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May dear Miss S, and dear Miss N,

For this I often pray,

The virtues of this water feel,

Still more from day to day.

May he, who join'd your hearts below,
Still guide them as his own,

And guard you thro' this world of woe,
To stand before his throne.

And when before his throne of grace,
Your hearts in pray'r are free,

Let me have in your thoughts a place;
Dear children, pray for me!

January 16, 1801.

J. N.



JUST here I have interr'd
My pretty warbling bird;
How tuneful was his note;
How beautiful his coat!
Poor mortals little know

When Death may strike his blow.
One day my bird was well,
The next, alas! he fell;
Where now his artless lay,
Where now his plumage gay;
Ye beaus and belles confess,
Less fine than his your
Less innocent your strains,
Your life less free from stains

But no less frail your breath,


Nor more secure from death;
No shame, remorse, or guilt,
My goldfinch ever felt ;
The past caus'd no dismay,
He fear'd no future day;
Were not the blessed gospel true,
I'd wish to be a goldfinch too.




LIKE rising ground a new birth-day,
Invites us to review the way,

We hitherto have come;

And helps us to look forward too,
Beyond what we must yet pass thro'
Before we reach our home.

Behind us, rais'd from year to year,
Our Ebenezers rang'd appear,
Like mile-stones on the road ;
For help in time of trouble sent,
Or standing as a monument

Of benefits bestow'd.

Before us, Zion's gate is seen,
What hills, or dales, may lie between,

To us is yet unknown;

But we may trust the Lord our friend,
Who brought us hither to the end;
He ne'er forsakes his own.

Tho' many changes we have past,
Since I in verse address'd you last,
Yet Jesus changes not!

Our gourds must fade, our friends must die,
Yet while HE is our friend on high,

We cannot be forgot.

On his kind care may we repose,

Our frame, our fears, our wants, he knows ;

And says, "I will provide,

"Tho' foes surround and press you hard,
Depend on me to be your guard,
And unto death, your guide."

Assist us Lord, with stedfast aim,
To do thy will, and praise thy name,
Till flesh and heart shall fail;
Till all our toils and sorrows end,
And we, at thy soft call, ascend
To thee, within the vail!

There many, whom we lov'd below,
Before thy throne already bow,

And wonder, and adore;

We hope with them, ere long, to meet, And join their songs in concert sweet,

For ever-evermore.


MISS S**** G*



FLIRTILLA, born to dress and dance,
To catch the roving eye,

Seems, more and more, as years advance,
A trifling butterfly;

Can I rejoice on her birth-day?

I see more cause to weep

For her who only lives to play,
And laugh, and eat, and sleep.

Unmindful of the gracious pow'r,
Who gave her life and breath,
She wastes in folly every hour,
Nor thinks at all of death,
Her wishes all confin'd to earth,
Sad scene of sin and thrall,
I cannot celebrate her birth,
Why was she born at all.

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