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Hark! 'tis the musick of a thousand rills,
Some thro’ the groves, some down the sloping hills,
Winding a secret or an open course,
And all supplied from an eternal source.
The ties of Nature do but feebly bind;
And Commerce partially reclaims mankind;
Philosophy, without his heav'nly guide,
May blow up self-conceit, and nourish pride;
But, while his promise is the reas'ning part,
Has still a veil of midnight on his heart:
"Tis Truth divine, exhibited on earth,
Gives Charity her being and her birth.
Suppose (when thought is warm and fancy flows,
What will not argument sometimes suppose?)
An isle possess'd by creatures of our kind,
Endued with reason, yet by nature blind,
Let Supposition lend her aid once more,
And land some grave optician on the shore :
He claps his lens, if haply they may see,
Close to the part where vision ought to be;
But finds, that, though his tubes assist the sight,
They cannot give it, or make darkness light.
He reads wise lectures, and describes aloud
A sense they know not, to the wond'ring crowd;
He talks of light, and the prismatick hues,
As men of depth in erudition use;
But all he gains for his harangue is—Well,—
What monstrous lies some travellers will tell ?
The soul, whose sight all-quick’ning grace re-
news,
Takes the resemblance of the good she views,

As diamonds, stripp'd of their opaque disguise,
Reflect the noonday glory of the skies.
She speaks of him, her author, guardian, friend,
Whose love knew no beginning, knows no end,
In language warm as all that love inspires,
And in the glow of her intense desires,
Pants to communicate her noble fires.
She sees a world stark blind to what employs
Her eager thought, and feeds her flowing joys;
Though Wisdom hail them, heedless of her call,
Flies to save some, and feels a pang for all:
Herself as weak as her support is strong,
She feels that frailty she denied so long;
And, from a knowledge of her own disease,
Learns to compassionate the sick she sees.
Here see, acquitted of all vain pretence,
The reign of genuine Charity commence.
Though scorn repay her sympathetick tears,
She still is kind, and still she perseveres;
The truth she loves a sightless world blaspheme;
*Tis childish dotage, a delirious dream;
The danger they discern not, they deny;
Laugh at their only remedy, and die.
But still a soul thus touch'd can never cease,
Whoever threatens war, to speak of peace.
Pure in her aim, and in her temper mild,
Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child:
She makes excuses where she might condemn,
Revil’d by those that hate her, prays for them;
Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast,
The worst suggested, she believes the best:

Not soon provok'd, however stung and teas'd,
And, if perhaps made angry, soon appeas'd;
She rather waves than will dispute her right,
And, injur’d, makes forgiveness her delight.
Such was the portrait an apostle drew,
The bright original was one he knew ;
Heav'n held his hand, the likeness must be true.
When one, that holds communion with the skies,
Has fill’d his urn where these pure waters rise,
And once more mingles with us meaner things,
"Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings;
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,
That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.
So when a ship, well freighted with the stores
The sun matures on India’s spicy shores,
Has dropp'd her anchor, and her canvass furl’d,
In some safe haven of our western world,
*Twere vain inquiry to what port she went,
The gale informs us, laden with the scent.
Some seek, when queasy conscience has its
qualms,
To lull the painful malady with alms;
But charity not feign'd intends alone
Another's good—theirs centres in their own ;
And, too short liv'd to reach the realms of peace,
Must cease for ever when the poor shall cease.
Flavia, most tender of her own good name,
Is rather careless of her sister’s fame :
Her superfluity the poor supplies,
But, if she touch a character, it dies.
The seeming virtue weigh’d against the vice,
She deems all safe, for she has paid the price:

No charity but alms aught values she,
Except in porc’lain on her mantel-tree.
How many deeds, with which the world has rung,
From Pride, in league with Ignorance, have sprung!
But God o'errules all human follies still,
And bends the tough materials to his will.
A conflagration, or a wintry flood;
Has left some hundreds without home or food;
Extravagance and Av’rice shall subscribe,
While fame and self-complacence are the bribe.
The brief proclaim’d, it visits ev’ry pew,
But first the squire's, a compliment but due:
With slow deliberation he unties
His glittoring purse, that envy of all eyes,
And, while the clerk just puzzles out the psalm,
Glides guinea behind guinea in his palm;
Till finding, what he might have found before,
A smaller piece amidst the precious store,
Pinch'd close between his finger and his thumb,
He half exhibits, and then dorps the sum.
Gold to be sure!—Throughout the town’tis told,
How the good squire gives never less than gold,
From motives such as his, though not the best,
Springs in due time supply for the distress'd;
Not less effectual than what love bestows,
Except that office clips it as it goes.
But lest I seem to sin against a friend,
And wound the grace I mean to recommend,
(Though vice derided with a just design
Implies no trespass against love divine,)
Once more I would adopt the graver style,
A teacher should be sparing of his smile.

Unless a love of virtue light the flame,
Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame;
He hides behind a magisterial air
His own offences, and strips others bare ;
Affects indeed a most humane concerns
That men if gently tutor'd, will not learn
That mulish Folly, not to be reclaim'd
By softer methods, must be made asham'd?
But (I might instance in St. Patrick's dean)
Too often rails to gratify his spleen.
Most sat’rists are indeed a publick scourges
Their mildest physick is a farrier's Purge ;
Their aerid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd,
The milk of their good purpose all to curd.
Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse,
By lean despair upon an empty purse,
The wild assassins start into the street,
Prepar'd to poniard whomsoe'er they meet.
No skill in swordmanship, however just,
Can be secure against a madman’s thrust;
And even Virtue, so unfairly match'd,
Although immortal, may be prick'd or serateh'd.
When scandal has new minted an old lie,
Or tax’d invention for a fresh supply,
'Tis call’d a satire, and the world appears
Gath'ring around it with erected ears:
A thousand names are toss'd into the erowd;
Some whisper’d softly, and some twang'd aloud;
Just as the sapience of an author's brain
Suggests it safe or dang'rous to be plain.
Strange! how the frequent interjected dash
Quickens a arket, and helps off the trash;

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