LETTER I.

TO MY SON, R. S. B.,

Who wrote me a short Epistle, because he had nothing
strange to communicate.

Dear R

-t, I was greatly pleased that you did write to me, And though my time is circumscribed, I scrawl some lines to thee.

Your letter was by far too brief, though nothing strange you view,

Methinks you could your paper fill, and yet write nothing

new;

Though here some strange events occur, they're quite unknown to me,

Because I seldom go abroad, those strange events to see; And no one cares to fetch me news, because I've none to

tell;

"T is fortunate that I can do without strange news so well. But I will write of something strange, and marvellous to view,

Which, though it happened years ago, yet still is strange and new.

So strange, it fills the heavenly host with wonder and

amaze,

And which they fain would look into, with a perpetual

gaze;

And, though they cannot comprehend the mystery of that

grace,

Which, while it passed fallen angels by, redeemed our helpless race;

Yet, when the high command is given, "fall prostrate, an

gels, fall!

Not one discordant note is heard, but all His love extol; Yet strange, most lamentably strange, man will not homage

pay,

But spurn this precious, precious gift, and cast the aid

away.

And are the thunderbolts withheld?

now,

Yes, justice lingers

And the uplifted sword reversed by mercy's smiling brow.

Mortals may wonder and adore, but may not try to scan, The great, the amazing mystery,—the love of God to man! Yet, all in this stupendous grace, my equal sharers be, Because the precious Savior said, "let sinners come to

me."

Unto the green earth's utmost verge thus runs the great decree:

"I will in no wise cast you out, ye sinners come to me." And farther yet the grace extends, than to where the green

grass grows,

Even to Arabia's burning sands, and Lapland's mountain

snows.

Oh strange, inexplicably strange! surpassing all the view, Yes, while eternal ages roll, the theme will still be new. Though brief your letter, this resolve pleased me exceed

ingly,

"That you for liquor's moderate use would not a pleader be."

I cannot tell you half the joy this oft affords my mind,
That you to strict sobriety have always been inclined;
Or what would be the dire effect, if I should ever see
One of my children e'er be swayed by alcohol's tyranny;
And if you never touch the bait, it cannot be your bane,
It is through liquor's moderate use so many have been
slain;

I wrote some lines sometime ago, descriptive of the ill,
And as I've little else to write, they shall this paper fill.

It was a winter's eve, and very cold,

When William J. who scarce was six years old,
Came running home, for bread he now did want,
Who ne'er before of bread had been thus scant;
On his sad father once fair fortune smiled,
For he had been a rich man's only child;
But ah! o'er him intemperance prevailed,
And with his business, all his money failed;
His credit, too, for the good grocer said,

"He'd trust no more, 'till the old score was paid."
Next to the baker the poor child was sent,
But here, his father's credit, too, was spent ;
The baker said his bread he could not give,
And by such customers he could not live;

"What shall we do?" said he to Mrs. J.,
(Who once had been the gayest of the gay)
"Perhaps my dear pappa will soon come home;
If he has money he will give us some."
She did not wish her nearest friends to know
Her husband's credit was so very low;

She hoped that Power who hears the ravens cry,
Would by some means their urgent wants supply.
From the dear child she strove to hide her tears,
Also, her many, very many fears;

She wished, and yet she feared Henry to see, For oft he treated her with tyranny; And though he said of this he did not know, Yet more than once had given her a blow. In a short time poor Henry J. came home, "Oh, dear Pappa, I'm very glad you've come, For I want bread," the little William cries. "I cannot help your wants," poor J. replies, "Here's all I have, go fetch a pint of rum, And if you 're smart, my boy, I'll give you some." "Oh. do not send him out, 't is very cold, His little hands can scarce the bottle hold; "T is slippery, too, he cannot keep his feet, Oh, do not send the child into the street."

Come, hold your prating, hold your tongue, I say, He could go very well, were it to play;

This is the reason I so often roam,

I never have a moment's peace at home;
In my own house, I say, I'll have command,"
Says Henry J. with an uplifted hand.

