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Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast,
.The worst suggested, she believes the best;
Not soon provoked, however stung and teased,
And if perhaps made angry, soon appeased;
She rather waives than will dispute her right,
And injured, makes forgiveness her delight.

Such was the portrait an apostle drew,
The bright original was one he knew,
Heaven held his hand, the likeness must be true.

When one that holds communion with the skies
Has filled his urn where these pure waters rise,
And once more mingles with us meaner things,
'Tis even as if an angel shook his wings;
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,1
That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.
So when a ship, well freighted with the stores
The sun matures on India's spicy shores,
Has dropt her anchor and her canvas furled,
In some sale haven of our western world,
'Twere vain inquiry to what port she went,
The gale informs us, laden with the scent.2

Some seek, when queasy conscience has its qualms,
To lull the painful malady with alms:
But charity not feigned intends alone
Another's good,—theirs centres in their own;
And too short-lived to reach the realms of peace,
Must cease for ever when the poor shall cease.
Flavia, most tender of her own good name,
Is rather careless of a sister's fame:
Her superfluity the poor supplies,
But if she touch a character, it dies.
The seeming virtue weighed against the vice,
She deems all safe, for she has paid the price;
No charity but alms aught values she,
Except in porcelain on her mantle-tree.
How many deeds on which the world has rung,
From pride in league with ignorance have sprung!
But God o'errules all human follies still,
And bends the tough materials to his will.
A conflagration or a wintry flood
Has left some hundreds without home or food,
Extravagance and avarice shall subscribe,
While fame and self-complacence are the bribe.
The brief proclaimed, it visits every pew,
But first the Squire's, a compliment but due;
With slow deliberation he unties

1 Like Maia's son he stood
And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance filled
The circuit wide.—Paradise Lost, v. 205.

2 gentle gales

Fanning their odoriferous wings dispense
Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole
Those balmy spoils. —Paradise Lest, iv. 156.

His ghttering purse, that envy of all eyes,
And while the clerk just puzzles out the psalm,
Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm;
Till finding, what he might have found before,
A smaller piece amidst the precious store,
Pinched close between his finger and his thumb,
He half exhibits, and then drops the sum.
(iold to be sure !—Throughout the town 'tis told,
How the good Squire gives never less than gold.
From motives such as his, though not the best,
Springs in due time supply for the distressed,
Not less effectual than what love bestows,
Except—that office clips it as it goes.

But lest I seem to sin against a friend,
And wound the grace I mean to recommend,
(Though vice derided with a just design
Implies no trespass against love divine,)
Once more I would adopt the graver style;
A teacher should be sparing of his smile.

Unless a love of virtue light the flame. Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame ", He hides behind a magisterial air His own offences, and strips others bare, Affects indeed a most humane concern, That men, if gently tutored, will not learn, That mulish folly, not to be reclaimed By softer methods, must be made ashamed,— But (I might instance in St. Patrick's dean) Too often rails to gratify his spleen. Most satirists are indeed a public scourge; Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge; Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirred, The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, By lean despair upon an empty purse, The wild assassins start into the street, Prepared to poignard whomsoe'er they meet. No skill in swordmanship however just, Can be secure against a madman's thrust; And even virtue, so unfairly matched, Although immortal, may be pricked or scratched. When scandal has new-minted an old lie, Or taxed invention for a fresh supply, 'Tis called a satire, and the world appears Gathering around it with erected ears; A thousand names are tossed into the crowd, Some whispered softly, and some twanged aloud, Just as the sapience of an author's brain Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain. Strange ! how the frequent interjected dash Quickens a market and helps off the trash; The important letters that include the rest

Serve as a key to those that are suppressed:
Conjecture grips the victims in his paw,
The world is charmed, and Scrib escapes the law.
So when the cold damp shades of night prevail,
Worms may be caught by either head or tail;
Forcibly drawn from many a close recess,
They meet with little pity, no redress;
Plunged in the stream they lodge upon the mud,
Food for the famished rovers of the flood.

All zeal for a reform that gives offence
To peace and charity, is mere pretence;
A bold remark, but which, if well applied,
Would humble many a towering poet's pride.
Perhaps the man was in a sportive fit,
And had no other play-place for his wit;
Perhaps, enchanted with the love of fame,
He sought the jewel in his neighbour's shame;
Perhaps—whatever end he might pursue,
The cause of virtue could not be his view.
At every stroke wit flashes in our eyes,
The turns are quick, the polished points surpr/se.
But shine with cruel and tremendous charms,
That while they please, possess us with alarms .
So have I seen, (and hastened to the sight
On all the wings of holiday delight,)
Where stands that monument of ancient power,
Named with emphatic dignity, the Tower,
Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and smaV.
In starry forms disposed upon the wall;
We wonder, as we gazing stand below,
That brass and steel should make so fine a show;
But though we praise the exact designer's skill,
Account them implements of mischief still.

