« Take this dear child, (he seem'd to say)

Teach her my name to fear, and love, Thy wages I will surely pay,

She shall herself good payment prove.”

A little stranger, when you came,

I found I had an easy part ;
For though without a parent's name,

I quickly felt a parent's heart.

And you were then, what still you are,

So grateful, teachable, and mild, You well deserv'd my kindest care,

I well might boast of such a child.

But as on thorns our roses grow,

And pleasure still is dash'd with pain; I liv'd to see my gourd brought low,

And fear'd it ne'er would bloom again.

This only time you caus'd me grief,

Did oft in prayer my heart engage; My prayer was heard, and brought relief

From Satan's, and the fever's rage.

Tho'still I miss her, I can praise It checks my grief that you are left,

To cheer my few remaining days.

My child, who now I trust, is thine

To thee, dear Saviour I commend ; Vouchsafe upon her heart to shine,

Be thou her guardian, guide, and friend.

Till this short span of time be past,

Till all our warfare here be o'er ; Then may we see thy face at last,

And meet again, to part no more!

FOR MY

DEAR ELIZABETH,

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER BIRTH-DAY,

JUNE 22, 1800.

DEAR Saviour, at thy feet I bow,
Bless my dear child, O bless her now,
Fill her with light, and love, and peace,
May ev'ry year her grace increase!
Renew her strength, suppress her fear,
And lead her on from year to year:
May she be recompenc'd by thee,
For all her kind regard to me;.
And when my pilgrimage shall end,
Still be her guide, her guard, her friend;
Till she shall join with all thine own,
In songs of praise before the throne !

Amen and Amen.

JoHN NEWTON.

FOR THEIR OBLIGING PRESENT, TO THEIR

AFFECTIONATE FRIEND.

BEING both of a mind,
To shew themselves kind,
Their talents they join'd;
Their skill and their hands,
Produc'd me three stands
For bottles and urn,

What can I return?
To tell them what my heart desires,
My muse some longer lines requires.

Bottles and urns tho' fill'd at first,

If us’d, will soon grow dry:
They will not long assuage our thirst,
Without a fresh supply.

Poor Hagar, when her bottle fail'd,

Sat down distress'd, and cry'd; But hope and joy again: prevailid,

When she the well descry'd.

Thus creature comforts quickly die,

Then how our sorrows swell, Till grace descending from on high,

Reveals the Saviour's well.

The water flowing from the cross,

From age to age, is found A rich amends for every loss,

A balm for every wound.

Here let us drink, and drink againy

Till by the pow'r of faith, . We joy in trouble, smile at painy

Knd triumph over death.

Tho' all our bottles empty prove,

And empty ev'ry urn,
If we possess this well of love,

We need not greatly mourn..