Lord! make me understand thy law;
Show what my faults have been;
And from thy gospel let me draw
Pardon for all my sin.

For here I learn how Jesus died,
To save my soul from hell:
Not all the books on earth beside
Such heav'nly wonders tell.

Then let me love my Bible more,"
And take a fresh delight,
By day to read these wonders o'er,
And meditate by night.

COMPASSION AND FORGIVENESS.

I HEAR the voice of wo;

A brother mortal mourns:

My eyes with tears, for tears o'erflow, My heart his sighs returns.

I hear the thirsty cry;

The famish'd beg for bread:
O let my spring its stream supply;
My hand its bounty shed.-

And shall not wrath relent,

Touch'd by that humble strain, My brother crying, "I repent, Nor will offend again?"

How else on sprightly wing,

Can Hope bear high my pray'r
Up to thy throne, my God, my King,
To plead for pardon there?

SCOTT

SECTION V.

THE SLAVE.

WIDE o'er the tremulous sea,

The moon spread her mantle of light;
And the gale gently dying away,
Breath'd soft on the bosom of night.

On the forecastle Maratan stood;
And pour'd forth his sorrowful tale;
His tears fell unseen in the flood ;

His sighs pass'd unheard in the gale.

"Ah wretch "" in wild anguish he cried, "From country and liberty torn!

Ah, Maratan, would thou hadst died,

Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne!

Thro' the groves of Angola I stray'd,

Love and hope made my bosom their home; There I talk'd with my favourite maid, Nor dreamt of the sorrow to come.

From the thicket the man-hunter sprung,
My cries echoed loud through the air:
There was fury and wrath on his tongue;

He was deaf to the voice of despair.

Flow, ye tears, down my cheeks ever flow;
Still let sleep from my eye-lids depart;
And still may the arrows of wo

Drink deep of the stream of my heart:

But hark! o'er the silence of night
My Adila's accents I hear;
And mournful, beneath the wan light,
I see her lov'd image appear.

Slow o'er the smooth ocean she glides,

As the mist that hangs light on the wave;
And fondly her partner she chides,
Who lingers so long from his grave.

Oh, Maratan! haste thee,' she cries,
Here the reign of oppression is o'er;
The tyrant is robb'd of his prize,
And Adila sorrows no more.'

Now sinking amidst the dim ray,
Her form seems to fade on my view:
O! stay thee, my Adila, stay!-
She beckons and I must pursue.

To-morrow the white man, in vain,
Shall proudly account me his slave:

My shackles I plunge in the main,

And rush to the realms of the brave !"*

* It may not be improper to remind the young reader, that the anguish of the unhappy negroes, on being separated forever from their country and dearest connexions, with the dreadful prospect of perpetual slavery, frequently becomes so exquisite as to produce derangement of mind, and suicide.

SECTION VI.

THE GOLDFINCHES.

ALL in a garden, on a currant bush,
Two Goldfinches had built their airy seat;
In the next orchard liv'd a friendly thrush,
Nor distant far, a woodlark's soft retreat.

Here, blest with ease, and in each other blest,

With early songs they wak'd the neighb'ring groves; Till time matur'd their joy, and crown'd their nest With infant pledges of their faithful loves.

And now, what transport glow'd in either's eye!
With equal fondness dealt th' allotted food!
What joy each other's likeness to desery,
And future sonnets in the chirping brood!

But ah! what earthly happiness can last?
How does the fairest purpose often fail!
A truant school-boy's wantonnéss could blast
Their flutt'ring hopes, and leave them both to wail.

The most ungentle of his tribe was he;

No gen❜rous precept ever touch'd his heart: With concord false, and hideous prosody, He scrawl'd his task, and blunder'd o'er his part.

On mischief bent, he mark'd with rav'nous eyes, Where, wrapt in down, the callow songsters lay; Then rushing, rudely seiz'd the glitt'ring prize, And bore it in his impious hands away!

But how shall I describe, in numbers rude,

The pangs for poor, Chrysomitris decreed, When, from her secret stand, aghast, she view'd The cruel spoiler perpetrate the deed?

"O grief of griefs!" with shrieking voice she cried, "What sight is this that I have liv'd to see! O! that I had in youth's fair season died, From all false joys, and bitter sorrows free.

Was it for this, alas! with weary bill,

Was it for this I pois'd th' unwieldy straw? For this I bore the moss from yonder hill,

Nor shunn'd the pond'rous stick along to draw?

Was it for this, I pick'd the wool with care,

Intent with nicer skill our work to crown; For this, with pain, I bent the stubborn hair, And lin❜d our cradle with the thistle's down?

Was it for this my freedom I resign'd,

And ceas'd to rove at large from plain to plain; For this I sat at home whole days confin'd,

To bear the scorching heat, and pealing rain?

Was it for this my watchful eyes grow dim?
For this the roses on my cheek turn pale ?
Pale is my golden plumage, once so trim !
And all my wonted mirth and spirits fail!"

Thus sung the mournful bird her piteous tale :-
The piteous tale her mournful mate return'd:
Then side by side they sought the distant vale;
And there in secret sadness inly meurn'd.

JAGO.