WATTS.

LOVE ON A CROSS AND A THRONE.

Now let

my faith grow strong and rife, And view my Lord in all his love: Look back to hear his dying cries,

Then mount and see his throne above.

See where he languish'd on the cross;
Beneath my sins he groan'd and died;
See where he sits to plead my cause
By his almighty Father's side.

If I behold his bleeding heart,

There love in floods of sorrow reigns,

He triumphs o'er the killing smart,

frame, to entertain his friends or himself with a divine or moral song--he hopes he shall find an easy pardon. These remarks occur in the preface to his Lyric Poems; the subjects of which are varied, although chiefly of a sacred character. They do not perhaps possess merit sufficient to establish the name of the writer among the highest order of British Poets;-but they are the productions of a healthy mind, a sound judgment, and a discriminating taste; and the versification is exceedingly easy and correct, except when he "attempts in rhyme the same variety of cadence, comma, and period, which blank verse glories in as its peculiar elegance and ornament."

The "Divine Songs for Children" we are disposed to class among the rarest and most valuable works to which genius has ever given existence. If the earliest impressions are of the greatest importance, because the most effective and the most enduring, how essential is it that the bias of the young mind should be towards virtue, honesty, industry, and humanity! There is no lesson in either which Dr. Watts has left untaught. Children lisp his verses long before they can read them-the moral fixes upon the mind through the imagination, and is retained for life. The "Divine Songs" are neither too high nor-what is less easy of attainment-too low for the comprehension of a child, and they tempt perusal and thought by the graces of easy rhyme. They are simple without being weak; and they reason without being argumentative; they are just of sufficient length to be committed to memory, without being long enough to become wearisome as a task. They are indeed the most perfect examples in our language of the achievement of that which a writer desires to achieve. We regard Dr. Watts, therefore, as one of the greatest benefactors of human kind; and may search in vain through the thousand tomes of our poets for so many golden

LOVE ON A CROSS AND A THRONE.

Now let my faith grow strong and rife,
And view my Lord in all his love:
Look back to hear his dying cries,

Then mount and see his throne above.

See where he languish'd on the cross;
Beneath my sins he groan'd and died;
See where he sits to plead my cause
By his almighty Father's side.

If I behold his bleeding heart,

There love in floods of sorrow reigns,

He triumphs o'er the killing smart,

Or if I climb th' eternal hills,

Where the dear Conqueror sits enthron'd, Still in his heart compassion dwells,

Near the memorials of his wound.

How shall a pardon'd rebel show
How much I love my dying God?
Lord, here I banish ev'ry foe,

I hate the sins that cost thy blood.

I hold no more commerce with hell,
My dearest lusts shall all depart;
But let thine image ever dwell

Stampt as a seal upon my heart.

FALSE GREATNESS.

MYLO, forbear to call him blest
That only boasts a large estate,
Should all the treasures of the west
Meet, and conspire to make him great.
I know thy better thoughts, I know
Thy reason can't descend so low.
Let a broad stream with golden sands
Through all his meadows roll,
He's but a wretch, with all his lands,
That wears a narrow soul.

He swells amidst his wealthy store,
And proudly poizing where he weighs,
In his own scale he fondly lays
Huge heaps of shining ore.

He spreads the balance wide to hold
His manors and his farms,

And cheats the beam with loads of gold
He hugs between his arms.

So might the plough-boy climb a tree,
When Croesus mounts his throne,
And both stand up, and smile to see
How long their shadow's grown.
Alas! how vain their fancies be

Thus mingled still with wealth and state,
Croesus himself can never know,
His true dimensions and his weight
Are far inferior to their show.
Were I so tall to reach the pole,
Or grasp the ocean with my span,
I must be measur'd by my soul:
The mind's the standard of the man.

FEW HAPPY MATCHES.

SAY, mighty Love, and teach my song,
To whom thy sweetest joys belong,
And who the happy pairs,

Whose yielding hearts and joining hands,
Find blessings twisted with their bands,
To soften all their cares.

Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
That thoughtless fly into thy chains,
As custom leads the way:

If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as blest as they.

Nor sordid souls of earthly mould,
Who drawn by kindred charms of gold,
To dull embraces move;

So two rich mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too,
And make a world of love.

Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flames; those raging fires
The purer bliss destroy:

On Ætna's top let furies wed,

And sheets of lightning dress the bed,
T'improve the burning joy.

Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting passion warms,
Can mingle hearts and hands:
Logs of green wood that quench the coals,
Are marry'd just like stoic souls,