No works shall find acceptance in that day
When all disguises shall be rent away,
That square not truly with the Scripture plan,
Nor spring from love to God, or love to man.
As he ordains things sordid in their birth,
To be resolved into their parent earth,
And though the soul shall seek superior orbs,
Whate'er this world produces, it absorbs:
So self starts nothing but what tends apace,
Home to the goal where it began the race.
Such as our motive is our aim must be,
If this be servile, that can ne'er be free;
If self employ us, whatsoe'er is wrought,
We glorify that self, not Him we ought:
Such virtues had need prove their own rewarJ,
The judge of all men owes them no regard.
True charity, a plant divinely nursed,
Fed by the love from which it rose at first,
Thrives against hope, and in the rudest scene

Storms but enliven its unfading green;

Exuberant is the shadow it supplies,

Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies.

To look at Him who formed us and redeemed,

So glorious now, though once so disesteemed,

To see a God stretch forth his human hand,

To uphold the boundless scenes of his command,—

To recollect that in a form like ours

He bruised beneath his feet the infernal powers,

Captivity led captive, rose to claim

The wreath he won so dearly in our name;

That throned above all height ■ he condescends

To call the few that trust in him his friends;

That in the heaven of heavens, that space he deems

Too scanty for the exertion of his beams,

And shines, as if impatient to bestow

Life and a kingdom upon worms below;

That sight imparts a never-dying flame,

Though feeble in degree, in kind the same.

Like Him the soul thus kindled from above

Spreads wide her arms of universal love,

And still enlarged as she receives the grace,

Includes creation in her close embrace.

Behold a Christian!—and without the fires

The founder of that name alone inspires,

Though all accomplishments, all knowledge meet,

To make the shining prodigy complete,

Whoever boasts that name—behold a cheat!

Were love, in these the world's last doting years, As frequent, as the want of it appears, The churches warmed, they would no longer hold Such frozen figures, stiff as they are cold; Relenting forms would lose their power or cease, And e'en the dipped and sprinkled, live in peace: Each heart would quit its prison in the breast, And flow in free communion with the rest. The statesman skilled in projects dark and deep, Might burn his useless Machiavel, and sleep; His budget often filled, yet always poor, Might swing at ease behind his study door, No longer prey upon our annual rents, Nor scare the nation with its big contents: Disbanded legions freely might depart, And slaying man would cease to be an art. No learned disputants would take the field, Sure not to conquer, and sure not to yield; Both sides deceived, if rightly understood, Pelting each other for the public good. Did charity prevail, the press would prove A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love; And I might spare myself the pains to show 1 Paradise Lost, iii/58.

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What few can learn, and all suppose they know.

Thus have I sought to grace a serious lay
With many a wild indeed but flowery spray,
In hopes to gain, what else I must have lost,
The attention pleasure has so much engrossed.
But if unhappily deceived I dream,
And prove too weak for so divine a theme,
Let charity forgive me a mistake
That zeal, not vanity, has chanced to make,
And spare the poet for his subject sake.

CONVERSATION.
Nam neque me tantum venientis sibilus austri,
Nee percussa juvant fluctu tarn Htora, nee qus
Saxosas inter decurrunt flumina valles.

Virg. Eel. 5.

Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense

To every man his modicum of sense,

And conversation in its better part

May be esteemed a gift and not an art,

Yet much depends, as in the tiller's toil,

On culture, and the sowing of the soil.

Words learned by rote a parrot may rehearse,

But talking is not always to converse,

Not more distinct from harmony divine

The constant creeking of a country sign,

As alphabets in ivory employ

Hour after hour the yet unlettered boy,

Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee

Those seeds of science called his ABC,

So language in the mouths of the adult,

Witness its insignificant result,

Too often proves an implement of play,

A toy to sport with and pass time away.

Collect at evening what the day brought forth,

Compress the sum into its solid worth,

And if it weigh the importance of a fly,

The scales are false, or algebra a lie.

Sacred interpreter of human thought,

How few respect or use thee as they ought!

But all shall give account of every wrong

Who dare dishonour or defile the tongue,

Who prostitute it in the cause of vice,

Or sell their glory at a market-price,

Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon,

The dear-bought placeman, and the cheap buffoon.

There is a prurience in the speech of some, Wrath stays him, or else God would strike them du"il>: His wise forbearance has their end in view, They fill their measure and receive their due. The heathen lawgivers of ancient days, Names almost worthy of a Christian praise.

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