A few there are, but few we fear,
Their faith by works expressing;
And oft in private on their knees,
They wrestle for a blessing!
The greater part of them by far,
Will carry a Cain’s offering;
They’re strangers to the morning star,
To royal David’s offspring!
A hope they have, but cannot tell
On what that hope is grounded;—
Thus like some old Egyptian spell,
It cannot be expounded!
The carnal mind still bears the sway,
For want of resolution;
And scatter’d tribes, still day by day,
Profane the institution!
In spite of lectures orthodox,
Of Bishops, prayers, and caution,
They, greedy as the thirsty ox,
Drink in the deadly potion!
The scribes may write with mournful pen,
The Church’s lamentation;
While year by year, they seek in vain,
The fruits of Confirmation!
THE MAN OF THE WORLD!
From a boy much indulg’d, he grew up to a man,
And had liberty almost unbounded;
Nor scarce ever thought of this life’s little span,
With prospects of plenty surrounded!
His steed, like himself, in high spirits he views,
As it snuffs at the fresh flowing fountain;
On which oft at daybreak he brushes the dews,
And gallops o’er valley and mountain!