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They spake of him they lov'd, of him whose life,
Though blameless, had incurr'd perpetual strife,
Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts,
A deep memorial graven on their hearts.
The recollection, like a vein of ore,

The farther trac'd, enrich'd them still the more;
They thought him, and they justly thought him, one
Sent to do more than he appear'd t' have done;
T'exalt a people, and to place them high
Above all else, and wonder'd he should die.
Ere yet they brought their journey to an end,
A stranger join'd them, courteous as a friend,
And ask'd them with a kind engaging air
What their affliction was, and begg'd a share.
Inform'd, he gather'd up the broken thread,
And, truth and wisdom gracing all he said,
Explain'd, illustrated, and search'd so well
The tender theme, on which they chose to dwell,
That reaching home, the night, they said, is near,
We must not now be parted, sojourn here--
The new acquaintance soon became a guest,
And, made so welcome at their simple feast,
He bless'd the bread, but vanish'd at the word,
And left them both exclaiming, 'Twas the Lord!

Did not our hearts feel all he deign'd to say, Did they not burn within us by the way?

Now theirs was converse, such as it behoves Man to maintain, and such as God approves: Their views indeed were indistinct and dim, But yet successful, being aim'd at him. Christ and his character their only scope, Their object, and their subject, and their hope, They felt what it became them much to feel, And, wanting him to loose the sacred seal, Found him as prompt, as their desire was true, To spread the newborn glories in their view. Well-what are ages and the lapse of time Match'd against truths, as lasting as sublime? Can length of years on God himself exact? Or make that fiction, which was once a fact? No-marble and recording brass decay, And like the graver's mem❜ry pass away; The works of man inherit, as is just, Their author's frailty, and return to dust: But truth divine for ever stands secure, It's head is guarded as it's base is sure; Fix'd in the rolling flood of endless years, The pillar of th' eternal plan appears,

The raving storm and dashing wave defies,
Built by that architect, who built the skies.
Hearts may be found, that harbour at this hour
That love of Christ, and all it's quick'ning pow'r;
And lips unstain'd by folly or by strife,

Whose wisdom, drawn from the deep well of life,
Tastes of it's healthful origin, and flows
A Jordan for th' ablution of our woes.

O days of Heav'n, and nights of equal praise,
Serene and peaceful as those heav'nly days,
When souls drawn upwards in communion sweet
Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat,
Discourse, as if releas'd and safe at home,
Of dangers past, and wonders yet to come,
And spread the sacred treasures of the breast
Upon the lap of covenanted Rest.

What, always dreaming over heav'nly things,
Like angel-heads in stone with pigeon-wings?
Canting and whining out all day the word,
And half the night? fanatic and absurd!
Mine be the friend less frequent in his pray'rs,
Who makes no bustle with his soul's affairs,
Whose wit can brighten up a wintry day,
And chase the splenetic dull hours away;

Content on Earth in earthly things to shine,
Who waits for Heav'n ere he becomes divine,
Leaves saints t' enjoy those altitudes they teach,
And plucks the fruit plac'd more within his reach.
Well spoken, Advocate of sin and shame,
Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name.
Is sparkling wit the World's exclusive right?
The fix'd fee-simple of the vain and light?
Can hopes of Heav'n, bright prospects of an hour,
That come to waft us out of Sorrow's pow'r,
Obscure or quench a faculty, that finds
It's happiest soil in the serenest minds?
Religion curbs indeed it's wanton play,
And brings the trifler under rig'rous sway,
But gives it usefulness unknown before,
And, purifying, makes it shine the more.
A Christian's wit is inoffensive light,

A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight;
Vig'rous in age as in the flush of youth,
"Tis always active on the side of truth;
Temp'rance and peace insure it's healthful state,
And make it brightest at it's latest date.
Oh I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain,

Ere life go down, to see such sights again)

A vet'ran warrior in the Christian field,

Who never saw the sword he could not wield;
Grave without dulness, learned without pride,
Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-ey'd;
A man that would have foil'd at their own play
A dozen would-bes of the present day;
Who, when occasion justified it's use,
Had wit as bright as ready to produce,
Could fetch from records of an earlier
Or from philosophy's enlighten'd page,
His rich materials, and regale your ear
With strains it was a privilege to hear:
Yet above all his luxury supreme,

age,

And his chief glory, was the Gospel theme;
There he was copious as old Greece or Rome,
His happy eloquence seem'd there at home,
Ambitious not to shine or to excel,

But to treat justly what he lov'd so well.

It moves me more perhaps than folly ought, When some green heads, as void of wit as thought, Suppose themselves monopolists of sense,

And wiser men's ability pretence.

Though time will wear us, and we must grow old, Such men are not forgot as soon as cold,

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