He would prove by the sacred page, And by men of experience too, It had been so in every age, And continues so, even till now!
Until sin was expos'd to the light, In the glass of the Gospel was view'd, We could not enjoy true delight,- Till the heart had been chang'd and renew'd.
Nor need we now ask any more, Why a thing which so many pursue, And to gain will all things explore, Should be truly possess'd by so few.
In all earth's extensive domain, 'Midst all the sweet breezes that blow, In mountain, or forest, or plain, Where Eden like luxuries grow;-
Amid all the fair branches and free, Inviting their clusters to share, One tree, and only one tree, This heav'nly manna will bear.
That tree of celestial seed, By heav'nly culture doth rise;- That man from his sins might be freed, 'Twas sent as a gift from the skies!
But many the tree did deride, And oft of its fruit did complain, Since to gain it they often had tried, But return'd to their folly again!
They made it a matter of doubt, That it had been planted for them:- Repentance, and Faith were the root, And Holiness grew on the stem!
Some as they pass'd by gave a glance, Made remark on the wilderness bare; And affirm'd with eye all askance, No semblance of beauty was there.
Though to plant it the Saviour of men Hath sorrow'd, and suffer'd, and bled; And His Spirit pour'd out as a stream, Hath His heav'nly influence shed.
You see, when the secret is told, And the riddle's expounded to all, It was planted in Eden of old, But had been torn up by the fall!
So Christ hath in love to His church, Thus rear'd this plant of renown, To screen when the sun's rays might scorch, And to cheer when our spirits are down.
Whoe'er of its produce partakes, Whatever objections arise, Through the Cross, and the choice that he makes, Shall be holy, and happy, and wise!
Then we to His temple shall run, And worship with joy and delight; Our trials while under the sun, Will pass as a dream of the night!
THE PLAY!
On being solicited to attend a Theatre, by two young women, who urged their entreaties by the argument, "There is no harm in attending the Play!"
Ye daughters of Albion's flourishing isle, Come listen awhile to my lay; Defending your morals, you say with a smile, "There's no harm in attending the Play!"
Ye Theatre gallants, and deep witted men, Whose counsels so many obey, Come lend a poor ignorant rustic a pen, And he'll help you to plead for the Play!
If you are not immortal, but end when you die, As some have the courage to say, Why need you look out for a mansion on high, You've nothing to fear from the Play!
If you are immortal, yet free from the fall, And never have wander'd astray; If you have no sin to repent of at all, You've nothing to fear from the Play!
If Christ in His word, has left no command, For people to watch and to pray, If an house cannot fall that is built on the sand, There's no harm in attending the Play!
Not calling in question your baptismal vow, If life's like a long summer's day, And you have not to reap such fruit as ye sow, There's no harm in attending the Play!
If the Christian's creed from the truth be reverse, And the fair crown of life can decay; If the Bible be false, and Religion a farce, There's no harm in attending the Play!
Should a visit from Death come and put you in mind Of your frail habitation of clay, You may try to obstruct the unwelcome design, With the transient delights of the Play!
If a faithful reproof you should happen to meet, You can soon turn your faces away, And pass by the blind and the lame in the street, And carry your cash to the Play!
But if Parsons themselves so often attend, Then surely their followers may; And no wonder that they so well can defend, The moral effects of the Play.
If Wesley and Whitfield have pleaded in vain, And led their disciples astray; Let Simpson and Hervey in silence remain, You've nothing to fear from the Play.
If you of your time have to give no account, At the last, the great Judgment day, The troubles of life you may quickly surmount, By clapping them off at the Play.
If safe 'midst seduction and ruin you roam, You may laugh at the stoppers away, Who sit pining and pulling long faces at home, And are missing the joys of the Play.
Should the roof be crush'd in, and you kill'd we'll suppose, Why some angel would bear you away, To some distant region of milder repose, Where your spirit might dream of the Play.
Having no tribulation, no robe wash'd in blood, Nor tears that need wiping away, You might sing in those realms to the praise of your god, How oft you had been at the Play.
THE REMOTE CHRISTIAN.
Deep in a glen, remote and wild, And far from affluence, A cottage stood, and heaven smil'd, Upon that residence.
A couple liv'd there many years, In love and unity; Who careful in this vale of tears, Had rear'd a family.
No costly goods their cot adorn, No shining liveries wait; For them no huntsman sounds his horn, No carriage at the gate.
A simple, honest peasant, free, Not with much learning stored; Though thus remote, yet happily, Had sought and found the Lord.
Where neither moth nor rust can harm, Nor thieves can ere invade, Beyond the reach of human arm, Was his heart's treasure laid.
Around his farm, or in his field, The moor birds hatch'd and fed; And when at work, the lapwing cried, And flutter'd o'er his head.
While thus his little field he drain'd, Or temper'd the wild sod, His household too with care were train'd, To love and fear their God.
The field, the garden, and the tree, For him their produce bore, His table too, the bee supplied, From her delicious store.
The Lord who thus his substance blest, Did all his wants supply; And pleasantly to quench his thirst, A brook ran murmuring by.
I saw him on his dying bed, When strength began to fail, I saw him lift his languid head,- And heard his happy tale.
He then began to bless the day, His sins had been made known, When he began to weep and pray, And look'd to Christ alone.
He bless'd that Book his heart had cheer'd, And tried its worth to tell; He bles'd that Blood which once was shed, To save his soul from hell.
Yes! Christ to him was precious then, His company was sweet; He said, His love was in his heart, The world beneath his feet.
This, when the monster Death arriv'd, Did solid comfort bring; That blood he felt had quite depriv'd The monster of his sting.