Knock! He knows the sinner's cry: Weep! He loves the mourner's Tears: Watch!-for, saving grace is nigh: Wait,-till heavenly light appears."
“Hark! it is the bridegroom's voice: Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest; Now within the gate rejoice,
Safe and seal'd and bought and blest! Safe-from all the lures of vice, Seal'd-by signs the chosen know, Bought by love and life the price, Blest-the mighty debt to owe.
"Holy pilgrim! what for thee, In a world like this remain? From thy guarded breast shall flee, Fear and shame, and doubt and pain. Fear-the hope of Heaven shall fly, Shame from glory's view retire, Doubt-in certain rapture die, Pain-in endless bliss expire."
But though my day of grace was come, Yet still my days of grief I find; The former clouds' collected gloom, Still sadden the reflecting mind; The soul to evil things consign'd, Will of their evil some retain; The man will seem to earth inclin❜d, And will not look erect again.
Thus, though elect, I feel it hard, To lose what I possess'd before, To be from all my wealth debarr'd,— The brave Sir Eustace is no more; But old I wax and passing poor,
Stern, rugged men my conduct view; They chide my wish, they bar my door, - 'Tis hard-I weep-you see I do.
Must you, my friends, no longer stay? Thus quickly all my pleasures end? But I'll remember, when I pray,
My kind physician and his friend; And those sad hours, you deign to spend With me, I shall requite them all;
Sir Eustace for his friends shall send, And thank their love at Greyling Hall.
The poor Sir Eustace!-yet his hope, Leads him to think of joys again; And when his earthly visions droop,
His views of heavenly kind remain :But whence that meek and humble strain, That spirit wounded, lost, resign'd; Would not so proud a soul disdain
The madness of the poorest mind?
No! for the more he swell'd with pride, The more he felt misfortune's blow; Disgrace and grief he could not hide, And poverty had laid him low: Thus shame and sorrow working slow, At length this humble spirit gave ; Madness on these began to grow,
And bound him to his fiends a slave.
Though the wild thoughts had touch'd his brain, Then was he free: So, forth he ran;
To soothe or threat, alike were vain; He spake of fiends; look'd wild and wan; Year after year, the hurried man
Obey'd those fiends from place to place; Till his religious change began
To form a frenzied child of
For, as the fury lost its strength,
The mind repos'd; by slow degrees,
Came lingering Hope, and brought at length, To the tormented spirit, Ease:
This slave of sin, whom fiends could seize, Felt or believ'd their power had end; ""Tis faith," he cried, "my bosom frees, And now my SAVIOUR is my friend."
But ah! though time can yield relief, And soften woes it cannot cure;
Would we not suffer pain and grief, To have our reason sound and sure? Then let us keep our bosoms pure, Our fancy's favourite flights suppress; Prepare the body to endure,
And bend the mind to meet distress; And then his guardian care implore, Whom dæmons dread and men adore.
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