For truth with native force prevails,
When wit's extinct, and genius fails :
Let not my mirth excite offence,
Nor deem advice, impertinence.

Be to the Church a firm support,
To GOD alone pay fervent court;
With servile flatt'ry never fawn
On haughty priests in sleeves of lawn.
Let JORTIN your example be,

He scorn'd the arts of flattery:
Zealous, like him, for toleration,
Preach the great doctrine of salvation;
Free from the jargon of the schools,
From orthodox and high-church rules.
True orthodox divines are they,
Who GOD and his commands obey,
Who faith and works together blend,
And shew we must on both depend.

The alteration in your dress
Will never make you lov'd the less:
A Parson's habit though you wear,
Still you will please the virtuous fair;

And men of sense and education
Will court your lib'ral conversation.
Thus nor the colours black or grey
Will for one instant take away

Your own peculiar pow'r to please,
And manners grac'd with native ease,
And while you charm, without pretence,
By lively wit and sterling sense;

Aw'd with respect e'en Pride shall view
Your sober garb, and envy you.

[ 15 ]

HYMN

FOR THE

PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETY.

[Set to Music by Dr. BUSBY, and sung at one of their public Dinners.]

To snatch deserted youth from sin and woe,
Pity the sacred charge to you has giv'n;

Your guardian care protects them here below,

Relieves each want, and points the way to Heav'n.

Then, while their thanks like grateful incense rise, Let our glad strains with theirs united be: Angels themselves th' ascending notes shall prize, And hail, with joy, Divine Philanthropy!

Divine Philanthropy! whose heav'nly voice Amid the seraph choir this descant ran"My blessed vot'ries shall in GOD rejoice,

"And live in bliss with Him who died for man."

O! ye, whose wealth can sooth affliction's tear, Secure that bliss by God-like pity here!

SONNET,

Imitated from a Passage in 'La Bergere des Alpes,' of Marmontel.]

WITH what a gentle, parting ray serene,

With what a tranquil gleam, and soften❜d light, The setting sun shuts the diurnal scene,

Then sinks beneath the wave-and all is night!

Thus at the awful close of life's sad stage,

Perplex'd with wand'rings, and beset with care, The soul, exhausted in her pilgrimage, Pants to be free, and breathe a purer air:

Elate with hope, eager to take the wing,

And to that promis'd happier spot to fly, Where she may bloom again in youthful spring,

And quaff the stream of immortality.*

But how remote is that celestial day;

And with how dull a step life lingers on the way!

"Quaffs immortality and joy."

MILTON.

STANZAS,

WRITTEN ON THE

SETTING IN OF A SEVERE WINTER.

AH! where is now the balmy breath of May,

That wakes dull Nature from her sullen trance; When Flora, crown'd by Spring with chaplets gay, With Venus and the Graces swells the dance?

Ah! where is Summer's animated glow,

The eve unclouded, and the purple dawn; When thro' the warbling grove's young zephyrs blow, Or cool the heats that scorch the upland lawn?

Ah! where is Autumn, with his ripen'd stores
Of all that earth's reviving bounty yields;
From her full horn, when Amalthea pours

The stream of plenty o'er the laughing fields?