SONG FOR PAINE'S BIRTHDAY.
That our Chief was intemperate, let those
Strong impulses answer, that hold us;
Base, sordid, and sensual-his foes,
And Cheetham, confound him! have told us. That his heart was insensible to
True friendship and love, they proclaim; To deny it, were folly,-'tis true;
Yet who may the patriot blame?
A drunkard he might be—he was;
We confess it a low debauchee;
Yet we may not scout him, because
Some of us of like kidney may be.
A toast, then, for him who could hush
The thunders of Britain, afar;
Who strove, alas, vainly, to crush
The shine of the Nazarene's Star!
They tell us, his sun set in night;
It faltered, as faltered his breath; He shrieked in his fearful affright,
When he felt the cold welcome of death,And those who deem not, for the few,
A world is created of bliss,
As they gazed on the wretch, thought 'twas true, A hell might be kindled in this.
We care not,-it cannot refute,
Even though at the last he had shame
SONG FOR PAINE'S BIRTHDAY.
That unto proud man and the brute,
The finale is one and the same.
He might have been out of his head,—
His biographer, sure, might deceive us,—
How he ought to have gone to the dead,
We tell, and the many believe us.
His bones, to the fast anchored isle,
Were sent by disciples, we know;
Had they left us a relic, we'd smile,
Were it but from the thorax, or toe:
Such gleaning of genius, divine,
His skeleton never had missed;
At supper, when passes the wine,
What a gem to be toasted and kissed!
Yet if here, we've no relic to show
Of him, whom we honour as First,
At least, we'll have jollity's flow,-
'Twere a monument worthy his dust.
Then here's to the patriot and sage;—
Boon friends! fill the glasses again,
To him, that created the Age
Of Reason and Liberty, PAINE!
THERE was a Shepherd, once, whose tender care
Was ever o'er his flock. By night and day
He watched and guarded them. In pleasant pas-
He led them carefully, and when they thirsted,
He brought them to clear waters. Him, they loved
To follow, and would fondly lick his hand,
In sign of strong attachment.
A sheep, that ever, frowardly, did rove,
And heeded not the Shepherd. Kind allurements
Were urged in vain, for she would have her will,
And neither heard his voice nor followed him.
Her master, seeing all endeavour vain,
To win her from her wanderings, took her lamb,
But, gently-in his arms, and went his way.
Immediately, the sheep, submissive, followed.
Mother! that weepest for thy little babe, Taken, to win thy wayward step to HeavenSay, Was the Shepherd cruel?
A COUPLE once, the followers, in name,
Of Him, who meekly bore our sin and shame,—
Lived in our county. Decent, thrifty, they
Were wedded to the world. No one could say
They were not sober; did not pay their dues;
Or alms to worthy Want would e'er refuse.
At church, they always filled accustomed place,
Hoping to gain some influence, if not grace.
And thus they lived, as thousands live, whose care
Is bent on earth, nor seeks to heaven in prayer.
Content, if for this world 'twas theirs to thrive,
Dead, thus to be,-in name, alone, alive.
One son was theirs-a boy, that had fourteen
Joyous, and bright, and thoughtless summers seen.
Of generous impulse, open as the day,-
The father's pride, the mother's future stay,
Yet found not in the safe and narrow way.
Till grace came down, in unexpected hour,
And touched his bosom with resistless power;
And bade him look upon his misspent time,
Taken from Him, who asks the morning's prime ;
And bade him see his young affections given
To childish folly,—yea, to all, but Heaven.
Thought awoke.—A dreadful sound was in his ears;
It told of stain, not to be washed by tears;—
Of debt, heaven's pitying angels could not pay,-
Of guilt, hell's fires could never purge away.
Looked he without?-without, was blank despair;
Within ?—the Spirit's arrow quivered there.
Alarmed, convicted, whither should he fly ?—
"Twas midnight-yet he felt the Omniscient eye
Rest on his follies. On his sins now shone
The searching beams of the discerning throne.
He trembled-wept-and rose, and sought the room
Where slept his parents. Troubled for his doom,
He stood. His earnest knock roused them from
They heard him softly sigh, they heard him weep
And, Father! Mother! rise-they heard him say,
For my poor wretched soul, O rise and pray!
It took them by surprise. How could they ask
Mercy, in prayer, to whom prayer was a task?
What knew they of the sickness of the soul,
Who felt no need-who deemed that they were
whole?
They waived his plea, and soothed the anxious boy,
And urged to sleep, which should such thoughts
Reluctant, yet obedient, back to bed
[destroy. He went, yet not to rest, for rest had fled. Morn came the day past on—no kindly word, Or how he fared, the youth, awakened, heard.
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