Cottage Poems Part 5

Dare not, like some, to mince the matter-- Nor dazzling tropes and figures scatter, Nor coa.r.s.ely speak nor basely flatter, Nor grovelling go: But let plain truths, as Life's pure water, Pellucid flow.

The sinner level with the dead, The Lamb exalt, the Church's Head, His holiness, adoring spread, With G.o.dly zeal: Enforce, though sinless, how He bled For sinners' weal.

Pourtray how G.o.d in thunder spoke His fiery Law, whilst curling smoke, In terror fierce, from Sinai broke, Midst raging flame!

Then Jesu's milder blood invoke, And preach His name.

Remember still to fear the Lord, To live, as well as preach, His word, And wield the Gospel's two-edged sword, Though dangers lower-- Example only can afford To precept power.

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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.s 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 st.u.r.dy 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; I write to fit you for the skies On Day of Doom.

What, though you dwell in lowly cot, And share through life a humble lot?

Some thousands wealth and fame have got, Yet know no rest: They build, pull down, and scheme and plot, And die unblest.

Your mean attire and scanty fare Are, doubtless, springs of bitter care-- Expose you blus.h.i.+ng, trembling, bare, To haughty scorn; Yet murmur not in black despair, Nor weep forlorn.

You see that lordling glittering ride In all the pomp of wealth and pride, With lady lolling at his side, And train attendant: 'Tis all, when felt and fairly tried, But care resplendent.

As riches grow his wants increase, His pa.s.sions burn and gnaw his peace, Ambition foams like raging seas And breaks the rein, Excess produces pale disease And racking pain.

Compared with him thrice happy you; Though small your stock your wants are few-- Each wild desire your toils subdue, And sweeten rest, Remove all fancied ills from view, And calm your breast.

Your labours give the coa.r.s.est food A relish sweet and cleanse the blood, Make cheerful health in spring-tide flood Incessant boil, And seldom restless thoughts obtrude On daily toil.

Those relish least who proudly own Rich groves and parks familiar grown; The gazing stranger pa.s.sing on Enjoys them most-- The toy possessed--the pleasure's flown, For ever lost.

Then grateful let each murmur die, And joyous wipe the tearful eye: Erect a palace in the sky-- Be rich in grace: Loathe this vain world, and longing sigh For Jesu's face.

Both rich and poor, who serve not G.o.d, But live in sin, averse to good, Rejecting Christ's atoning blood, Midst h.e.l.lish shoals, Shall welter in that fiery flood, Which hissing rolls.

But all who wors.h.i.+p G.o.d aright, In Christ His Son and image bright, With minds illumed by Gospel light, Shall find the way That leads to bliss, and take their flight To heavenly day.

There rich and poor, and high and low, Nor sin, nor pain, nor sorrow know: There Christ with one eternal glow Gives life and light-- There streams of pleasure ever flow, And pure delight.

Christ says to all with sin oppressed, "Come here, and taste of heavenly rest, Receive Me as your friendly guest Into your cots; In Me you shall be rich and blest, Though mean your lots.

"Behold My hands, My feet, My side, All crimsoned with the b.l.o.o.d.y tide!

For you I wept, and bled, and died, And rose again: And throned at My Father's side, Now plead amain!

"Repent, and enter Mercy's door, And though you dwell in cots obscure, All guilty, ragged, hungry, poor, I give in love A crown of gold, and pardon sure, To each above."

Then hear the kind, inviting voice-- Believing in the Lord rejoice; Your souls will hymn the happy choice To G.o.d on high, Whilst joyful angels swell the noise Throughout the sky.

A fond farewell!--each cottage friend, To Jesu's love I would commend Your souls and bodies to the end Of life's rough way; Then (death subdued) may you ascend To endless day!

THE COTTAGER'S HYMN.

I.

My food is but spare, And humble my cot, Yet Jesus dwells there And blesses my lot: Though thinly I'm clad, And tempests oft roll, He's raiment, and bread, And drink to my soul.

II.

His presence is wealth, His grace is a treasure, His promise is health And joy out of measure.

His word is my rest, His spirit my guide: In Him I am blest Whatever betide.

III.

Since Jesus is mine, Adieu to all sorrow; I ne'er shall repine, Nor think of to-morrow: The lily so fair, And raven so black, He nurses with care, Then how shall I lack?

IV.

Each promise is sure, That s.h.i.+nes in His word, And tells me, though poor, I'm rich in my Lord.

Hence! Sorrow and Fear!

Since Jesus is nigh, I'll dry up each tear And stifle each sigh.

V.

Though prince, duke, or lord, Ne'er enter my shed, King Jesus my board With dainties does spread.

Since He is my guest, For joy I shall sing, And ever be blest In Jesus my King.

VI.

With horrible din Afflictions may swell,-- They cleanse me from sin, They save me from h.e.l.l: They're all but the rod Of Jesus, in love; They lead me to G.o.d And blessings above.