ON PRAYER. The Lord regards not words, we may Be silent and yet pray: 'Tis the intention of the heart, Tho' vocal prayers be daily used, 'Cause God esteems them so. Our charity and mercy shown, Will plead our cause alone: Such acts of our obedience. Is the best eloquence. And does in heaven gain more regard, Our arms, do double use obtain, When penitence does plead for sin, Acknowledging the grace we have, Must raise us from the grave, And put us in a decent frame To call upon God's name; There practick prayers will do the deed, In language rude and bold; From wants, from fears, or doubt Of our condition, which may be Words without modesty. When pious works fail not to bring Of Heaven, the searcher of our hearts, In language, by him all disguised, And the poor holy ignorant Will sooner get a grant Of his desire, than thou or I, With all our orat'ry. When our good works and words agree, They both accepted be. THE POOR MAN'S PRAYER, &s, Amidst the more important toils of state, O Chatham, nursed in ancient virtue's lore, To these sad strains incline a favouring ear; Think on the God, whom thou, and 1 adore Nor turn unpitying from the Poor Man's Prayer. Ah me! how blest was once a peasant's life!. I ne'er for guilty, painful pleasure roved, To gild her worth, I ask'd no wealthy dower, And she, the faithful partner of my care, When ruddy evening streak'd the western sky, Look'd towards the uplands, if her mate was there, Or through the beech-wood cast an anxious eye: Then, careful matron, heap'd the maple board While I, contented with my homely cheer, But ah! how changed the scene! on the cold stones, Where wont at night to blaze the chearful fire, Pale famine sits, and counts her naked bones, Still sighs for food, still pines with vain desire. My faithful wife with ever-streaming eyes Dear tender pledges of my honest love, On that bare bed behold your brother lie; Three tedious days with pinching want he strove, The fourth, I saw the helpless cherub die. Nor long shall ye remain. With visage sour Bids me and mine o'er barren mountains roam. Yet never, Chatham, have I pass'd a day Ne'er have I squander'd hours in sport and play, Hard was my fare, and constant was my toil; Still with the morning's orient light I rose, Fell'd the stout oak or raised the lofty pile, Parch'd in the sun, in dark December froze. Is it that Nature with a niggard hand Withholds her gifts from these once-favour'd plains? Has God, in vengeance to a guilty land, Sent death and famine to her labouring swains? Ah no, yon hill, where daily sweets my brow, But what avails, that o'er the furrow'd soil Untasted plenty wound my craving eyes? |