As free the tatter'd beggar to supply
As the proud belle, who heedless flirted by;
As free at humble poverty's approach,
As for the lordling in a gilded coach;
My eager, glowing heart was wont to trace
Some faint resemblance of redeeming grace.

The healing waters of this lovely spring,
Returning vigour to the sick can bring;
So the pure fountain of redeeming love
Can every mental malady remove.

O ye, who life's uneven desert stray,
Disastrous grief, companion of your way,
Would ye of joy the happy cordial taste,
To cheer your passage o'er the dreary waste?

Come, drink the living stream, the gushing tide,
That flow'd from blest Emmanuel's bleeding side:
This, only this, can sooth the grief-torn breast,
And sweetly hush the weary soul to rest.

And O, ye heedless fashionable throng,
Whose days are spent in frolic, mirth, and song;
Who oft, for pastime, take the pleasant ride,
To view the spring, and drink the crystal tide;
When ye approach the health-inspiring wave,
Or in the bath your fev'rish bodies lave,
Think, timely think, your souls in ruin lie,
Polluted, vile, unfitted for the sky;
Diseas'd by nature, and defil'd with sin,

Without, all folly, and all pride within.

Think, when array'd in fashion's rich costume,
Your fragile forms are hast'ning to the tomb:
Then what avails embroidery or lace?
Or nice cosmetics for the lifeless face?
The brightest rouge cannot recall the breath,
Or lambent beauty stay the shafts of death:
Then haste, O haste, while time and hope are giv'n,
Secure a blest inheritance in heaven.

To the pure Fount of life eternal fly;
Drink, and endure to immortality;

The stream can pristine purity restore,

Drink, and your fainting souls shall thirst no more

Drink, till translated to the realms above,

You all its sacred efficacy prove,

The full fruition of redeeming love.

SOLITUDE.

SWEE

WEET are the still sequester'd groves, Where musing melancholy roves,

At eve unseen;

Where musing melancholy roves,

And pensive contemplation loves
To haunt the green.

The still retreat, the silent glade,

The blackbird's song, the wild wood shade,

Are dear to me;

Sweet is the murmur of the brook,

And dear the shade of yon old oak,
My fav'rite tree.

There, when the village train's at rest,
Reclin'd upon thy peaceful breast,
In musing mood;

Not all the world's delusive charms,
Shall lure me from thy peaceful arms,
Dear Solitude.

Thy walks fair meditation roves,
And ever-charming science loves
Thy silent dell:

The Muses court thy sacred shades, And Genius seeks thy silent glades, With thee to dwell.

Divine Religion's angel form,
Inspiring Faith with bosom warm,
And Hope serene;

Soft Charity and Mercy bland,

With feeling heart, and lib'ral hand, With thee are seen.

Alone with thee I love to stray, Where roving Fancy leads the way To worlds unknown;

Where radiant spirits unconfin'd, Leaving the cumb'rous clay behind, To bliss have flown.

Olet thy halcyon shades impart
Soft consolation to a heart

By wo oppress'd.

O dry the fond maternal tear,
And bid me hold communion deaf
With spirits blest.

To thee, with each departing day, The Muse shall pour her laureate lay

In pensive song;

While not a breath of passion rude, Or blighting envy dare intrude,

Thy shades among.

The moss-rose seeks the lowly glade, Spreads all its beauties to the shade, And blooms unknown;

So on thy bosom I would rest,

Content, if Heaven but make me blest, Tho' all alone.