Here Hope, that smiling angel, stands,
And golden anchors grace her hands;
There Charity in robes of white,
Fairest and favourite maid of light!
The seraph spake-Tis Reason's part,
To govern and to guard the heart;
To lull the wayward soul to rest,
When hopes and fears distract the breast.
Reason may calm this doubtful strife,
And steer thy bark through various life:
But when the storms of death are nigh,
And midnight darkness veils the sky,
Shall Reason then direct thy sail,
Disperse the clouds, or sink the gale?
Stranger, this skill alone is mine,
Skill! that transcends his scanty line.
'That hoary sage has counsel'd right—
Be wise; nor scorn his friendly light.
Revere thyself thou'rt near allied
To angels on thy better side.
How various e'er their ranks or kinds,
Angels are but unbodied minds;
When the partition walls decay,
Men emerge angels from their clay.
Yes, when the frailer body dies,
The soul asserts her kindred skies.
But minds, though sprung from heavenly race,
Must first be tutor'd for the place.
(The joys above are understood,
And relish'd only by the good)
Who shall assume this guardian care?
Who shall secure their birthright there?
Souls are my charge-to me 'tis given
To train them for their native heaven.
'Know then-Who bow the early knee,
And give the willing heart to me;
Who wisely, when Temptation waits,
Elude her frauds and spurn her baits;
Who dare to own my injured cause
(Though fools deride my sacred laws),
Or scorn to deviate to the wrong,
Though Persecution lifts her thong.
Though all the sons of hell conspire
To raise the stake, and light the fire;
Know, that for such superior souls,
There lies a bliss beyond the poles ;
Where spirits shine with purer ray,
And brighten to meridian day;
Where Love, where boundless Friendship rules
(No friends that change, no love that cools!)
Where rising floods of knowledge roll,
And pour and pour upon the soul!
'But where's the passage to the skies?— The road through Death's black valley lies. Nay, do not shudder at my tale
Though dark the shades, yet safe the vale.
This path the best of men have trod;
And who'd decline the road to God?
Oh! 'tis a glorious boon to die!
This favour can't be prized too high.'
While thus she spake, my looks express'd
The raptures kindling in my breast:
My soul a fix'd attention gave;
When the stern Monarch of the grave
With haughty strides approach'd-Amazed
I stood, and trembled as I gazed.
The Seraph calm'd each anxious fear,
And kindly wiped the falling tear;
Then hasten'd, with expanded wing,
To meet the pale terrific King.
But now, what milder scenes arise!
The tyrant drops his hostile guise.
He seems a youth divinely fair;
In graceful ringlets waves his hair:
His wings their whitening plumes display,
His burnish'd plumes reflect the day.
Light flows his shining azure vest,
And all the angel stands confess'd.
I view'd the change with sweet surprise,
And oh! I panted for the skies;
Thank'd Heaven, that e'er I drew my breath, And triumph'd in the thoughts of death!
The advantages of application and diligence in our earlier years, and the destructive consequences of pride and cruelty.
BEE, THE ANT, AND THE SPARROW.
My dears, 'tis said, in days of old,
That beasts could talk, and birds could scold:
But now it seems the human race
Alone engross the speaker's place.
Yet lately, if report be true
(And much the tale relates to you),
There met a Sparrow, Ant, and Bee,
Which reason'd and conversed as we.
Who reads my page will doubtless grant,
That Phe's the wise industrious Ant.
And all with half an eye may see,
That Kitty is the busy Bee.
Here then are two-But where's the third?
Go search your school, you'll find the bird.
Your school! I ask your pardon, fair;
I'm sure you'll find no Sparrow there.
Now to my tale.-One summer's morn
A Bee ranged o'er the verdant lawn;
Studious to husband every hour,
And make the most of every flower.
Nimble from stalk to stalk she flies,
And loads with yellow wax her thighs;
With which the artist builds her comb,
And keeps all tight and warm at home:
Or from the cowslip's golden bells
Sucks honey to enrich her cells;
Or every tempting rose pursues,
Or sips the lily's fragrant dews;
Yet never robs the shining bloom,
Or of its beauty or perfume.
Thus she discharged in every way
The various duties of the day.
It chanced a frugal Ant was near, Whose brow was furrow'd o'er by care: A great economist was she,
Nor less laborious than the Bee;
By pensive parents often taught
What ills arise from want of thought;
That poverty on sloth depends,
On poverty the loss of friends.
Hence every day the Ant is found
With anxious steps to tread the ground;
With curious search to trace the grain,
And drag the heavy load with pain.
The active Bee with pleasure saw
The Ant fulfil her parent's law,
Ah! sister labourer (says she),
How very fortunate are we!
Who taught in infancy to know
The comforts which from labour flow,
Are independent of the great,
Nor know the wants of pride and state.
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