The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew

Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew;

An infidel in health, but what when sick?

O-then a text would touch him at the quick;
View him at Paris in his last career,

Surrounding throngs the demigod revere;
Exalted on his pedestal of pride,

And fum'd with frankincense on ev'ry side,
He begs their flatt'ry with his latest breath,
And smother'd in't at last, is prais'd to death.

Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store;
Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;

She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,

Has little understanding, and no wit,

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Receives no praise; but, though her lot be such,

(Toilsome and indigent) she renders much;

Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true

A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;

And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

O happy peasant! O unhappy bard!
His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward;
He prais'd perhaps for ages yet to come,
She never heard of half a mile from home:
He lost in errours his vain heart prefers,
She safe in the simplicity of hers.

Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound

In science, win one inch of heav'nly ground.
And is it not a mortifying thought,

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The poor should gain it, and the rich should not? No-the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget

One pleasure lost, lose Heav'n without regret;

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Regret would rouse them, and give birth to

pray'r,

Pray'r would add faith, and faith would fix them

there.

YON COTTAGER, WHO WEAVES AT HER OWN DOOR,
PILLOW AND BOBBINS ALL HER LITTLE STORE:
JUST EARNS A SCANTY PITTANCE.

Vol.I.

LONDON, PUBLISHED JUNE 1.1810, BY JOHN SHARPE,PICCADILY

Not that the Former of us all in this,

Or aught he does, is govern'd by caprice:
The supposition is replete with sin,
And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in.
Not so the silver trumpet's heav'nly call
Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all:
Kings are invited, and would kings obey,

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No slaves on earth more welcome were than they: But royalty, nobility, and state,

Are such a dead preponderating weight,

That endless bliss (how strange soe'er it seem)
In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam.
"Tis open, and ye cannot enter-why?
Because ye will not, Conyers would reply-
And he says much, that many may dispute

And cavil at with ease, but none refute.

O bless'd effect of penury and want,

The seed sown there, how vig'rous is the plant! No soil like poverty for growth divine,

As leanest land supplies the richest wine,

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