This fountain is opened for you: 
   Go, wash, without money or price;
And instantly formed anew,
   You’ll lose all your woes in a trice. 
Then cease, foolish heart, to repine,
   No stage is exempted from care;
If you would true happiness find,
   ’Tis on Calvary—­seek for it there.

WINTER-NIGHT MEDITATIONS.

Rude winter’s come, the sky’s o’ercast,
The night is cold and loud the blast,
The mingling snow comes driving down,
Fast whitening o’er the flinty ground. 
Severe their lots whose crazy sheds
Hang tottering o’er their trembling heads: 
Whilst blows through walls and chinky door
The drifting snow across the floor,
Where blinking embers scarcely glow,
And rushlight only serves to show
What well may move the deepest sigh,
And force a tear from pity’s eye. 
You there may see a meagre pair,
Worn out with labour, grief, and care: 
Whose naked babes, in hungry mood,
Complain of cold and cry for food;
Whilst tears bedew the mother’s cheek,
And sighs the father’s grief bespeak;
For fire or raiment, bed or board,
Their dreary shed cannot afford.

Will no kind hand confer relief,
And wipe away the tear of grief? 
A little boon it well might spare
Would kindle joy, dispel their care,
Abate the rigour of the night
And warm each heart—­achievement bright. 
Yea, brighter far than such as grace
The annals of a princely race,
Where kings bestow a large domain
But to receive as much again,
Or e’en corrupt the purest laws,
Or fan the breath of vain applause.

Peace to the man who stoops his head
To enter the most wretched shed: 
Who, with his condescending smiles,
Poor diffidence and awe beguiles: 
Till all encouraged, soon disclose
The different causes of their woes—­
The moving tale dissolves his heart: 
He liberally bestows a part
Of God’s donation.  From above
Approving Heaven, in smiles of love,
Looks on, and through the shining skies
The great Recording Angel flies
The doors of mercy to unfold,
And write the deed in lines of gold;
There, if a fruit of Faith’s fair tree,
To shine throughout eternity,
In honour of that Sovereign dread,
Who had no place to lay His head,
Yet opened wide sweet Mercy’s door
To all the desolate and poor,
Who, stung with guilt and hard oppressed,
Groaned to be with Him, and at rest.

Now, pent within the city wall,
They throng to theatre and hall,
Where gesture, look, and words conspire,
To stain the mind, the passions fire;
Whence sin-polluted streams abound,
That whelm the country all around. 
Ah!  Modesty, should you be here,
Close up the eye and stop the ear;
Oppose your fan, nor peep beneath,
And blushing shun their tainted breath.