And dress nor slovenly nor gay,
Nor sternly act; nor trifling play;
Still keep the golden middle way
Whate’er betide you;
And ne’er through giddy pleasures stray,
Though fools deride you.
As wily serpent ever prove,
Yet harmless as the turtle-dove,
Still winning souls by guileful love
And deep invention—
So once the great Apostle strove
With good intention. [{238}]
And inly to thyself take heed,
Oft prove your heart, its pages read,—
Self-knowledge will, in time of need,
Your wants supply;
Who knows himself, from dangers freed,
Where’er he lie.
So God will own the labours done,
Approving see His honoured Son,
And honoured Law; and numbers won
Of souls immortal,
Through grace, will onward conquering run
To heaven’s bright portal.
And on that last and greatest day,
When heaven and earth shall pass away,
A perfect band, in bright array,
Will form your crown,
Your joys triumphant wide display,
And sorrows drown.
And now farewell, my youthful friend—
Excuse these lines, in candour penned;
To me as freely counsel lend,
With zeal as fervent—
For you will pray, till life does end,
Your humble servant.
EPISTLE TO THE LABOURING POOR.
All you who turn the sturdy soil,
Or ply the loom with daily toil,
And lowly on through life turmoil
For scanty fare,
Attend, and gather richest spoil
To soothe your care.
I write with tender, feeling heart—
Then kindly read what I impart;
’Tis freely penned, devoid of art,
In homely style,
’Tis meant to ward off Satan’s dart,
And show his guile.
I write to ope your sin-closed eyes,
And make you great, and rich, and wise,
And give you peace when trials rise,
And sorrows gloom;