A PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.
A Stranger's purpose in these lays
Is to congratulate, and not to praise.
To give the creature her Creator's due,
Were sin in me, and an offence to you.
From Man to Man, or ev'n to Woman paid,
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,
A Coin by Craft for folly's use design'd,
Spurious, and only current with the blind.
The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the Land where sorrow is unknown; No Trav❜ller ever reach'd that blest abode, Who found not thorns and briars in his road. The world may dance along the flow'ry plain, Cheer'd as they go, by many a sprightly strain, Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread, With unshod feet they yet securely tread, Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend, Bent upon pleasure, heedless of its end.
But He who knew what human hearts would prove,
How slow to learn the dictates of his Love,
That hard by nature, and of stubborn Will,
A life of ease would make them harder still,
In pity to the sinners he design'd
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said..." go spend them in the vale of tears."
Oh balmy gales of soul-reviving air,
Oh salutary streams that murmur there,
These flowing from the fount of Grace above,
Those breath'd from lips of everlasting Love!
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys,
And sudden sorrow nips their springing joys,
An envious world will interpose its frown
To mar delights superior to its own,
And many a pang, experienc'd still within,
Reminds them of their hated Inmate, Sin,
But Ills of ev'ry shape and ev'ry name
Transform'd to Blessings miss their cruel aim,
And ev'ry moment's Calm that sooths the breast,
Is giv'n in earnest of Eternal Rest.
Ah! be not sad, although thy lot be cast
Far from the flock, and in a distant waste!
No shepherds' tents within thy view appear,
But the Chief Shepherd is for ever near,
Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain
Flow in a foreign land but not in vain,
Thy tears all issue from a source divine,
And ev'ry drop bespeaks a Saviour thine...
'Twas thus in Gideon's fleece the dews were found And drought on all the drooping herbs around.
WHAT Virtue or what mental grace
But men unqualified and base
Will boast it their possession?
Profusion apes the noble part
Of Liberality of heart,
And dulness of Discretion.
If ev'ry polish'd Gem we find
Illuminating heart or mind,
Provoke to Imitation;
No wonder Friendship does the same,
That Jewel of the purest flame,
Or rather Constellation.
No knave but boldly will pretend
The requisites that form a Friend,
A real and a sound one,
Nor any fool he would deceive,
But prove as ready to believe,
And dream that he has found one.
Candid, and generous and just,
Boys care but little whom they trust,
An error soon corrected- ·
For who but learns in riper years,
That man when smoothest he appears
Is most to be suspected?
But here again a danger lies,
Lest having misemploy'd our eyes,
And taken trash for treasure,
We should unwarily conclude
Friendship a false ideal Good,
A mere Utopian pleasure.
An acquisition rather rare,
Is yet no subject of despair;
Nor is it wise complaining,
If either on forbidden ground,
Or where it was not to be found,
We sought without attaining.
No Friendship will abide the test
That stands on sordid Interest,
Or mean Self-love erected;
Nor such as may awhile subsist
Between the Sot and Sensualist
For vicious ends connected.
Who seeks a Friend, should come dispos'd T'exhibit in full bloom disclos'd
The graces and the beauties
That form the character he seeks,
For 'tis an Union that bespeaks
Reciprocated duties.
Mutual attention is implied,
And equal truth on either side,
And constantly supported;
'Tis senseless arrogance t' accuse
Another of sinister views,
Our own as much distorted.
But will Sincerity suffice?
It is indeed above all price,
And must be made the basis;
But ev'ry virtue of the Soul
Must constitute the charming whole,
All shining in their places.
A fretful temper will divide
The closest knot that may be tied,
By ceaseless sharp corrosion;
A temper passionate and fierce
May suddenly your joys disperse
At one immense explosion.
In vain the Talkative unite
In hopes of permanent delight...
The secret just committed,
Forgetting its important weight,
They drop through mere desire to prate,
And by themselves outwitted.
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