In the morning I resolved not to think of them till
I had had my silent devotions; they came upon me
while I was dressing, and, having forgotten one line,
I stayed long making a substitute: then I retired to
read, and, if possible, to pray, but it was not possible
in that condition: I did but sit squaring and polishing
my lines; and having finished them to my heart's
content, I gave them to my father about the middle
of the day, conscious, I could not but be, that they
had "passed as a cloud between the mental eye of
faith and things unseen." Every time they passed
through my mind, they seemed to sound my condemnation.
My evening retirement was dark and
sad; I felt as if any thing but this I could give up
for my Saviour's love; "all things are lawful, but all
things are not expedient;" and yet the taste and the
power were given me, with all things else, by God.
I had used them too in a right cause, but then the
talent of grace is far better. Which should be sacrificed?
Why sacrifice either? I could not deny that
it seemed impossible to keep both. But it might be
made useful, if well employed. "To obey is better
than sacrifice." Now they _are_ written, they might
just as well be printed; but the printing will probably
be the most hazardous part. I shall be sure to write
more, and nourish vanity: or else the sight of them
will cause remorse rather than pleasure. If I should
lose my soul through poetry? For the life of self
seems bound up in it; and "whosoever loveth his
life shall lose it." But perhaps it would be a needless