WILLIAM was holding in his hand
The likeness of his wife-
Fresh, as if touch'd by fairy wand,
With beauty, grace, and life.
He almost thought it spoke-he gazed
Upon the treasure still;
Absorbed, delighted, and amazed,
He view'd the artist's skill.
"This picture is yourself, dear Jane,
'Tis drawn to nature true :
I've kissed it o'er and o'er again,
It is so much like you."
"And has it kiss'd you back, my dear?"
"Why, no, my love," said he.
" Then, William, it is very clear
"Tis not at all like me!"
NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a-year.
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place.
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
For other aims his heart had learn'd to prize-
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train:
He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain.
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away,
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe:
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And ev❜n his failings lean'd to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pains, by turns dismay'd,'
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ;
Even children followed, with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile-
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest;
Their farewell pleas'd him, and their cares distrest:
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven:
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
THE sky is ruddy in the east,
The earth is grey below,
And, spectral in the river-mist,
The ship's white timbers show.
Then let the sound of measured stroke
And grating saw begin;
The broad axe to the gnarled oak,
The mallet to the pin!
Hark! roars the bellows, blast on blast,
The sooty smithy jars,
And fire-sparks, rising far and fast,
Are fading with the stars.
All day for us the smith shall stand
Beside that flashing forge;
All day for us his heavy hand
The groaning anvil scourge.
From far-off hills the panting team
For us is toiling near;
For us the raftsmen down the stream
Their island-barges steer;
Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke
In forests old and still;
For us the century-circled oak
Falls crashing down his hill.
Up! up! in nobler toils than ours
No craftsmen bear a part:
We make of nature's giant powers
The slaves of human art.
Lay rib to rib and beam to beam,
And drive the treenails free;
Nor faithless joint, nor yawning scam,
Shall tempt the searching sca.
Where'er the keel of our good ship
The sea's rough field shall plough,
Where'er her tossing spars shall drip
With salt spray caught below,
The ship must heed her master's beck,
Her helm obey his hand,
And seamen tread her reeling deck
As if they trod the land.
Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak
Of northern ice may peel;
The sunken rock and coral peak
May grate along her keel;
And know we well the painted shell
We give to wind and wave
Must float, the sailor's citadel,
Or sink, the sailor's grave!
Ho! strike away the bars and blocks,
And set the good ship free!
Why lingers on these dusty rocks
The young bride of the sea?
Look! how she moves adown the grooves,
In graceful beauty now!
How lowly on the breast she loves
Sinks down her virgin prow!
Speed on the ship! but let her bear
No merchandise of sin,
No groaning cargo of despair
Her roomy hold within.
No Lethean drug for eastern lands,
Nor poison-draught for ours;
But honest fruits of toiling hands,
And nature's sun and showers!
Be hers the prairie's golden grain,
The desert's golden sand,
The clustered fruits of sunny Spain,
The spice of morning-land!
Her pathway on the open main
May blessings follow free,
And glad hearts welcome back again
Her white sails from the sea!
(By permission of the Proprietor of Mr. Anderton's Works.)
What is a Drunkard? One who quaffs
Reason-expelling drugs, and laughs
At every holy thing;
The "Prince of Air's" unquestioned prize,
At whose approach religion flies
With an affrighted wing.
What is a Drunkard? Passion's dupe,
Whose more than brutal cravings stoop
"To drain the maddening bowl;"
Who gratifies his swine-like lust;
And, when he does it, knows he must
Ensnare his deathless soul.
What is a Drunkard? Read his life
In the dejection of his wife,
His children pale and wan;
And looking, thief-like, at his feet,
With dire remorselessness replete,
Behold, behold the man!
What is a Drunkard? One who dares
God's fierce displeasure, and whose prayers
curses loud and deep;
Whose callousness increases still,
Albeit, he knows his madness will
Undying tortures reap.
What is a Drunkard? One for whom
The Lord descended to the tomb,
For whom our Ransom died;
And shall we not, who bear the name
Of Jesus, labour to reclaim
The gradual suicide?
God, thou art merciful as just!
And for our sins we lick the dust;
Yet, for the Firstborn's sake,
O bless the cause of Temperance here,
Stop drunkards in their mad career,
And let thine arm awake. Henry Anderton.
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