But, poor
dear man,

he was so very queer,
I fear its truth, I solemnly declare.”
Such scandal first in whispers steals along,
A hundred voices soon repeat the song,
At last it spreads, as sure, as far, as wide,
As if it had with herald's voice been cried.
Tell them they steal; with one accord they cry,-
“ I steal! Now, pray, don't propagate a lie."
They do not steal their neighbour's goods, we own,
These they will leave religiously alone,
And yet they see no theft, no sin, no shame,
In foully robbing him of his fair fame.
Ah, well! we pass them, pointing to the word
Of our all-loving, omnipresent Lord;
He his disciples strict commandment gave
They e'er should love to one another have.

Hail, Dry Bone, hail! No new-born sect we see,
No beardless babe just brought to light, in thee;
Thine ancient garb and furrowed forms proclaim
Thine is no new-coined, fresh-invented name:
In Juda's realms was thy paternal home,
Thy fathers knelt beneath the Temple's dome,
Or trod the margin of the silvery sea
That laves the lands of far-famed Galilee.

The Muse confesses that in


view Each ordinance is well observed by you: With fasts you expiate each sinful wish, And live in Lent on nothing but salt fish; On Sabbath eves you con a chapter o’er, O'er the appointed sermon sleep once more; And at collections, you are always willing To drop into the plate (a pound?) a shilling. On Saturdays you careful leave the play When midnight ushers in the Sabbath day, Then hurry home, and, perhaps, before you rest, Pray that the opening Sabbath may be bless’d.

Oh! for a peal of thunder that would make
Earth, heaven, and hell, and e'en the Dry Bone,

Shake all his forms and fastings out of sight,
And drive him from his fashions in affright;
Lead him to seek and love the Lord of Life,
And ardent join the saints' celestial strife.

What boots it this to wish? There comes a day
When earth and sea and sky shall melt away;
What then shall feasts or fasts or forms avail ?
They then, alas! most signally must fail.

This shall abase the prayer-proud Pharisee,
Who boasts, “ The temple of the Lord are we;"
'Tis then by sad experience he must know
Religion loves to


Succour to widows, help to orphans, give,
And teach unspotted from the world to live:
This is Religion honoured from above,
Such piety the heavenly powers approve.

The fourth class now our brief attention claims,
Which boasts a most imposing list of names.
Its numerous ranks include a varied race,
Who in no other walls can find a place;
They scorn the scoffs that Infidels receive,
Despise Rome's childish legends to believe;
Reject Dissent, because they think it low,
'Tis to the Church that folks of fashion go.
Father themselves forthwith upon the Church,
And so preclude a farther tedious search.
Ah! mighty credit to the Church they get,
Through them she has her sorest trials met.
To Church their bodies painted chariots bring,-
Where are their souls? That's quite another thing:
'Tis in the counting-house, the field, the fair,-
There are their souls and their affections there.

A part of these from pious parents came,
And fear tupbraid their predecessors' name,
So praise their parents in a serious strain,-
“Such deep devotion few may hope to gain.”
Good, master! good! but where's the excuse why

Should not attempt to live among that few.
Then if the sermon keep them half an hour
They think the zealous preacher but a bore;
They get most good, they say, from short orations,
Swallow the Gospel best with alterations:
For these are glorious independent days,-
Yes! independent of old Gospel ways,
Of faith almost, of Christian friendship quite,
Of fearless truth, and rigid rules of right.
And, though they start when trembling Conscience

And stern Conviction with his grasp appals,
Soon rush into the world, and, revelling there,
Lose in its gorgeous follies all their care.

Reader! do


these various errors blame? Go, then, and studious strive to shun the same.



Quoties ad mensam parasitus venerit infans.”

ONCE more, my Muse, thine aid I would implore,
A task is mine more dangerous than before:
A mother's follies we would now reprove,
Yet almost pardon for a mother's love.
Yes! we must arm ourselves in triple brass,
To shew these failings in our magic glass,
And while this drear, unhallowed path we tread,
The mother's murmurs hovering o’er our head,
Be this our solace—that our end is kind,
To plant more prudence in the mother's mind.

A mother's love,-and in it are combined
The various hopes and joys of womankind,
Hopes but too oft deceived, joys often lost
In anxious cares, requited ill at most.
Say who can paint the youthful mother's pride,
Her first-born babe soft lisping by her side?

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