A perfect band, in bright array,
Will form your crown,
Your joys triumphant wide display,
And sorrows drown.

And now farewell, my youthful friend--
Excuse these lines, in candour penned;
To me as freely counsel lend,
With zeal as fervent--
For you will pray, till life does end,
Your humble servant.




EPISTLE TO THE LABOURING POOR.


All you who turn the sturdy soil,
Or ply the loom with daily toil,
And lowly on through life turmoil
For scanty fare,
Attend, and gather richest spoil
To soothe your care.

I write with tender, feeling heart--
Then kindly read what I impart;
'Tis freely penned, devoid of art,
In homely style,
'Tis meant to ward off Satan's dart,