When by my folly I was brought so low,
That in my view stood nature's latest Foe.
My sisters knew and mourn'd my early grief,
But could not give the cordial balm-relief.
The pangs of sorrow tore my father's soul,
His bitter grief refused to bear controul !
Thy feelings, mother! pass'd description's power!
What were thy sufferings every passing hour,
Till the strong arm was stretched out to save,
And raise me up to freedom from the grave!
What joyful transports all my griefs appeased,
When from my dreary cell I was released?
Home quick I hasted, and my sisters met,
The sight at once made them all care forget.
Then met my father-this did quite controul
The burning anguish in his tortured soul!
My mother wept for joy, when she had seen
Her only son, for whom she long'd so keen.
Then sweetly hush'd was all our gloomy woe,
Each visage beam'd with pleasure's sprightly
glow.
Joy's soft emotion bless'd the happy scene,
Where short before Care, tyrant lord, had been.
Thy generous hand, which wrought the blissful
change,
Was mention'd oft amid the cheerful range;
The auspicious hour was bless'd which gave the
That thus produced a little heaven on earth.
My gratitude shall live while I am here,
While I have being on this circling sphere;
Yea, when it has accomplish'd its last round,
When heaven's last thunder shakes the trembling
ground,
And æther's regions shall be fields of flame,
I will with gratitude think on thy name.
Although strong language I may seem to use,
'Tis sure no wonder I such language choose.
Can I on thee, my days' Prolonger, think,
Who snatch'd me off an early grave's drear brink,
And not feel raptures in my bosom spring,
That would inspire the dullest soul to sing!
Although till now my muse I have kept in,
'Twas diffidence that did her lays restrain.
Then let not, Sir, offence with this be join'd,
For 'tis the offering of a feeling mind.
But 'tis high time for me to quit my pen,
And give you ease from such a rugged strain.
May Heaven's best blessings on you always fall!
Such be your lot when time has ceased to roll!
Written on the Blank Leaf of a Catalogue of Books, advertised for sale, which had belonged to the late Rev. Dr C
HAD there been as little worth in the Doctor's brains,
A's this catalogue of some of his books contains, His memory by mankind would soon be forgot, Seeing now he is laid in the cold grave to rot; But his worth and his goodness for aye will be
They cannot be withheld, as his best books have been. *
• The above lines are verbatim as they were written originally. So likewise of those on pages 34 and 35.
As some poor sailor on the wintry ocean, His bark to bottom sunk, for life hard struggles. Though nought on either hand he sees to save, 'But wave on wave, thick threat'ning his destruction,
He thinks on her he loves, and for her sake
Would fainer gain the land than for his own;
This gives new strength; he with the billows
combats,
But all in vain; he feels himself outwasted,
And the next billow like to be his last,
When some strong vessel, heedless of the squalls
That wash'd the seaman from his little barge,
By heaven directed, rides to where he is,
And draws him up to life, with all its charms
Thus twice I wallow'd on the sea of life,
Ere your kind arm was raised to give relief.
Misfortune's child I certainly have been;
For though the period of my life is short,
Ills I have known beyond the common bounds;
No-would have known, had it not been for you;
Your favour found me in a dire condition,
Low sunk beneath a dreary load of woe.
Like as the angel found the Hebrew prophet,
By grief and hunger pined, and seeking death,
And gave him food, and strength and vigour new ;
Thus it found me, and cheer'd my downcast
heart.
"Twere vain for me to try to give you thanks; I feel an ardour in my bosom glow,
Which my poor pen cannot describe on paper. Your name, Sir, will unto my heart be dear, While generosity can wake my strains of praise
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