English

With the Laws terrors that the heart affright,
Insuing him that follows not aright,
Living sans guidance of that holy Law ,
Living without all conscience, feare, or aw,
In threatning wise him from his sin to drive,
A mingled balm of mercy, to revive,
Much terrifi'd thereby, the drooping heart,

My Reverend Lord, thou dost full well impart.
Very well Law and Gospell mingled right,
Rightly the Gospell heals, as Law doth fright.
Rightcousnesse most straight doth Law require;
And Gods good Gospel no more doth desire,

Is help to your own soul, by Theory
Of the well practized divinity;
So help to others souls you do afford,
Ever revealing to them Gods blest Word,
Publishing it, that all men who attend,
Hearing may thereby save thee in the end.

Help unto some your books do well afford,
And unto others, like a Reverend Lord,
Lively your bounty in their wants appeare,
Letting such know, that Oh all help is here.

Faire is the soule, white with faire Innocence,
Rightly that doth expound the Scriptures sence ,
And void of all adulterating guise,
No sence will give but such as edifies,
Chusing that sence that most doth sinne destroy,
Inviting of the soule to heavenly Ioy,
So taking off the black and staine of sinne,

With former beauty doth the soul begin
Heroickly to shine, and glister white.
Indeed who thus expoundeth hits it right.
Thus be you Reverend Father, with faire senc ,
Expound Gods Word, shewing your innocence.

O soul, with consecrated vow,
Who minglest in the arduous strife
For truths that men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot;
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown, yet faint thou not:

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell at last
The victory of endurance born.

Lo, Error, wounded, writhes in pain
And dies among his worshippers;

In which the Author addresses two Sisters of his intimate Acquaintance, (one married unhappily) upon their informing him that they were obliged to submit to a Separation; the youngest, Miss. H. going to live with her Mother .

I.

Scarce yet restor'd to social Joy,
How little did I dream,
A second Stroke so soon prepar'd,
To damp Life's future Scene!

II.

And must our Friendship finish here? —
But what must be your Grief,

Address'd to Mr . G AINSBOROUGH , Painter, at Bath; in which the Author reminds him of his Promise made in last April, to present him with a whole length Picture .

Presuming upon Friendship shown,
In April last at Bath when down,
I should e'er now address'd a Letter,
(Perhaps like this for want of better)
And begg'd to be indulg'd the Reason,
You came not up in May's fair Season;
But ever since a fell Disease,
Foe to my Mind and Body's Ease,
Has prey'd upon my ev'ry Hour,

When Your Wine Cellar Becomes a Bomb Shelter

Quel dommage , no more
fromage ; our champagne flutes
are dry, for we drank
the champagne when the water
failed, and the light pales now
as the dust drifts in,
for the French doors' glass
is smashed and gone,
the veranda's a crater,
and just today,
though it hurts to say,
the puppy — we ate her —
we were out of pâte.

Onward, onward, though the region
Where thou art be drear and lone:
God hath set a guardian legion
Very near thee, — press thou on!

By the thorn-road, and none other,
Is the mount of vision won:
Tread it without shrinking, brother!
Jesus trod it, — press thou on!

By thy trustful, calm endeavor,
Guiding, cheering, like the sun,
Earth-bound hearts thou shalt deliver, —
O for their sake, press thou on!

Be this world the wiser, stronger,
For thy life of pain and peace:

In gifts excelling, though you do excell,
O you declare nathles, your soul right well
Hath learned in the Schoole of Christ, that you
Not of your self have grace, but for it sue.

Deckt though your minde be then with many graces,
And they inhabit in you, severall places,
Very well filling of your inward heart,
Ever that soundnes then doth us impart;
Nathles the jewell of them all possessing,
Admire I do at Salisburies great blessing,
Not puffed up, nohead in vane you reare,
Thus humble, lowly, still your self you beare.

Oh thou, the laureate of our western realms,
Singing at will beneath your Cambridge elms,
Charming that sacred mansion where the grand
Paternal Cincinnatus of our land
Dwells, a majestic shadow — more than king;
Who, staidly smiling, hearkens while you sing.
Wouldst thou but build in Rome, we should behold
O'er Nero's ruins rise the enduring house of gold.

But I, a Troubadour born out of time,
From shrine to shrine, pour out my idle rhyme,
Impelled still onward with a love intense,
Singing for love (the only recompense),