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The Lord regards not words, we may

Be silent and yet pray: 'Tis the intention of the heart,

That doth our zeal impart. Tho' vocal prayers be daily used,

Our sighs are not refused; And our good deeds for prayers do go

'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,

For pardon and reward,
Than a whole age was ever known

To get by words alone.
Our arms, do double use obtain,

And multiply our gain ;
When penitence does plead for sin,

And gratitude steps in,
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,

And help us at our need, Much better than a story told

In language rude and bold; Such as rash fancies do throw out,

From wants, from fears, or doubt Of our condition, which may be

Words without modesty. When pious works fail not to bring

Us blessings from the King
Of Heaven, the searcher of our hearts,

Beyond the reach of arts
In language, by him all disguised,

Formalities despised,
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.


Amidst the niore important tvils of state,

The counsels labouring in thy patriot soul, Though Europe from thy voice expect her fate,

And thy keen glance extend from pole to pole,

O Chatham, nursed in ancient virtue's lore,

To these sad strains incline a favouring ear ; Think on the God, whom thou, and I adore Nor turn unpitying from the Poor Man's


Ah me! how blest was once a peasant's life!.

No lawless passion swell’d my even breasts Far from the roaring waves of civil strife,

Sound were my slumbers, and my heart at rest,

I ne'er for guilty, painful pleasure roved,

But taught by nature, and by choice to wed, From all the hamlet call'd whom best I loved, With her I shared my heart, with her



To gild her worth, I ask'd no wealthy dower,

My toil could feed her, and my arm defend ; I envied no man's riches; no man's power,

I ask'd of none to give, of none to lend.

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

With savoury herbs, and pick'd the nicer part From such plain food as nature could afford,

Ere simple nature was debauch'd by art.

While I, contented with my homely cheer,

Saw round my knees our prattling children play; And oft with pleased attention sat to hear

The little history of their idle day.

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

Hangs on my bosom her dejected head; My helpless infants raise their feeble cries,

And from their father claim their daily bread.

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

Our tyrant lord commands us from our home; And, arm’d with cruel law's coercive power,

Bids me and mine o'er barren mountains roam.

Yet never, Chatham, have I pass'd a day

In riots' orgies, or in idle ease; Ne'er have I squander'd hours in sport and play,

Nor wish'd a pamper'd appetite to please.

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,

A thousand flocks, a thousand herds adorn: Yon field, where late I drove the painful plough,

Feels all her acres crown'd with bending corn.

But what avails, that o'er the furrow'd soil

In Autumn's heat the yellow harvests rise,
If artificial want elude my tuil,
Untasted plenty wound my craving eyes?

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