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Feeds sparingły, communicates his store,
Abhors the craft he boasted of before,
And he that stole, has learn'd to steal no more.
Well spake the prophet, Let the desert sing,
Where sprang the thorn, the spiry fir shall spring,
And where unsightly and rank thistles grew,
Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew.
Go now, and with important tone demand
On what foundation virtue is to stand,
if self-exalting claims be turn’d adrift,
And grace be grace indeed, and life a gift;
The poor reclaim'd inhabitant, his eyes
Glist'ning at once with pity and surprise,
Amaz'd that shadows should obscure the sight
Of one, whose birth was in a land of light,
Shall answer, Hope, sweet Hope, has set me freed
And made all pleasures else mere dross to me.
These, amidst scenes as waste as if denied The common care that waits on all beside, Wild as if Nature there, void of all good, Play'd only gambolsin a frantiek mood, (Yet charge not heav'nly skill with having plann'd A plaything world, unworthy of his hand,) Can see his love, though secret evil lurks In all we toueh, stamp'd plainly on his works, Deem life a blessing with its num’rous woes, Nor spurn away a gift a God bestows. Hard task, indeed, o'er arctick seas to roam! Is hope exotick? grows it not at home? Yes, but an object, bright as orient morn, May press the eye too closely to be borne ;
A distant virtue we can all confess,
It hurts our pride, and moves our envy, less.
Leuconomus (beneath well sounding Greek
I slur a name a poet must not speak)
Stood pilloried on Infamy's high stage,
And bore the pelting score of half an age;
The very butt of Slander, and the blot
Kor ev'ry dart that Malice ever shot.
The man that mention's him at once dismiss'd
All mercy from his lips, and sneer'd and hiss'd;
His crimes were such as Sodom never knew,
And Perjury stood up to swear all true;
His aim was mischief, and his zeal pretence,
His speech rebellion against common sense;
A knave, when tried on honesty's plain rule ;
And when by that of reason, a mere fool ;
The World's best comfort was, his doom was pass'd;
Die when he might, be must be damn'd at last.
Now, Truth, performa thine office; waft aside
The curtain drawn by Prejudice and Pride,
Reveal (the man is dead) to wond'ring eyes
This more than monster, in his proper guise.
He lov'd the World that hated him: the tear
That dropp'd upon his Bible was sincere :
Assail'd by scandal and the tongie of strife,
His only answer was a blameless tífe;
And he that forg'd, and he that threw the dart,
Had each a brother's intrest in his heart.
Paul's love of Christ, and steadiness unbrib'd,
Were copied close in him, and well transcrib'a.
He follow'd Paul; his zeal a kindred flame,
His apostoliek charity the same.
Like him, cross'd cheerfully tempestuous seas
Forsaking country, kindred, friends, and ease ;
Like him he labour'd, and like him content
To bear it, suffer'd shame where'er he went.
Blush, Calumny! and write upon his tomb,
If honest Eulogy can spare thee room,
Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies,
Which, aim'd at him, have pierc'd th' offended
And say, Blot out my sin, confess’d, deplorid,
Against thine image, in thy saint, O Lord !
No blinder bigot, I maintain it still, Than he who must have pleasure, come what will: He laughs, whatever weapon Truth may draw, And deems her sharp artillery mere straw. Scripture indeed is plain ; but God and he On Scripture ground are sure to disagree ; Some'wiser rule must teach him how to live, Than this his Maker has seen fit to give; Supple and flexible as Indian cane, To take the bend his appetites ordain ; Contriv'd to suit frail Nature's crazy case, And reconcile his lusts with saving grace. By this, with nice precision of design, He draws upon life's map a zigzag line, That shows how far 'tis safe to follow sin, And where his danger and God's wrath begin. By this he forms, as pleas'd he sports along, His well-pois'd estimate of right and wrong; And finds the modish manners of the day, Though loose, as harmless as an infant's play.
Build by whatever plan Caprice decrees, With what materials, on what ground you please; Your hope shall stand unblam’d, perhaps admir'd, If not that hope the Scripture has requir’d. The strange conceits, vain projects, and wild dreams, With which hypocrisy for ever teems, (Though other follies strike the publick eye, And raise a laugh,) pass unmolested by; But if, unblameable in word and thought, A man arise, a man whom God has taught, With all Elijah's dignity of tone, And all the love of the beloved John, To storm the citadels they build in air, And smite th' untemper'd wall; 'tis death to spare. To sweep away all refuges of lies, And place, instead of quirks themselves devise, Lama Sabacthani before their eyes ; To prove, that without Christ all gain is loss, All hope despair, that stands not on his cross ; Except the few his God may have impress’d, A tenfold frenzy seizes all the rest.
Throughout mankind, the Christian kind at least, There dwells a consciousness in ev'ry breast, That folly ends where genuine hope begins, And he that finds his Heav'n must lose his sins. Nature opposes with her utmost force This riving stroke, this ultimate divorce ; And, while religion seems to be her view, Hates with a deep sincerity the true : For this, of all that ever influenc'd man, Since Abel worshipp'd, or the world began,
This only spares ito lust, admits no plea,
But makes him, if at all, completely free ;
Sonnds forth the signal, as she mounts her car,
Of an eternal, universal war ;
Rejects all treaty, penetrates all wiles,
Scorns with the same indiff'rence frowns and smiles ;
Drives through the realms of Sin, where Riot reels,
And grinds his crown beneath her burning wheels!
Hence all that is in man, pride, passion, art,
Pow'ers of the mind, and feelings of the heart,
Insensible of Truth's almighty charms,
Starts at her first approach, and sounds to arms!
While Bigotry, with well-dissembled fears,
His eyes shut fast, his fingers in his ears,
Mighty to parry and push by God's word,
With senseless noise, his argument the sword,
Pretends a zeal for godliness and grace,
And spits abhorrence in the Christian's face.
Parent of Hope, immortal truth! make known
Thy deathless wreaths, and triumphs all thine own-:-
The silent progress of thy pow'r is such,
Thy means so feeble, and despis’d so much,
That few believe the wonders thou has wrought,
And none can teach them, but whom thou hast
O see me sworn to serve thee and command
A painter's skill into a poet's hand,
That, while I trembling trace a work divine,
Fancy may stand aloof from the design,
And light, and shade, and ev'ry stroke be thinë.
If ever thou hast felt another's pain,
If ever when he sigh'd hast sigh'd again,