And, shining each in his domestic sphere,
Shone brighter still, once call'd to public view.
'Tis therefore many, whose sequester'd lot
Forbids their interference, looking on,
Anticipate perforce some dire event;
And, seeing the old castle of the state,
That promis'd once more firmness, so assail'd,
That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake,
Stand motionless expectants of its fall.
All has its date below; the fatal hour
Was register'd in heav'n ere time began.
We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works
Die too the deep foundations that we lay,
Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains.
We build with what we deem eternal rock :
A distant age asks where the fabric stood;
And in the dust, sifted and search'd in vain,
The undiscoverable secret sleeps.

But there is yet a liberty, unsung
By poets, and by senators unprais'd,

Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'rs
Of earth and hell confed'rate take away :
A liberty, which persecution, fraud,
Oppression, prisons, have no pow'r to bind;
Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more,
'Tis liberty of heart, deriv'd from heav'n;
Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind,
And seal'd with the same token! It is held
By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure
By th' unimpeachable and awful oath

And promise of a God! His other gifts
All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his,
And are august; but this transcends them all.
His other works, the visible display

Of all-creating energy and might,

Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the word,
That, finding an interminable space
Unoccupied, has fill'd the void so well,

And made so sparkling what was dark before.
But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true,
Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene,
Might well suppose th' artificer divine
Meant it eternal, had he not himself
Pronounc'd it transient, glorious as it is,
And, still designing a more glorious far,
Doom'd it as insufficient for his praise.
These, therefore, are occasional, and pass;
Form'd for the confutation of the fool,
Whose lying heart disputes against a God;
That office serv'd, they must be swept away.
Not so the labours of his love: they shine
In other heav'ns than these that we behold,
And fade not. There is paradise that fears
No forfeiture, and of its fruits he sends
Large prelibation oft to saints below.
Of these the first in order, and the pledge
And confident assurance of the rest,
Is liberty a flight into his arms
Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way,
A clear escape from tyrannizing lust,
And full immunity from penal woe.

Chains are the portion of revolted man,
Stripes and a dungeon; and his body serves
The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul,
Opprobrious residence, he finds them all.
Propense his heart to idols, he is held
In silly dotage on created things,
Careless of their Creator. And that low
And sordid gravitation of his pow'rs
To a vile clod so draws him, with such force
Resistless from the centre he should seek,
That he at last forgets it. All his hopes
Tend downward; his ambition is to sink,
To reach a depth profounder still, and still
Profounder, in the fathomless abyss
Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death.
But, ere he gain the comfortless 'repose
He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul,
In heav'n-renouncing exile, he endures—
What does he not? from lusts oppos'd in vain,
And self-reproaching conscience. He foresees
The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace,
Fortune, and dignity; the loss of all

That can ennoble man, and make frail life,
Short as it is, supportable. Still worse,

Far worse than all the plagues with which his sins
Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes
Ages of hopeless misery. Future death,
And death still future. Not a hasty stroke,
Like that which sends him to the dusty grave;

But unrepealable enduring death!

Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears:
What none can prove a forgʼry, may be true;
What none but bad men wish exploded, must.
That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud,
Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst
Of laughter his compunctions are sincere ;
And he abhors the jest by which he shines.
Remorse begets reform. His master-lust
Falls first before his resolute rebuke,

And seems dethron'd and vanquish'd. Peace ensuès,
But spurious and short-liv'd; the puny child
Of self-congratulating pride, begot

On fancied innocence. Again he falls,
And fights again; but finds his best essay
A presage ominous, portending still
Its own dishonour by a worse relapse.
Till nature, unavailing natüre, foil'd
So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt,
Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now

Takes part with appetîte, and pleads the cause,
Perversely, which of late she so condemn'd;
With shallow shifts and old devices, worn
And tatter'd in the service of debauch,
Cov'ring his shame from his offended sight.

"Hath God indeed giv'n appetites to man, "And stor❜d the earth so plenteously with means "To gratify the hunger of his wish; "And doth he reprobate, and will he damn,

"The use of his own bounty? making first

"So frail a kind, and then enacting laws

"So strict, that less than perfect must despair? "Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truth "Dishonours God, and makes a slave of man. "Do they themselves, who undertake for hire "The teacher's office, and dispense at large "Their weekly dole of edifying strains, "Attend to their own music? have they faith "In what with such solemnity of tone "And gesture they propound to our belief? "Nay--conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice "Is but an instrument, on which the priest "May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, "The unequivocal authentic deed,

"We find sound argument, we read the heart."
Such reas'nings (if that name must need belong
T'excuses in which reason has no part)
Serve to compose a spirit well inclin'd
To live on terms of amity with vice,
And sin without disturbance. Often urg'd,
(As often as libidinous discourse
Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes
Of theological and grave import)

They gain at last his unreserv'd assent;

Till, harden'd his heart's temper in the forge

Of lust, and on the anvil of despair,

He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves, Or nothing much, his constancy in ill;

Vain tamp'ring has but foster'd his disease;

'Tis desp'rate, and he sleeps the sleep of death!