his own combin'd,
Prompt ev'ry movement of his heart and mind:
Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince;
His freedom is the freedom of a prince.

Man's obligations infinite, of course

His life should prove that he perceives their force; His utmost he can render is but small

The principle and motive all in all.

You have two servants-Tom, an arch, sly rogue,

From top to toe the geta now in vogue,

Genteel in figure, easy in address,

Moves without noise, and swift as an express,

Reports a message with a pleasing grace,

Expert in all the duties of his place ::

Say, on what hinge does his obedience move?
Has he a world of gratitude and love?

No, not a spark-'tis all mere sharper's play;

He likes your house, your housemaid, and your pay;

An observant and grateful Servant.

Reduce his wages, or get rid of her,

Tom quits you, with-Your most obedient, Sir.
The dinner serv'd, Charles takes his usual stand,
Watches your eye, anticipates command;
Sighs, if perhaps your appetite should fail;
And, if he but suspects a frown, turns pale;
Consults all day your int'rest and your ease,
Richly rewarded if he can but please;

And, proud to make his firm attachment known,
To save your life would nobly risk his own.

Now which stands highest in your serious thought?

Charles, without doubt, say you-and so he ought ; One act, that from a thankful heart proceeds, Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds.

Thus heav'n approves, as honest and sincere, The work of gen'rous love and filial fear; But, with averted eyes, the omniscient Judge Scorns the base hireling, and the slavish drudge.