To His Invaluable Friend Mr. J.F. upon Husbandry Spiritualized
Ingenious Sir, what do I see? what now!
Are you come from the pulpit to the plow?
If so, then pardon me if I profess;
The plow deserves to be sent to the press.
'Tis not long since you went to sea they say,
Composed a compass which directs the way
And steers the course to heaven, O blest art!
And bravely done, that you did that impart
To us, who take it kindly at your hand,
And bless the Lord that you are come to [reconstructed: land].
To be a husbandman wherein your skill
With admiration does your readers fill.
One grain will yield increase, it's ten times ten,
When the earth's manured by such husbandmen.
We may expect rich harvests, and full crops,
When heavenly dew descends in such drops
Of spiritual rain, to water every field
That it full helps of grace to God may yield.
I must adore the wisdom of that God
That makes men wise, who even from a clod
Of earth can raise such heavenly meditation
To a pitch of highest elevation.
Besides, I mark the goodness of the Lord
Performing to us his faithful word,
That all shall work for good to the saints
Which in some measure lessens our complaints.
For though our pulpit mercies be grown less,
We have some gracious helps yet from the press.
And herein all the world may plainly see,
That faithful servants will not idle be.
We have some bricks, although the straw be gone.
The church at last shall be of polished stone.
Whatever men or devils act, or say,
Zion at last will have a glorious day.
The wretched muck-worm that from morn to night
Labors as if 'twere for a heavenly weight,
And when he has got all he can, the most
Amounts to little more than a poor crust
To feed his tired carcass, if himself
Have by his carking got a little pelf
Leave it he must, to one he knows not whom,
And then must come to eternal doom;
And hear his poor neglected wretched soul
Tell him at last that he has played the fool.
But here he's taught how he before he die
May lay up treasure for eternity.
Wherein he may be rich, indeed, much much more
Than they that do possess whole mines of ore.
When earth's more worth than heaven, and gold than grace
Then let the worldling run his brutish race,
But not before unless he does intend
To meet with soul-destruction in the end.
But I must leave him, and return again
To gratulate the author for his pain.
And here I can't forbear to let my pen
To tell the world of all the husbandmen
That ever I met, he, he has hit the vein
To recompense the laborer's hard pain,
And taught him how to get the greatest gain.
Wherein he treads a path not trod before,
By which indeed his skill appears the more.
I might give him encomiums great and true,
And yet come short of what's his due.
But I must not walk in forbidden ways
For thereby I am sure I should displease
His pious mind, who does and freely can
Give all the praise to the great Husbandman.
Who will his graces in his servants own,
But does expect himself to wear the crown,
Farewell dear Sir, I take my leave, and now
Will say no more but this, God speed the plow.
EDWARD JEFFERY.
