WHO HAD PRESENTED THE WRITER WITH AN ELEGANT SET OF COWPER'S POEMS.
WHEN Britain's sons to China's shore
A British monarch's presents bore,
Great was the glare and the parade
To Asiatic eyes display'd:
A precious box, of costly mould,
Beset with gems and deck'd with gold,
Held a long letter from the Court,
With proffers of a friendly sort;-
Of friendship such as courtiers give,
And well-bred statesmen well receive,
And with base coin of equal weight
Repay the glitt'ring counterfeit.
Ah! F, you and I can see
And pity insincerity,
Smile at the white-wash'd forms of state,
And all the treaty-breaking Great;
And for ourselves desire the part
Of conduct guided by the heart,—
The heart where Grace triumphant reigns,
And holds Hypocrisy in chains.
Though no rich casket did attend
The well-bound volumes of my friend,
Nor long epistle full of wind,—
(What else are words without the mind?)
Yet there was what no varnish'd cheat,
Nor painted guile, nor veil'd deceit,
gave; for what was said was meant ;
And half a gift is its intent.
What then remains?-A feeble lay
Would ill the generous gift repay,
But that the verse, though faint and weak,
Attempts the writer's heart to speak.
Go then, my song, and tell my friend,
That 'tis to thank him you intend;
Say, He that sent thee here, had nought
To give him that was worth a thought,
But, won by his well-meaning art,
Wrapt in a verse—HE SENT HIS HEART.
April 6, 1798.
WHO HAD PRESENTED THE WRITER WITH GUTHRIE'S
UNSKILL'D, with oily tongue, to make
Large compliments for fashion's sake,
And, with a deal of civil pother,
To say one thing and mean another,
The kind Triumvirate I'll tell
At once, I thank them-that 's as well.
For, had I canted o'er and o'er,
With compliments a dozen score,
Madam, I thank 'ee-Gentlemen,
I'm much obliged t' ee-and again
Vented the same dull hackney'd stuff
Till Fashion's self had cried-Enough;
Ye might, malgré votre bienséance,
Have wish'd my compliments in France.
'Tis a large volume:-can't I find
Some marrow here, to feed the mind?
For, as I think, it may be said,
There's meat and bones in all that's read;
But authors' minds are oft so narrow,
That readers must supply the marrow.
For instance, Guthrie's Grammar here:
The bones and meat will soon appear;
There's zenith, nadir, axis, arctic,
Tropic, ecliptic, and antarctic,
With latitude and longitude,
And of hard words a multitude.
Now these are bones:-but who will say,
I wish the bones out of the way ?
For these, though hard they seem at best,
Are the foundation of the rest.
Again, there's meat: 'tis hence we know What climes are clothed with endless snow; Where vertical the sun descends,
What lands his milder ray attends;
Where Luxury has fix'd her seat,
Where Industry and Peace retreat;
Where Liberty her blessings pours,
Where Commerce spreads her richest stores;
Where Tyranny enslaves the mind,
Where Bigots free-born conscience bind;
Where the mad Hero's bloody car
Bids nations mourn the scourge of war;
Where Afric's hapless children stand
Beneath their savage tasker's hand,
And from the sons of Britain rue
A bondage worse than Egypt knew.
Thus have I shown you bones and meat ;
One ye may pick, the other eat;
Firmness and strength the bones supply;
The flesh without them soon would die :
Each has its use, must be confest,
But still the marrow is the best.
Guthrie some marrow yields, I know,
But scarce enough of it, I trow,
When o'er the starry canopy
He glances observation's eye,
Struck with amaze, he turns the thought
To Him who all these glories wrought,
And, while he wonders at his laws,
Acknowledges the Great First Cause.
Give the astronomer his due:
He sets a pattern we 'll pursue.
We'll think of Him who clothes the earth,
And gives all Nature's beauties birth;
And as his glorious works amaze,
And dazzle, while on them we gaze,
We'll turn with pleasure to his word,
And learn to know and serve their Lord:
So shall each page in Nature's book
Instruct us, while thereon we look,
And all the works she spreads abroad
Shall fix our faith in Nature's God.
ADVANTAGES OF REAL CHRISTIANITY.
"O miseras hominum mentes! O pectora cæca!
"Qualibus in tenebris vitæ, quantisque periclis,
"Degitur hoc ævi quodcumque est !
AH! solemn hour, of more than Stygian gloom,
That leads the Sceptic to his awful tomb!
There is the darkness felt, when not a ray,
Save wrathful lightning, gleams upon the way;
The past all vanity constrain'd to own,
And all the future, a dread blank, unknown.
What was his state on earth?-To toil, to play,
To gather wealth, to drive dull care away,
To feel his soul by jarring passions torn,
Prosper'd, to sing, and discompos'd, to mourn;
Yet, mourning, only to this refuge brought,
To seek a vain relief in murdering thought;
Sin's willing drudge, the Tempter's ready slave,-
His hope to rot for ever in the grave.
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