1. The G'uw-Worm.
2. The Jackdaw
3. The Cricket


The Nativity
God neither Known nor Love
The Swallow
The Triumph of Heavenly Lui
A Figurative Description of ti

Love, in bringing a Soul

renunciation and Absolute
A Child of God longing to see i
Aspirations of the Soul after G.
Gratitude and Love to God
Happy Solitude, Unhappy Men
Living Water
Truth and Divine Love rejected i
Divine Justice Amiable
The Soul that Loves God finds Ti
The Testimony of Divine Adoptii
Divine Love endures no Rival
The Acquiescence of Pure Love
Repose in God
Glory to God alone
Self-Love and Truth Incompatible
The Love of God the End of Lise
Love Faithful in the Absence of the
Love Pure and Fervent
The Entire Surrender .
The Perfect Sacrifice
God hides His People
The Secrets of Divine Love are to li
The Vicissitudes experienced in the
Watching unto God in the Night Sei
On the Sam';
On the Same
The Joy of the Cross
Joy in Martyrdom
Simple Trust
The Necessity of Self-Abasement
Love increased by Suffering

Scenes favourable to Meditation TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE

The Thracian
Reciprocal Kindness the Primary Lau
A Manual, more ancient than the A

and not to be found in any Catal:

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To call up plenty from the teeming earth,
Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth ?
Is it that Adam's offspring may be saved
From servile fear, or be the more enslaved ?
To loose the links that galled mankind before,
Or bind them faster on, and add still more ?
The free-born 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.
Shall he for such deliverance freely wrought
Recompense ill? He trembles at the thought :
His master's interest and his own combined,
Prompt every 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 ,
Reduce his wages, or get rid of her,
Tom quits you, with, your most obedient, Sir. —

The dinner served, 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 interest 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 heaven approves as honest and sincere,
The work of generous love and filial fear ;
But with averted eyes the omniscient judge
Scorns the base hireling and the slavish drudge.

Where dwell these matchless saints? old Curio cries;
Even at your side, Sir, and besore your eyes,
The favoured few, the enthusiasts you despise ;
And pleased at heart because on holy ground

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Reformed and well instructed ? You shall hear.

Yon ancient prude, whose withered features show
She might be young some forty years ago,
Her elbows pinioned close upon her hips,
Her head erect, her fan upon her lips,
Her eyebrows arched, her eyes both gone astray
To watch yon amorous couple in their play,
With bony and unkerchiefed neck defies
The rude inclemency of wintry skies,
And sails with lappet-head and mincing airs
Duly at clink of bell, to morning prayers.
To thrift and parsimony much inclined,
She yet allows herself that boy behind ;
The shivering urchin, bending as he goes,
With slipshod heels, and dew-drop at his nose,
His predecessor's coat advanced to wear,
Which future pages are yet doomed to share ;
Carries her Bible? tucked 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,
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 spanned her waist, and who, where'er he came,
Scrawled upon glass Miss Bridget's lovely name,
Who stole her slipper, filled it with tokay,
And drank the little bumper every day.
Of temper as envenomed as an asp,
Censorious, and her every word a wasp,
In faithful memory she records the crimes
Or real, or fictitious, of the times,
Laughs at the reputations she has torn,
And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn.

Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride,
Of malice fed while flesh is mortified.
Take, madam, the reward of all your prayers,
Where hermits and where Brahmins meet with theirs !
Your portion is with them : nay, never frown,
But, if you please, some fathoms lower down.

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 other's woes, but smiles upon her own.

What purpose has the King of saints in view ? Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew? 1 These lines arc evidently formed upon Hogarth’s print of Mokrning.

They never sin, -or if (as all offend)
Some trivial slips their daily walk attend,
The poor are near at hand, the charge is small,
A slight gratuity atones for all.
For though the Pope has lost his interest here,
And pardons are not sold as once they were,
No papist more desirous to compound,
Than some grave sinners upon English ground :
That plea refuted, other quirks they seek,
Mercy is infinite and man is weak,
The future shall obliterate the past,
And heaven no doubt shall be their hone at last.

Come then, -a still small whisper in your ear,
He has no hope that never had a fear ;
And he that never doubted of his state,
He may perhaps—perhaps he may—too late.

The path to bliss abounds with many a snare,
Learning is one, and wit, however rare:
The Frenchman first in literary fame,
(Mention him if you please, - Voltaire ? the same)
With spirit, genius, eloquence supplied,
Lived long, wrote much, laughed heartily, and died:
The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew
Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew:
An infidel in health, but what when sick ?
Oh, then a text would touch him at the quick:
View him at Paris in his last career,
Surrounding throngs the demigod revere,
Exalted on his pedestal of pride,
And fumed with frankincense on every side,
He begs their flattery with his latest breath,
And smothered in't at last, is praised to death.
Yon cottager who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store,
Content though mean, and cheerful, if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the live-long day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding and no wit,
Receives no praise, but (though her lot be such,
Toilsome and indigent) she renders much ;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew,
And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

O happy peasant ! O unhappy bard !
His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward ;
He praised perhaps for ages yet to come,
She never heard of half a mile from home ;
He lost in errors his vain heart prefers,
She safe in the simplicity of hers.

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