Then seeing all my earthly joys are fled, Where, O my soul! art thou for succour led?
'Tis Jesus, that can all thy wants supply, A fountain 's there which never will run dry: Arabia's grove, nor Sharon's flowery field, Such rich perfume, such holy incense yield: 'Tis Jesus' merit, and his dying love, 'Tis these perfume the glorious courts above!
FOOTNOTES:
[B] The Mill was built by Mr. Ord.
[C] Mrs. Moon, landlady of the Public House, who died during the Author's absence.
OLD SAM!
OR
THE EFFECTS OF THE GOSPEL.
Attend, all ye who Zion's tidings love, Whose hearts and hopes are fix'd on things above, Whose chief delight is centred in the fame, Of signs and wonders wrought through Jesus' name;- All ye who virtue love, and evil hate, Attend, while I a simple tale relate.
A preacher being to a village sent, To warn and woo the people to repent; Depending only on God's mighty grace, His pious soul was looking for success.
For God, his people had a house prepared, In which his arm had many times been bared, And in that little village congregation, Were found some earnest seekers of salvation.
Among the rest a noted Bruiser stood, Whose hands had oft been stain'd with human blood; A man of constitution so robust, He oft had laid Goliaths in the dust.
He fully on the preacher fix'd his eye, But scarcely could declare the reason why; The subject, and the theme on which he dwelt, Caught his attention, and its force he felt.
He thought the preacher all his actions knew, His words, like arrows, pierc'd his conscience through; His spirits fell, his heart was sick and sore, Such anguish he had never felt before.
It seem'd to him as if an angel spoke, He felt within as if his heart was broke, He thought he heard mount Sinai's thunder roll, Which shook the very centre of his soul!
Such mighty strokes soon humbled all his pride, He sank condemn'd, and loud for mercy cried.
"What shall I do?" said he, "Nay, who can tell?
Oh! how shall I escape the pit of Hell?"
On bended knees he did salvation seek, Big tears roll'd down his long undaunted cheek:- The people pray'd, the sinner wept the more,- This man, who till that hour, ne'er wept before.
After a time his mighty anguish ceas'd, The Lord of life his captive soul releas'd!
The joy he felt he scarcely could contain, The people sung-"a sinner's born again!"
Some time elaps'd-two of his mates had met, As custom was, and in a tavern sat, Conversing on events that daily pass'd, Till one the other thus address'd at last.
"Heard you not what occurred the other day?
Old Sam has been converted, people say!"
"Old Sam!" the other says, with great surprise, "What Sam, the Boxer?" "Yes!" the other cries!
"Depend upon't, though you may think it strange, But in old Sam there is a wondrous change!"
"Nay,-he converted! Pshaw! 'tis all a whim; They've just as much converted me as him; And I can find a man, I have no doubt, That soon will beat all his religion out."
"Perhaps not so," the other softly said, "I think Old Sam 's of better mettle made, I know that he was always bad to bend, And on his firmness I will still depend."
The other rose, and would a wager bet, Old Sam was not so far converted yet, But that if pick'd at, he would turn again, And still he would the bloody cause maintain.
To Sammy's door their way direct they took, For he had now the tavern's haunts forsook; They call'd a rebel out to lead the van, To vex and aggravate the poor old man.
At length they reach'd, and rattled at the door, Standing around, like lions to devour His happy soul; but he had by his side, King David's faithful Shepherd for his guide.
Old Sammy from his Bible reading rose, And straightway forth to meet the rebel goes; "Here's one," say they, "will fight for what you like!"
He stamp'd, and raged, and dared old Sam to strike; Sam look'd and smiled, as he before him stood, Then shook his head, thinking the cause not good; At length his flaming passion to control, He cries, "The Lord have mercy on thy soul!
Thy case I pity, O thou man of might, Although this practice once was my delight; Calm thy fierce rage, and to old Sam attend, Before destruction prove thy awful end.
I clearly see the spirit thou art in, For I myself oft in the same have been; And many a one like thee I've made to bend, And brought their boasting valour to an end.
'Tis well for thee that I'm another man, Or thou wouldst rue the day that this began; I soon should settle all thy boasts and brags, And make thy bones fall rattling on the flags!
Thou mayst thank God, whose power and grace divine, Have chang'd this proud, rebellious heart of mine; The love I feel to thee forbids the blow, Which soon would lay thy boasting prowess low.