"Ah! do not strike my dear ma', and I'll go,
I do not care how hard the wind does blow;
Can't hold the bottle! yes indeed I can,
I'll go and fetch it like a little man."
"Ah, ah my boy, you courage have, I see,
And will not by your mother spoiled be;
Here's all I have, go fetch a pint of rum,
And if you're smart, my boy, I'll give you some."
William goes out and comes again in haste,
But of the offered rum he will not taste;
The father drinks, and will not go to bed,
But on the floor reclines his sottish head.
No longer can poor Fanny hide her grief,
And flowing tears afford but sad relief.

"What shall I do? ah, whither shall I go?
How can I bear this dreadful weight of woe?"
"Where will you go, mamma? why, go to bed,
And on the pillow lay your poor, poor head;
And I'll go, too, and I will warm your feet,
Perhaps to-morrow we 'll have bread to eat."
The wretched Fanny clasps him to her breast,
"I wish, my dear, we were in Heaven at rest."
Mamma, you say Heaven is a place of bliss,
And quite unlike a wicked world like this.

Are there no bad folks there?" "My dear child, no!"
"Where! Oh where then will my dear Pa' go?
He drinks, he says bad words, he never prays,
He cannot go there with such wicked ways.'
"William, my darling child, come go to bed,
I've fixed the pillow for your little head."
The child steps in and quickly falls asleep,
The wretched mother 's left alone to weep:
She takes a retrospect of years gone by,
When first the youthful Henry met her eye;
When he was sober, generous and kind,

Adorned with beauty, riches, wit, and taste refined,—
Ah, who would then have thought that Henry J.,
Would thus a victim to intemperance lay?
"I cannot wake him, neither can I bear
To go to bed and leave him sleeping there;
Ah! no; I'll wait until returning day
When sleep has chased the fumes of drink away;
And then I'll tell him what poor William said,
I'll tell him, too, the child has cried for bread."
While thus she mused, a groan, a lengthened sigh,
And Henry, struggling, caught her anxious eye:
She quickly rose, and fondly raised his head,
But ah, alas! the vital spark had fled.
Ah, ye who plead for moderate drinking now,
Here lies a laurel to adorn each brow;

Here, lies a man who once like you could plead,
A little liquor's good when we have need,—
When we 're cold, or when we 're very warm,
A little spirits sure can do no harm;

The man who cannot take a glass of wine,
Must sure be weak,-that weakness is not mine.
Ah, show me one, o'er whom intemperance reigns,

To whom moderate drinking has not furnished chains;

Ah, show me one to drink a devotee,
Who ever thought that thus the case would be.
Oh, moderate drinkers, 't is on you I call,
Before you in this dreadful vortex fall;

Here bring your brandy, porter, ale and wine,
And cast all down before this mighty shrine;
Oh, come, and to these rules subscribe each name,
And try to make your neighbors do the same,
And use your utmost efforts to extend,
The benefit to foe as well as friend.
And advocates of total abstinence, hear,
In this your work of mercy persevere,
You cannot tell what blessings may accrue,
Or what the ills prevented thus by you;
Nor need you the vain scoffers' words regard,
For in your own breast you have a sure reward;
The cause is good, let not your courage fail,
And you will most assuredly prevail.

LETTER II.

TO MY SON C. L. B.

As you, my son, have chosen for to roam,
Far from your native land, your friends, and home:
I must lament the sad, sad destiny,

And oft my heart will bleed to think of thee.

But hope that cheers affliction's saddest hour,
With its benign exhilarating power,
Affords me solace, bids me cease to mourn,
For I again shall see my son return.
To tell me Jacob's God has been your stay,
Shielded in danger, pointed out your way,
Has given you bread to eat, raiment to wear,
And deigned to make you his peculiar care;
From sins sad bondage given sweet release,-
Has heard your prayers, has filled your breast with

peace,

And Jacob-like, you will an altar raise,

To Jacob's God devote your future days;