“It is a piece of ancient and sacred history which Moses informs us of, that when the tribes of Israel departed from the land of Egypt, they borrowed of their neighbours gold and jewels by the appointment of God, for the decoration of their sacrifices and solemn worship when they should arrive at the appointed place in the wilderness. God Himself taught His people how the richest of metals which had ever been abused to the worship of idols might be purified by the fire, and being melted up into a new form, might be consecrated to the service of the living God, and add to the magnificence and grandeur of His tabernacle and temple. Such are some of the poetical writings of the ancient heathens; they have a great deal of native beauty and lustre in them, and through some happy turn given them by the pen of a Christian poet may be transformed into Divine meditations, and may assist the devout and pious soul in several parts of the Christian life and worship. Amongst all the rest of the Pagan writers, I know none so fit for this service as the odes of Horace, as vile a sinner as he was. Their manner of composure comes nearer the spirit and force of the Psalms of David than any other; and as we take the devotions of the Jewish king, and bring them into our Christian churches, by changing the scene and the chronology, and superadding some of the glories of the Gospel so may the representation of some of the heathen virtues, by a little more labour, be changed into Christian graces, or, at least, into the image of them, so far as human power can reach. One day, musing on this subject, I made an experiment on the two last stanzas of Ode xxix, Book iii. ‘Non est meum, si mugiat Africis Malus procellis, ad miseras preces Decurrere, et votis pacisci, Ne Cypriæ Syriæque merces Addant avaro divitias mari; Dum me, biremis præsidio scaphæ, Nudum per Ægeos tumultus Aura ferat, geminusque Pollux.’ THE BRITISH FISHERMAN. Let Spain’s proud traders, when the mast Bends groaning to the stormy blast, Run to their beads with wretched plaints, And vow and bargain with their saints, Lest Turkish silks or Tyrian wares Sink in the drowning ship, Or the rich dust Peru prepares, Defraud their long projecting cares, And add new treasures to the greedy deep. My little skiff that skims the shores, With half a sail and two short oars, Provides me food in gentler waves; But if they gape in watery graves I trust the Eternal Power, whose hand Has swelled the storm on high, To waft my boat and me to land, Or give some angel swift command To bear the drowning sailor to the sky.”