Restrain thy passion, give old Sam thine hand, Be thankful that thou dost before him stand; Go tell the men whom once I did adore, Their wager's lost, old Sam will fight no more; Tell them to save their money for their wives, Give up their folly, and reform their lives; To go and seek salvation while they may, Before the wrath of God drives them away!"
Sam's noble speech so satisfied them all, That not one there durst him a coward call.
"Although the wager 's fairly lost," say they, "We all must own old Sam hath won the day!"
Now Sammy like a warrior stout and bold, Seeks new companions, and forsakes the old; While shouts of praise his ravish'd ears surround, He hears, and understands, the joyful sound!
Yes, Sammy has a better master now, And more substantial friends to deal with too; Secure he leans on his Redeemer's breast, And sweetly sings himself away to rest.
THOUGHTS ON GOOD FRIDAY:
Occasioned by seeing two "_Sinkers_" dragged out of a Coal Pit; one of them killed, the other dreadfully wounded. At a short distance, a busy crowd were preparing their tents and posts for the approaching races, on Easter Monday and Tuesday. On mentioning the fatal occurrence, and naming the day, a bystander exclaimed, "O, Good Friday is nought!"
The morning sun shone dim, as if in pain, To see that day by man so soon despised.
The feather'd choirs did heedless man reprove, Who had more cause than they, with early song To greet the morn, on which their Saviour bled.
Alas! that man should e'er forget his love!
Down, down the pit, the cheerful sinkers went, Nor grief, nor fear through all the gloom appear'd; Though at the bottom deep, grim death sat shrouded In horrid features, measuring their minutes!
Foul was the air, and bad;-they saw him not, Nor dream'd he was so near, nor held dispute, On which the lot might fall, to be his victim:- When suddenly, through wanton carelessness, Or the just judgment of an angry God, The kibble kick'd, brim full of splinter'd rock!
Down fell at once his ponderous instrument, Full thirty fathom, whizzing as it went!
Beneath its heavy crash a victim fell, And groan'd, nor ceas'd, till he had groan'd his last.
Then from behind the scene the monster stept, And with his bony fingers hurl'd his dart: Its point another touch'd, but not so deep.
Forth from the pit I saw the sufferers dragg'd, I heard deep groans, and saw their mangled flesh.
The former then with grief was quick interr'd, The other a poor halting cripple lives.
Where's now the man that says "Good Friday's nought?"
With accidents like this, God's swift judgments, I could, if 'twere requested, fill these sheets; But to the man who thinks, and judges right, This may suffice. And is Good Friday nought?
Is that day nought on which our Saviour bled, To buy our pardon, to save by suff'ring!
Open salvation's fount for crimson crimes, And wash, and make us guilty lepers clean?
Alas for man! He sees, he feels it not!
Of old, men saw, and felt it, though far off.
The martyrs saw, own'd, and observ'd it too, In fasting, prayer, and self-denial; This made them march, when call'd, with holy joy, To meet the dagger's point, or burning stake.
The earth once felt, and felt to her foundations; The marble mountain felt, and quak'd, and shiver'd; The sun felt, and grew dark; the heavens wept, And hell beneath, in dismal groanings howl'd!
The serpent felt,-and still feels in his bruis'd head.
The Saviour!-Yes, the King of Glory felt, In that sad cup his subjects should have drunk:- Both in the temple, and the wilderness, The street, the judgment hall,-in Pilate's scourge, In cruel mockings, and the scarlet robe!
He felt it too beneath the rugged wood, When He fatigued climb'd Calvary's steep brow!
He felt it in the hammer and the nails That pierc'd his flesh, though he offended not!
He felt it in the reed, and crown of thorns!
He felt it in the hyssop, vinegar, and gall, In strange upbraidings, and the soldier's spear!
He felt it in that mighty crush, which should, And would have crush'd, his guilty murderers.
He felt it till his mortal part expir'd!
He feels it yet, and so do his disciples: But the proud stiff-neck'd sinner feels it not;- Perverse, he _will not_, yet one day he shall!
Though he at present, feast and garnish out His wife's, or children's birth days, and his own, With songs, and cards, and music, and the dance, Yet this, like Job's day, shall be blotted out!
Though he _will not_, yet he shall regard it, When God appears in majesty, and power, Arm'd with thunder-bolts, and chariots of fire, On all his foes to pour his vengeance!
Yes! All men then will wish to be his friends.
E'en those who have his words and grace despis'd, Will wish their lives were to begin again!- "Whither, O, whither shall the guilty flee, When consternation turns the good man pale!"
TO A WITHERED FLOWER!