'Twas to save thee, child, from dying,
Save my dear from burning flame,
Bitter groans and endless crying,
That thy blest Redeemer came.

May'st thou live to know and fear him,
Trust and love him all thy days;
Then go dwell for ever near him,
See his face, and sing his praise!

I could give thee thousand kisses,
Hoping what I most desire;
Not a mother's fondest wishes
Can to greater joys aspire.

65

UNIVERSAL PRAYER.

FATHER of all! in every age,
In ev'ry clime, ador'd;
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.

Thou first great cause, least understood
Who all my sense confin'd

To know but this, that thou art good,
And that myself am blind:

Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
To know the good from ill;
And, binding nature fast in fate,
Let free the human will.

What conscience dictates to be done,

Or warns me not to do ;

This teach me more than hell to shun, That more than heaven pursue.

66

UNIVERSAL PRAYER.

What blessings thy free bounty gives,

Let me not cast away;

For God is paid when man receives :
T'enjoy is to obey.

Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound,
Or think thee Lord alone of man,
When thousand worlds are round.

Let not this weak unknowing hand
Presume thy bolts to throw,
Or deal damnation round the land
On each I judge thy foe.

If I am right, thy grace impart,
Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, O teach my heart
To find the better way.

Save me alike from foolish pride,
Or impious discontent

At aught thy wisdom has deny'd,
Or aught thy goodness lent.

Teach me to feel another's woe
To hide the fault I see;

That mercy I to others shew,
That mercy shew to me.

Mean tho' I am, not wholly so,
Since quicken'd by thy breath:
O lead me whereso'er I go,

Thro' this day's life or death.

This day be bread and peace my lot;
All else beneath the sun,
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not,
And let thy will be done.

To thee, whose temple is all space,
Whose altar-earth, sea, skies,
One chorus let all beings raise,
All nature's incense rise.

68

THE

BEGGAR'S PETITION.

Prry the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;

Oh, give relief, and heaven will bless

your store.

These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;

And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek

Has been the channel to a flood of tears.

Yon house erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect drew me from my road;