Its breathings play:
The spider's web, all tattered flees,
Like thought, away.

Thus worldlings lean on broken props,
And idly weave their cobweb-hopes,
And hang o'er hell by spider's ropes,
Whilst sins enthral;
Affliction blows--their joy elopes--
And down they fall! {235}




EPISTLE TO A YOUNG CLERGYMAN.


"Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to
be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth."--2 TIMOTHY ii. 15.

My youthful brother, oft I long
To write to you in prose or song;
With no pretence to judgment strong,
But warm affection--
May truest friendship rivet long
Our close connection!

With deference, what I impart
Receive with humble grateful heart,
Nor proudly from my counsel start,