Many Sterne's story of Lefevre read,
And tearful read it, yet are harsh indeed.
Hence sentimental dames with laurels crown
Authors on whom weak moralists will frown;
And self-idolaters in drawling tone

Whine about "brethren dear," yet care for

none.

As selfishness is sentiment abused,
The gentle dram for medicine is used;
In spite of self-deception, each the same
Pernicious thing with an emollient name.

Ye who recline on couches, and inhale
Perfumes, intent upon the gorgeous tale
Of Lallah Rookh, sweet ladies, think of forms
Lovely as yours, by chilling winds and storms
Bronz'd and bow'd down, they ask your sym-
pathy,

More than the Peri o'er whose woes you sigh.

F

While gay retainers like their masters feed,
Affect the cant of fashion, journals read,---
Ill fed, worse taught, the land an equal_tills,
The ballad grudged with which he soothes
his ills.

Some would all knowledge to the poor refuse, A luxury too costly for their use.

He who beholds with joy (the mists unroll'd) A widening landscape beautiful and bold; Cornfields, as Wordsworth says, like shields of gold

Dropp'd from above, green meadows, mountains, glades,

With all the interchange of lights and shades, He feels for toiling man, whose labour rears Much of the glittering show that there appears.

Triumphs successful art, the vast domain
Of cultivation brightens rich in grain.
And nature teaches (what but nature can)
The noble sympathy of man with man;

Where 'mid her visible works are

play'd,

seen dis

Those labouring poverty for wealth has made. He who reads Nature's book there learns to

feel

Love for his brethren, to assist them zeal.

O might the poor man of delights partake
In the new Edens that he toils to make,
Life's hues would then harmoniously agree
With splendours we on earth around us see.

Can the poor Peasant chained to the soil, Enjoy the charms of nature 'mid his toil? No! his best feelings wither'd are by grief, As shrivelled in late autumn is the leaf.

Thousands have heard no music but the clank Of chains, seen but the walls of prison dank.

Well, well, the bondsman be he now opprest,
Through ages after ages shall be blest;
The poorest mortals in this world that breathe
May shine like glorious angels after death;
Though by the cold side of life's mountain
they

Unblest by light of joy wend on their way;
That past, for them far lovelier vales expand
Than fancy dreams to be in fairy land,
Scenes, that in imagery to our state

On earth adapted, holy men relate.

In the rude hind what worth intreasured lies!
Material good that Nature boon supplies,
Is dross in value with the soul compared;
The noblest gifts by all alike are shared.

Yon gleam is partial, clouds gloom o'er the

mass

Of wood, the gospel-light glads every class
Of men, to few is wealth, is honour given,
But there is no exclusive right to Heaven.
Wond'rous effect of the Redeemer's love,
The more diffused the stronger will it prove!

Piety is not sentiment nor song,

But love to do God's will, and hate of wrong. A thousand homilies no more can teach; These feelings to excite good pastors preach; Too simple to adore the glittering haze Tradition, on which mystics love to gaze.

The humble scripture-searcher prays for grace, And has it, he shall see God face to face; By faith assured, he in his chimney nook Reads, and interprets well, the sacred book.