Then bid them to their native woods depart,
With new-born virtue aching at their heart.
When o'er the sounding Euxine's stormy tides
In hostile pomp the Turk's proud navy rides,
If onward to those shores they haply steer
Where, Howard, thy cold dust reposes near;
Whilst o'er the wave the silken pennants stream,
And, seen far off, the golden crescents gleam,
Amid the pomp of war, the swelling breast
Shall feel a still unwonted awe impress'd,
And the relenting Pagan turn aside
To think-on yonder shore the Christian dy'd!
But thou, O Briton, doom'd perhaps to roam
An exile many a year, and far from home,
If ever fortune thy lone footsteps leads
To the wild Nieper's banks, and whispering recds,
O'er Howard's Grave thou shalt impassion'd bend,
As if to hold sad converse with a friend.
Whate'er thy fate upon this various scene,
Where'er thy weary pilgrimage has been,
There shalt thou pause; and shutting from thy heart
Some vain regrets that oft unbidden start,
Think upon him to ev'ry lot resign'd,
Who wept, who toil'd, who perish'd for mankind.
KNOW then this truth (enough for man to know),
Virtue alone is happiness below:
The only point where human bliss stands still,
And tastes the good without the fall to ill;
Where only merit constant pay receives,
Is blest in what it takes, and what it gives;
The joy unequall'd, if its end it gain,
And if it lose, attended with no pain:
Without satiety, though e'er so bless❜d,
And but more relish'd as the more distress'd:
The broadest mirth unfeeling folly wears,
Less pleasing far than virtue's very tears:
Good, from each object, from each place, acquir'd,
For ever exercis'd, yet never tir'd;
Never elated, while one man's oppress'd,
Never dejected, while another's blest:
And where no wants, no wishes can remain,
Since but to wish more virtue, is to gain.
See the sole bliss Heaven could on all bestow
Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know;
Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind,
The bad must miss, the good untaught will find;
Slave to no sect, who takes no private road,
But looks through nature, up to nature's God;
Pursues that chain which links th' immense design,
Joins heaven and earth, and mortal and divine;
Sees that no being any bliss can know,
But touches some above, and some below;
Learns from this union of the rising whole,
The first, last purpose of the human soul;
And knows where faith, law, morals, all began,
All end in love of God and love of man.
For him alone, hope leads from goal to goal,
And opens still, and opens on his soul;
Till lengthen'd on to faith, and unconfin'd,
It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind.
He sees why nature plants in man alone
Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknown:
(Nature, whose dictates to no other kind
Are given in vain, but what they seek they find)
Wise is her present; she connects in this
His greatest virtue, and his greatest bliss;
At once his own bright prospect to be blest,
And strongest motive to assist the rest.
Self-love thus push'd to social, to divine,
Gives thee to make thy neighbour's blessing thine.
Is this too little for the boundless heart?
Extend it, let thy enemies have part;
Grasp the whole world of reason, life, and sense,
In one close system of benevolence:
Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree,
And height of bliss but height of charity.
God loves from whole to parts, but human soul Must rise from individual to the whole.
Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake,
As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake;
The centre mov'd, a circle straight succeeds,
Another still, and still another spreads;
Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace,
His country next, and next all human race;
Wide and more wide th' o'erflowings of the mind
l'ake every creature in, of every kind;
Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blest,
And Heaven beholds its image in his breast.
Truly this was the Son of God.-Matt. xxvii. 54.
YES, this was the Son of God.
"Tis for man he bears the rod:
Earth and skies are veiled in grief;
Man alone shewa unbelief.
''Tis finish'd.'—Through creation's bound Fly, O fly, triumphant sound!
"Tis finish'd!' Heaven transported sings;
"Tis finish'd!' Earth re-echoing rings.
''Tis finish'd!'-Through the realms of woe
The hated accents sternly flow:
''Tis finish'd!' man the traitor lives;
The ransom's paid, and God forgives.
'Tis finish'd!'-Yes, the toil is o'er :
The wond'rous toil the Saviour bore.
From Death's dread jaws the sting he draws,
And on the cross achieves his cause.
Sing the cross:-O badge of shame!
Be Staff of Glory now thy name.
Sing the cross: for, o'er thy tree,
What triumphs crowd, blest Calvary!
"Tis finish'd!'-The mysterious plan,
The mighty destiny of man.
Angels had gazed with baffled skill,
And time but travelled to fulfil.
'Tis finish'd!'-All the vision high
That rapt, of old, the prophet's eye;
And still with ecstasy shall break
O'er the last martyr's flaming stake.
"Tis finish'd!'-See the victor rise;
Shake off the grave, and claim the skies.
Ye heav'ns! your doors wide open fling:
Ye angel-quires! receive your King.
"Tis finish'd!'-But what mortal dare
In that triumph hope to share?
Saviour! to thy cross I flee:
Say "Tis finish'd!' and for me!
Then I'll sing the cross! the cross!
And count all other gain but loss.
I'll sing the cross, and to thy tree
Cling evermore, blest Calvary!
TO A SWEET-BRIAR IN INDIA.
[REV. JHN LAWSON, LATE MISSIONARY AT CALCUTTA.]
O STRANGER, welcome as a long-lost dream
Art thou to me, a wanderer like thyself.
Far from my home, and thine,
We meet, but O how chang'd!
Not that thy form less lovely seems to me-
Thy foliage less perfum'd; but frailer far
Than when at home thy boughs
Hung o'er my weary head.
Thou seem'st a tender shade of what thou wert,
Paler and shrinking from the sun's deep gaze
That urgeth the quick growth
Of thy transparent leaves.
But there is magic in thy odorous breath,
I own thy sweet control, and think of thee,
And seem to live again
With thee in other climes.
I see thy shadow at the cottage door
Besprinkled o'er with sun-beams round and bright,
Like yellow guineas thrown
Where wealth had never been.
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