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most valuable works to which genius has ever given existence. If the earliest impressions are of the greatest importance, because the most effective and the most enduring, how essential is it that the bias of the young mind should be towards virtue, honesty, industry, and humanity! There is no lesson in either which Dr. Watts has left untaught. Children lisp his verses long before they can read them—the moral fixes upon the mind through the imagination, and is retained for life. The “Divine Songs” are neither too high nor - what is less easy of attainment -- too low for the comprehension of a child, and they tempt perusal and thought by the graces of easy rhyme. They are simple without being weak; and they reason without being argumentative; they are just of sufficient length to be cominitted to memory, without being long enough to become wearisome as a task. They are indeed the most perfect examples in our language of the achievement of that which a writer desires to achieve. We regard Dr. Watts, therefore, as one of the greatest benefactors of human kind; and may search in vain through the thousand tomes of our poets for so many golden verses as we find in these “ Divine Songs for Children."

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Now let my faith grow strong and rife,

And view my Lord in all his love: Look back to hear his dying cries,

Then mount and see his throne above.

See where he languish'd on the cross ;

Beneath my sins he groan'd and died; See where he sits to plead my cause

By his almighty Father's side.

If I behold his bleeding heart,

There love in floods of sorrow reigns, He triumphs o'er the killing smart,

And buys my pleasure with his pains.

Or if I climb th' eternal hills,

Where the dear Conqueror sits enthron'd, Still in his heart compassion dwells,

Near the memorials of his wound.

How shall a pardon'd rebel show

How much I love my dying God ? Lord, here I banish ev'ry foe,

I hate the sins that cost thy blood.

I hold no more commerce with hell,

My dearest lusts shall all depart ; But let thine image ever dwell

Stampt as a seal upon my heart.


Mylo, forbear to call him blest
That only boasts a large estate,
Should all the treasures of the west
Meet, and conspire to make him great.
I know thy better thoughts, I know
Thy reason can't descend so low.
Let a broad stream with golden sands

Through all his meadows roll,
He's but a wretch, with all his lands,

That wears a narrow soul.

He swells amidst his wealthy store,
And proudly poizing where he weighs,
In his own scale he fondly lays

Huge heaps of shining ore.
He spreads the balance wide to hold

His manors and his farms,
And cheats the beam with loads of gold

He hugs between his arms.
So might the plough-boy climb a tree,

When Cræsus mounts his throne,
And both stand up, and smile to see

How long their shadow's grown. Alas! how vain their fancies be

To think that shape their own!

Thus mingled still with wealth and state,
Cresus himself can never know,
His true dimensions and his weight
Are far inferior to their show.
Were I so tall to reach the pole,
Or grasp the ocean with my span,
I must be measur’d by my soul :
The mind's the standard of the man.


SAY, mighty Love, and teach my song,
To whom thy sweetest joys belong,

And who the happy pairs,
Whose yielding hearts and joining hands,
Find blessings twisted with their bands,

To soften all their cares.
Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
That thoughtless fly into thy chains,

As custom leads the way :
If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,

And be as blest as they.
Nor sordid souls of earthly mould,
Who drawn by kindred charms of gold,

To dull embraces move;
So two rich mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too,

And make a world of love.
Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flames; those raging fires

The purer bliss destroy:
On Ætna's top let furies wed,
And sheets of lightning dress the bed,

T' improve the burning joy.
Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting passion warms,

Can mingle hearts and hands :
Logs of green wood that quench the coals,
Are marry'd just like stoic souls,

With osiers for their bands.

Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still silent, or that still complain,

Can the dear bondage bless :
As well may heavenly concerts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,

Or none besides the bass.

Nor can the soft enchantments hold
Two jarring souls of angry mould,

The rugged and the keen :

young foxes might as well
In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell,

With firebrands tied between.

Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;

For love abhors the sight:
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear

Rise and forbid delight.

Two kindred souls alone must meet,
”Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,

And feeds their mutual loves :
Bright Venus on her rolling throne
Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,

And Cupids yoke the doves.


Hast thou not seen, impatient boy,

Hast thou not read the solemn truth,
That gray experience writes for giddy youth

On every mortal joy ?
Pleasure must be dash'd with pain :

And yet, with heedless haste,

The thirsty boy repeats the taste, Nor hearkens to despair, but tries the bowl again. The rills of pleasure never run sincere:

Earth has no unpolluted spring, From the curs'd soil some dangerous taint they bear; So roses grow on thorns, and honey wears a sting.

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