Oh then the din, the deafening din,

Of plates, cans, crockery, spoons and knives, And waiters running out and in;

We might be eating for our lives.

Such feasting I had never seen,

So presently had got enough;

The rest, like fox-hounds, stanch and keen,
Were made of more devouring stuff.

They cramm'd like cormorants their claws,
As though they never would have done;
It was a feast to watch their jaws

Grind, and grow weary, one by one.
But there's an end to every thing;
And this grave dinner pass'd away,
I wonder if great George our king
Has such a dinner every day.

Grace after meat again was said,
And my good feelings sprang anew,
But at the sight of gingerbread,

Wine, nuts, and oranges, they flew.

So while we took a turn with these,
Almost forgetting we had dined;

As though we might do what we please,
We loll'd, and joked, and told our mind.

Now I had time, if not before,

To take a peep at every lad;
I counted them to twenty-four,
Each in his Easter-finery clad.

All wash'd and clean as clean could be,
And yet so dingy, marr'd, and grim,
A mole with half an eye might see
Our craft in every look and limb.

All shapes but straight ones you might find,
As sapling-firs on the high moors,

Black, stunted, crook'd, through which the wind,
Like a wild bull, all winter roars.

Two toddling five-year olds were there,
Twins, that had just begun to climb,
With cherry-cheeks, and curly hair,

And skins not yet engrain'd with grime.

I wish'd, I did, that they might die,

Like "Babes i' th' Wood," the little slaves, And "Robin redbreast" painfully

Hide them "with leaves," for want of

Rather than live, like me, and weep

graves;

To think that ever they were born;
Toil the long day, and from short sleep
Wake to fresh miseries every morn.
Gay as young goldfinches in spring,
They chirp'd and peck'd, top-full of joy,
As if it was some mighty thing
To be a chimney-sweeper's boy.

And so it is, on such a day

As welcome Easter brings us here, -In London, too, the first of May,— But oh, what is it all the year!

Close at a Quaker-lady's side,

Sate a young girl;-I know not how
I felt when me askance she eyed,
And a quick blush flew o'er her brow.

For then, just then, I caught a face

Fair, but I oft had seen it black, And mark'd the owner's tottering pace Beneath a vile two-bushel sack.

Oh! had I known it was a lass,

Could I have scorn'd her with her load? -Next time we meet, she shall not pass

Without a lift along the road.

Her mother,―mother but in name !
Brought her to-day to dine with us:
Her father, she's his 'prentice :-shame
On both, to use their daughter thus!

Well, I shall grow, and she will grow
Older, it may be taller,-yet;

And if she'll smile on me, I know

Poor Poll shall be poor Reuben's pet.

Time, on his two unequal legs,

Kept crawling round the church-clock's face, Though none could see him shift his pegs, Each was for ever changing place.

Oh, why are pleasant hours so short?
And why are wretched ones so long?
They fly like swallows when we sport,
They stand like mules when all goes wrong.

Before we parted, one kind friend,

And then another, talk'd so free; They went from table-end to end,

And spoke to each, and spoke to me.

Books, pretty books, with pictures in,
Were given to those who learn to read,
Which show'd them how to flee from sin,
And to be happy boys indeed.

These climbers go to Sunday-schools,
And hear what things to do or shun,

Get good advice, and golden rules

For all their lives, but I'm not one.

Nathless I'll go next Sabbath day

Where masters, without thrashing, teach
Lost children how to read, and pray,
And sing, and hear the parsons preach.

For I'm this day determined-not
With bad companions to grow old,

But, weal or wo, whate'er my lot,

To mind what our good friends have told.
They told us things I never knew

Of Him who heaven and earth did make;
And my heart felt their words were true,
It burn'd within me while they spake.

Can I forget that God is love,

And sent his son to dwell on earth?
Or that our Saviour from above
Lay in a manger at his birth,—

Grew in humble poverty,

up

A life of grief and sorrow led?
No home to comfort Him had He;
No, not a place to lay his head.

Yet He was merciful and kind,

Heal'd with a touch all sort of harms;
The sick, the lame, the deaf, the blind;
And took young children in his arms.
Then He was kill'd by wicked men,
And buried in a deep stone cave;
But of Himself He rose again,

On Easter-Sunday, from the grave.
Caught up in clouds,-at God's right hand,
In heaven He took the highest place;
There dying Stephen saw him stand,
-Stephen, who had an angel's face.
He loves the poor, He always did;
The little ones are still his care;
I'll seek Him,-let who will forbid,―
I'll go to Him this night in prayer.
Oh, soundly, soundly should I sleep,

And think no more of sufferings past,
If God would only bless, and keep,

And make me his, his own, at last.
Sheffield, March, 1834.

VOL. II.

SONGS OF ZION,

BEING

IMITATIONS OF THE PSALMS.

In the following imitations of portions of the true "Songs of Zion," the author pretends not to have succeeded better than any that have gone before him; but, having followed in the track of none, he would venture to hope, that, by avoiding the rugged literality of some, and the diffusive paraphrases of others, he may, in a few instances, have approached nearer than either of them have generally done to the ideal model of what devotional poems, in a modern tongue, grounded upon the subjects of ancient psalms, yet suited for Christian edification, ought to be. Beyond this he dare not say more than that, whatever symptoms of feebleness or bad taste may be betrayed in the execution of these pieces, he offers not to the public the premature fruits of idleness or haste. So far as he recollects, he has endeavoured to do his best, and, in doing so, he has never hesitated to sacrifice ambitious ornament to simplicity, clearness, and force of thought and expression. If, in the event, it shall be found that he has added a little to the small national stock of "psalms and hymns, and spiritual songs," in which piety speaks the language of poetry, and poetry the language of inspiration, he trusts that he will be humbly contented and unfeignedly thankful.

Sheffield, May 21, 1822.

PSALM I.

THRICE happy he, who shuns the way
That leads ungodly men astray;

Who fears to stand where sinners meet,
Nor with the scorner takes his seat.

The law of God is his delight;
That cloud by day, that fire by night,
Shall be his comfort in distress,

And guide him through the wilderness.