JOHN SCOTT.

JOHN SCOTT, of Amwell, was a Quaker, and was much respected by Dr. Johnson, Sir William Jones, and other eminent men, for his abilities and amiable character. His works entitled "The Garden," "Amwell," &c. were much read near the close of the last century.

THE SONG OF ZION.

THEN rose the choral hymn of praise,
And trump and timbrel answered keen;
And Zion's daughters poured their lays,
With priests' and warriors' voice between.
No portents now our foes amaze,
Forsaken Israel wanders lone;
Our fathers would not know thy ways,
And thou hast left them to their own.

But present still, though now unseen,
When brightly shines the prosperous day;
Be thoughts of thee a cloudy screen,
To temper the deceitful ray.

And oh! when stoops on Judah's path,
In shade and storm, the frequent night:
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!

Our harps we left by Babel's streams,
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,
And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn.
But Thou hast said, the blood of goat,
The flesh of rams, I will not prize :
A contrite heart, a humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice.

When Israel, of the Lord beloved,
Out from the land of bondage came,

Her father's God before her moved,
An awful guide, in smoke and flame.
By day along the astonished lands,
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night Arabia's crimsoned sands
Returned the fiery column's glow.

THE

TEMPESTUOUS

EVENING.

THERE'S grandeur in the sounding storm,
That drives the hurrying clouds along,
That on each other seem to throng,
And mix in many a varied form;
While, bursting now and then between,
The moon's dim misty orb is seen,
And casts faint glimpses on the green.

Beneath the blasts the forests bend,
And thick the branchy ruin lies,
And wide the shower of foliage flies,
The lake's black waves in tumult blend;
Revolving o'er, and o'er, and o'er,
And foaming on the rocky shore,
Whose caverns echo to their roar.

The sight sublime enwraps ray thought,
And swift along the past it strays,
And much of strange event surveys,
What History's faithful tongue has taught
Or Fancy formed, whose plastic skill
The page with fabled change can fill,
Of ill to good, or good to ill.

But can my soul the scene enjoy
That rends another's breast with pain?
O helpless he who near the main,
Now sees its billowy rage destroy.
Beholds the foundering bark descend,
Nor knows but what its fate may end
The moments of his dearest friend.

HANNAH MORE.

THIS amiable writer was born in 1745, at Stapleton, in Gloucestershire, where her father kept a school. Her first publication was a pastoral drama; and she produced soon after two or three plays, which were acted in London with considerable success. She soon ceased to write for the theatre, and her occasional poems, and numerous important prose works, on religious subjects and on education, secured for her a great and enduring reputation. She died in 1833.

REFLECTIONS OF HEZEKIAH IN HIS SICKNESS.

"Set thine house in order, for thou shalt die."-Isaiah, chap. xxxviii.

WHAT! and no more? Is this, my soul, said I,
My whole of being? Must I surely die?
Be robbed at once of health, of strength, of time,
Of youth's fair promise, and of pleasure' prime?
Shall I no more behold the face of morn,
The cheerful daylight, and the spring's return?
Must I the festive bower, the banquet leave,
For the dull chambers of the darksome grave?
Have I considered what it is to die?

In native dust, with kindred worms to lie;
To sleep in cheerless, cold neglect! to rot!
My body loathed, my very name forgot!
Not one of all those parasites, who bend
The supple knee, their monarch to attend!
What, not one friend? No: not a hireling slave
Shall hail great Hezekiah in the grave.
Where's he who falsely claimed the name of Great,
Whose eye was terror, and whose frown was fate,
Who awed a hundred nations from the throne?
See where he lies, dumb, friendless, and alone!
Which grain of dust proclaims the noble birth?
Which is the royal particle of earth?

Where are the marks, the princely ensigns--where?
Which is the slave, and which great David's heir?
Alas! the beggar's ashes are not known
From his who lately sat on Israel's throne!
How stands my great account? My soul, survey
The debt Eternal Justice bids thee pay!
Should I frail memory's records strive to blot,
Will heaven's tremendous reckoning be forgot?
Can I, alas! the awful volume tear?

Or rase one page of the dread register?

my

"Prepare thy house, thy house in order set:
Prepare the Judge of heaven and earth to meet."
So spake the warning Prophet,-awful words!
Which fearfully my troubled soul records.
Am I prepared? and can I meet my doom,
Nor shudder at the dreaded wrath to come?
Is all in order set, my house, my heart?
Does no besetting sin still claim a part?
No cherished error, loath to quit its place,
Obstruct within soul the work of grace?
Did I each day for this great day prepare,
By righteous deeds, by sin-subduing prayer?
Did I each night, each day's offence repent,
And each unholy thought and word lament?
Still have these ready hands the afflicted fed,
And ministered to Want her daily bread?
The cause I knew not did I well explore?
Friend, advocate, and parent of the poor.
Did I, to gratify some sudden gust
Of thoughtless appetite, some impious lust
Of pleasure or of power, such sums employ
As would have flushed pale Penury with joy?
Did I in groves forbidden altars raise,
Or molten gods adore, or idols praise?
Did my firm faith to heaven still point the way?
Did charity to man my actions sway?
Did meek-eyed Patience all my steps attend?
Did generous Candor mark me for her friend?

Did I unjustly seek to build my name
On the piled ruins of another's fame?
Did I abhor, as hell, the insidious lie,
The low deceit, the unmanly calumny?
Did my fixed soul the impious wit detest?
Did my firm virtue scorn the unhallowed jest,
The sneer profane, and the poor ridicule
Of shallow Infidelity's dull school?
Did I still live as born one day to die,
And view the eternal world with constant eye?
If so I lived, if so I kept the word,
In mercy view, in mercy hear me, Lord!
For oh! how strict soe'er I kept thy law,
From mercy only all my hopes I draw;
My holiest deeds indulgence will require;
The best but to forgiveness will aspire;
If Thou my purest services regard,
"Twill be with pardon only, not reward.
How imperfection's stamped on all below!
How sin intrudes in all we say or do!
How late, in all the insolence of health,

I charmed the Assyrian by my boast of wealth!
How fondly with elaborate pomp displayed
My glittering treasures! with what triumph laid
My gold and gems before his dazzled eyes,
And found a rich reward in his surprise!
Oh, mean of soul! can wealth elate the heart,
Which of the man himself is not a part?
Oh, poverty of pride! oh, foul disgrace!
Disgusted Reason, blushing, hides her face.
Mortal and proud! strange contradicting terms!
Pride for death's victim, for the prey of worms!
Of all the wonders which the eventful life
Of man presents; of all the mental strife
Of warring passions; all the raging fires
Of furious appetites and mad desires;
Not one so strange appears as this alone,
That man is proud of what is not his own.