JOHN BUNYAN,

66 THE PRINCE OF DREAMERS."

DON'T talk to me of Charlemagne,
Napoleon, or the Czar,

Whose deeds, like dazzling stars of night,
So cold and brilliant are.

I care not for your conquerors,
Who glare in history's page,

And with their swords and helmet plumes,
Have strutted on the stage.

Give me the men of gentle blood,

The inmates of the cell,

The victims of man's cruelty,

Of these I love to tell.

Of those who sprang, too, from the ranks
On which the haughty frown;
And won their laurels, striving for
A pure unfading crown.

Come list to me, ye British boys,
Forget your sports awhile,
I'll tell you of the naughtiest lad
That e'er disgraced our isle.

The naughtiest lad, till grace divine
Renewed his vagrant heart,

And called him in the lists of truth
To act a warrior's part.

His name has travelled far abroad-
What child but knows it well!
Then come my lads, and maidens too,
While I his history tell.

His picture hangs before me now;
It looks me in the face:
Those lips, I think I hear them say,
"A sinner saved by grace."

No. 101.

121

JOHN BUNYAN, "THE PRINCE OF DREAMERS."

For if a sinner e'er there was,
JOHN BUNYAN sure was he;
A sinner, saved by grace divine,
By grace, divine and free.

Oh! he would swear a dreadful oath;

Such ribald songs would sing;
Foremost in rabble and in rout,
The leader of the ring.

What cared John for God's holy word,
Or for God's holy day?

The ale-bench was his Sunday seat,
When others met to pray.

The ale-bench and the village green,
The alleys and the lanes,
Resounding with his boist'rcus songs,
His loose ungodly strains.

Near Bedford town this lad was born,-
Elstow, the hamlet's name;

Two hundred years have fled since John
Did these sad deeds of shame.

But let them pass! The Saviour's blood
Washed them all away;

Into his fold the Shepherd drew
This sheep that went astray.
By terror stricken to the ground,
Like Saul, he prostrate fell;
But oh! the anguish of his heart,
What mortal tongue can tell!

In vain he strove, as thousands do,
To make his peace with God;
The more he strove, the more he felt
The overwhelming load.

He took that load to Sinai's foot;
The mountain threatened sore:
He cast it down at Calvary's cross,
And felt his guilt no more.

Behold John now a christian man,
Begirt with armour bright;

JOHN BUNYAN, "THE PRINCE OF DREAMERS."

With helmet, breast-plate, shield, and sword,
Well harness'd for the fight.

Salvation's helmet guards his head,
God's righteousness his heart;
The shield of faith wards every thrust
Of spear or venom'd dart.

With sword in hand, God's holy word,
Forth to the fight he goes,
Resolved to conquer with his Lord,
Nor quail before his foes.

He calls on rebels to return,

And serve, with him, their King;
Their hands to lift in holy prayer,
And down their weapons fling;
Destruction's City to forsake,

With all its pomps so gay;
With him to seek the Wicket Gate
That leads the narrow way.

To climb the hill, though difficult,
To shun the fowler's snare;
To buy the truth; and sell it not
In Vanity's lewd fair.

To brave the scoff, the gibe, the sneer,
The dungeon, and the stake;
To bear reproach with Him, who bore
The Cross for sinners' sake.

To tremble not to cross the stream,
Though dark and deep it flows;
Assured that life in death will end,
And toil in sweet repose.

The tongue that used to curse before,
Now blesses all around;

John calls his neighbours to behold
The Saviour he had found.

Proclaims His grace in street and lane,

In hamlet, village, town;

His Master smiled; so what heeds John
Who else might sneer or frown?

JOHN BUNYAN, "THE PRINCE OF DREAMERS."

But sneer, and frown, and impious threat,
To savage actions grew;

O ne'er again may bigot hands
Such scenes of woe renew!

They dragged the Preacher from his home;
They cast him into jail;

What cared they for his children's cry-
Their mother's frantic wail?

While curses, oaths, and ribald songs
Flowed from his lips amain;

While John was Elstow's shame and pest,
Of old and young the bane-

The foes of Jesus and his grace

Looked on; they looked and smiled;
But now his heart to God is turned,
With rage those foes are wild.

Yet who shall bind God's holy word?
Man oft has tried in vain-
Paul, Silas, Peter, Bunyan, say,

What walls can it retain?

The martyr's blood, the prisoner's sighs,

The meek confessor's voice,

Have foiled hell's deepest, darkest, schemes,
And made God's saints rejoice.

Paul, when a prisoner in Rome,
His sacred letters penn'd,

Which Rome would barter gems and gold
To cancel, burn, and rend.

Bold Luther, in old Wartburgh's tower,
Unlocked God's holy page

For kith, and kin, and countrymen,
Despite the tyrant's rage.

And Bunyan, who shall count the names
Of those, whom thou hast led,
From paths of sin, and death, and woe,
To Him who groaned and bled.

They kept thee bound in prison walls
For twelve long lonesome years;

ANECDOTES AND SELECTIONS.

The young wife's plaints they heeded not,
Thy poor blind daughter's tears.

But God was with thy babes at home;
With thee, too, in the jail;

Sustained thee, cheered thee, suffer'd not
Thy faith, thy heart to fail.

Thy "Pilgrim" walks through every land;
Is clothed in every dress;
Where'er he goes a welcome finds,-
John's
's name all pilgrims bless.

Hail! Prince of Dreamers, England's pride,
Let others warriors hail;

I'll sing JOHN BUNYAN; who but he?
The star of Bedford Jail!

Oswestry.

C. S.

Anecdotes and Selections.

A MISSIONARY IN THE WEST INDIES mentioned the following striking instance of love for the public ordinances of religion:“Having ridden out in the evening to preach here, whilst I was in the act of concluding the sermon, my horse broke loose from his fastening, and galloped off into the woods, where he spent the night. A small fishing boat was immediately engaged to carry me home. Whilst preparing to embark, a poor decrepid old woman, about seventy years old, came and requested a passage over to Buck Island, a small desolate hill of sand about five hundred yards from Tortola, and by land nearly a mile and a half from the chapel where I had been preaching. On our passage towards her dwelling-for she lived on this island-I learnt that this venerable saint, literally bending under a weight of years, is in the habit of regularly passing from her dreary abode to Tortola, on a narrow bar of sunken rock, to and from preaching, every Wednesday evening when there is service, alone and on foot. There is generally some water upon this bar; yet on this dangerous reef, in many a dark and rough night, has this woman, with only her staff in her hand, heroically passed to the house of God. Will not her holy courage and zeal, her trust in God's providence, and her love to his ordinances, condemn the sloth of multitudes who live in our christian land, who suffer any trifling excuse to keep them from public worship?"