night;
  None better skilled the noisy pack to guide,
  To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide;
  A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day,
  And, skilled at whist, devotes the night to play: 
  Then, while such honours bloom around his head,
  Shall he sit sadly by the sick man’s bed,
  To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal
  To combat fears that e’en the pious feel?

* * * * *

And hark! the riots of the green begin,
That sprang at first from yonder noisy inn;
What time the weekly pay was vanished all,
And the slow hostess scored the threatening wall;
What time they asked, their friendly feast to close,
A final cup, and that will make them foes;
When blows ensue that break the arm of toil,
And rustic battle ends the boobies’ broil.

  Save when to yonder hall they bend their way,
  Where the grave justice ends the grievous fray;
  He who recites, to keep the poor in awe,
  The law’s vast volume—­for he knows the law:—­
  To him with anger or with shame repair
  The injured peasant and deluded fair. 
  Lo! at his throne the silent nymph appears,
  Frail by her shape, but modest in her tears;
  And while she stands abashed, with conscious eye,
  Some favourite female of her judge glides by,
  Who views with scornful glance the strumpet’s fate,
  And thanks the stars that made her keeper great;
  Near her the swain, about to bear for life
  One certain, evil, doubts ’twixt war and wife;
  But, while the faltering damsel takes her oath,
  Consents to wed, and so secures them both.

  Yet why, you ask, these humble crimes relate,
  Why make the poor as guilty as the great? 
  To show the great, those mightier sons of pride,
  How near in vice the lowest are allied;
  Such are their natures and their passions such,
  But these disguise too little, those too much: 
  So shall the man of power and pleasure see
  In his own slave as vile a wretch as he;
  In his luxurious lord the servant find
  His own low pleasures and degenerate mind;
  And each in all the kindred vices trace
  Of a poor, blind, bewildered, erring race;
  Who, a short time in varied fortune past,
  Die, and are equal in the dust at last.

  JOHN NEWTON

  A VISION OF LIFE IN DEATH

  In evil long I took delight,
  Unawed by shame or fear,
  Till a new object struck my sight,
  And stopped my wild career;
  I saw One hanging on a Tree
  In agonies and Blood,
  Who fixed His languid eyes on me,
  As near His cross I stood.

  Sure never till my latest breath
  Can I forget that look: 
  It seemed to charge me with His death,
  Though not a word he spoke: 
  My conscience felt and owned the guilt,
  And plunged me in despair;
  I saw my sins His blood had spilt,
  And helped to nail Him there.