prodigality, grown
   Too big for your income and weal.

Ah!  Erin, if you would be great,
   And happy, and wealthy, and wise,
And trample your sorrows, elate,
   Contend for our cottager’s prize;

So error and vice shall decay,
   And concord add bliss to renown,
And you shall gleam brighter than day,
   The gem of the fair British Crown.

TO THE REV. J. GILPIN, ON HIS
IMPROVED EDITION OF THE “PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.”

When, Reverend Sir, your good design,
To clothe our Pilgrim gravely fine,
And give him gentler mien and gait,
First reached my ear, his doubtful fate
With dread suspense my mind oppressed,
Awoke my fears, and broke my rest.
Yet, still, had England said, “You’re free,
Choose whom you will,” dear sir, to thee,
For dress beseeming modest worth,
I would have led our pilgrim forth.

   But when I viewed him o’er and o’er,
And scrutinized the weeds he wore,
And marked his mien and marked his gait,
And saw him trample sin, elate,
And heard him speak, though coarse and plain,
His mighty truths in nervous strain,
I could not gain my own consent
To your acknowledged good intent.

   I had my fears, lest honest John,
When he beheld his polished son
(If saints ought earthly care to know),
Would take him for some Bond Street beau,

Or for that thing—it wants a name—
Devoid of truth, of sense and shame,
Which smooths its chin and licks its lip,
And mounts the pulpit with a skip,
Then turning round its pretty face,
To smite each fair one in the place,
Relaxes half to vacant smile,
And aims with trope and polished style,
And lisp affected, to pourtray
Its silly self in colours gay—
Its fusty moral stuff t’ unload,
And preach itself, and not its God.
Thus, wishing, doubting, trembling led,
I oped your book, your Pilgrim read.

   As rising Phœbus lights the skies,
And fading night before him flies,
Till darkness to his cave is hurled
And golden day has gilt the world,
Nor vapour, cloud, nor mist is seen
To sully all the pure serene:
So, as I read each modest line,
Increasing light began to shine,
My cloudy fears and doubts gave way,
Till all around shone Heaven’s own day.

   And when I closed the book, thought I,
Should Bunyan leave his throne on high;
He’d own the kindness you have done
To Christian, his orphan son:
And smiling as once Eden smiled,
Would thus address his holy child:—

   “My son, ere I removed from hence,
I spared nor labour nor expense

To gain for you the heavenly prize,
And teach you to make others wise.
But still, though inward worth was thine,
You lay a diamond in the mine:
You wanted outward polish bright
To show your pure intrinsic light.
Some knew your worth, and seized the prize,
And now are thronèd in the skies:
Whilst others swilled with folly’s wine,
But trod the pearl like the swine,
In ignorance sunk in their grave,
And thence, where burning oceans lave.
Now polished bright, your native flame
And inward worth are still the same;
A flaming diamond still you glow,
In brighter hues: then cheery go—
More suited by a skilful hand
To do your father’s high command:
Fit ornament for sage or clown,
Or beggar’s rags, or kingly crown.

THE COTTAGE MAID.

Aloft on the brow of a mountain,
And hard by a clear running fountain,
      In neat little cot,
      Content with her lot,
Retired, there lives a sweet maiden.

Her father is dead, and her brother—
And now she alone with her mother
      Will spin on her wheel,
      And sew, knit, and reel,
And cheerfully work for their living.

To gossip she never will roam,
She loves, and she stays at, her home,
      Unless when a neighbour
      In sickness does labour,
Then, kindly, she pays her a visit.

With Bible she stands by her bed,
And when some blest passage is read,
      In prayer and in praises
      Her sweet voice she raises
To Him who for sinners once died.

Well versed in her Bible is she,
Her language is artless and free,
      Imparting pure joy,
      That never can cloy,
And smoothing the pillow of death.

To novels and plays not inclined,
Nor aught that can sully her mind;
      Temptations may shower,—
      Unmoved as a tower,
She quenches the fiery arrows.

She dresses as plain as the lily
That modestly glows in the valley,
      And never will go
      To play, dance or show—
She calls them the engines of Satan.

With tears in her eyes she oft says,
“Away with your dances and plays!
      The ills that perplex
      The half of our sex
Are owing to you, Satan’s engines.”

Released from her daily employment,
Intent upon solid enjoyment,
      Her time she won’t idle,
      But reads in her Bible,
And books that divinely enlighten.

Whilst others at wake, dance, and play
Chide life’s restless moments away,
      And ruin their souls—
      In pleasure she rolls,
The foretaste of heavenly joys.

Her soul is refined by her Lord,
She shines in the truths of His Word:
      Each Christian grace
      Shines full in her face,
And heightens the glow of her charms.

One day as I passed o’er the mountain,
She sung by a clear crystal fountain
      (Nor knew I was near);
      Her notes charmed my ear,
As thus she melodiously chanted:

“Oh! when shall we see our dear Jesus?
His presence from poverty frees us,—
      And bright from His face
      The rays of His grace
Beam, purging transgression for ever.

“Oh! when shall we see our dear Jesus?
His presence from sorrow will ease us,
      When up to the sky
      With angels we fly—
Then farewell all sorrow for ever!

“Come quickly! come quickly, Lord Jesus!
Thy presence alone can appease us;
      For aye on Thy breast
      Believers shall rest,
Where blest they shall praise Thee for ever.”

Oh, had you but seen this sweet maiden!
She smiled like the flowers of Eden,
      And raised to the skies
      Her fond beaming eyes,
And sighed to be with her Redeemer

While thus she stood heavenly musing,
And sometimes her Bible perusing,
      Came over the way,
      All silvered with grey,
A crippled and aged poor woman.

Her visage was sallow and thin,
Through her rags peeped her sunburnt skin;
      With sorrow oppressed,
      She held to her breast
An infant, all pallid with hunger.

Half breathless by climbing the mountain,
She tremblingly stood by the fountain,
      And begged that our maid
      Would lend her some aid,
And pity both her and her infant.

Our maiden had nought but her earning—
Her heart with soft pity was yearning;
      She drooped like a lily