A boy was sick, and scarce could eat;
To him it proved a welcome treat:
Jack called me spendthrift not to save;
Will dubbed me fool because I gave;
But when our last day came, I smiled,
For Will's were gone, and Jack's were spoiled:
Not hoarding much, nor eating fast,
I served a needy friend at last."
These tales the father's thoughts employ;
'By these," said he, "I know each boy:
Yet Jack, who hoarded what he had,
The world will call a frugal lad;
And selfish, gormandizing Will
Will meet with friends and favorers still ;
While moderate Tom, so wise and cool,
The mad and vain will deem a fool;
But I his sober plan approve,
And Tom has gained his father's love.
So, when our day of life is past,
And all are fairly judged at last,
The miser and the sensual find
How each misused the gifts assigned;
While he, who wisely spends and gives
To the true ends of living lives:
'Tis self-denying moderation
Gains the Great Father's approbation.
IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN DICK AND JOHN.
As at their work two weavers sat,
Beguiling time with friendly chat,
They touched upon the price of meat,
So high, a weaver scarce could eat.
"What with my brats and sickly wife,"
Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tired of life;
So hard my work, so poor my fare,
'Tis more than mortal man can bear.
"How glorious is the rich man's state!
His house so fine! his wealth so great!
Heaven is unjust, you must agree;
Why all to him? why none to me?
"In spite of what the Scripture teaches,
In spite of all the parson preaches,
This world (indeed I've thought so long)
Is ruled, methinks, extremely wrong.
"Where'er I look, howe'er I range,
'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange;
The good are troubled and oppressed,
And all the wicked are the blessed."
Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws,
Parts of his ways alone we know ;
'Tis all that man can see below.
"Seest thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun? Behold the wild confusion there!
So rude the mass it makes one stare!
"A stranger, ignorant of the trade,
Would say, 'No meaning's there conveyed;
For where's the middle, where's the border ?
Thy carpet now is all disorder.'"
Quoth Dick, "My work is yet in bits,
But still in every part it fits;
Besides, you reason like a lout;
Why, man, that carpet's inside out."
Says John, "Thou sayst the thing I mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen;
This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt,
Is but a carpet inside out.
"As, when we view these shreds and ends,
We know not what the whole intends;
So, when on earth things look but odd,
They're working still some scheme of God.
"No plan, no pattern, can we trace;
All wants proportion, truth, and grace;
The motley mixture we deride,
Nor see the beauteous upper side.
"But when we reach that world of light,
And view those works of God aright,
Then shall we see the whole design,
And own the Workman is divine.
"What now seem random strokes, will there All order and design appear;
Then shall we praise what here we spurned,
For then the carpet shall be turned."
"Thou'rt right," quoth Dick; "no more I'll grumble That this sad world's so strange a jumble;
My impious doubts are put to flight,
For my own carpet sets me right."
A GOOD INN IS A BAD HOME.
THERE was a prince of high degree,
As great and good as prince could be;
Much power and wealth were in his hand,
With lands and lordships at command.
One son, a favorite son, he had,
An idle, thoughtless kind of lad;
Whom, spite of all his follies passed,
He meant to make his heir at last.
The son escaped to foreign lands,
And broke his gracious sire's commands;
Far, as he fancied, from his sight,
In each low joy he took delight
The youth, detesting peace and quiet,
Indulged in vice, expense, and riot;
Of each wild pleasure rashly tasted,
Till health declined and substance wasted.
The tender sire, to pity prone,
Promised to pardon what was done;
And, would he certain terms fulfil,
He should receive a kingdom still.
The youth the pardon little minded,
So much his sottish soul was blinded;
But though he mourned no past transgression,
He liked the future rich possession.
He liked the kingdom when obtained,
But not the terms on which 'twas gained;
He hated pain and self-denial,
Chose the reward, but shunned the trial.
He knew his father's power, how great;
How glorious too the promised state!
At length resolves no more to roam,
But straight to seek his father's home.
His sire had sent a friend to say,
He must be cautious on his way;
Told him what road he must pursue,
And always keep his home in view.
The thoughtless youth set out indeed,
But soon he slackened in his speed;
For every trifle by the way
Seduced his idle heart astray.
By every casual impulse swayed,
On every slight pretence he staid;
To each, to all, his passions bend;
He quite forgets his journey's end.
For every sport, for every song,
He halted as he passed along;
Caught by each idle sight he saw,
He'd loiter e'en to pick a straw.
Whate'er was present seized his soul,
A feast, a show, a brimming bowl;
Contented with this vulgar lot,
His father's house he quite forgot.
'Those slight refreshments by the way,
Which were but meant his strength to stay,
So sunk his soul in sloth and sin,
He looked no farther than his inn.
His father's friend would oft appear,
And sound the promise in his ear;
Oft would he rouse him-" Sluggard, come!
This is thy inn, and not thy home."
|