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The spells and charms, that blinded you before, All vanish there, and fascinate no more,

I am no preacher, let this hint suffice The cross, once seen, is death to every vice : Else he that hung there suffer'd all his pain, Bled, groan'd, and agoniz'd, and died, in vain.

TRUTH.

Pensantur trutina.----Hor. Lib. II. Epist. 1.

Man,

on the dubious waves of error tossid,
His ship half founder'd and his compass lost,
Sees, far as human optics may command,
A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land :
Spreads all his canvass, every sinew plies ;
Pants for't, aims at it, enters it, and dies !
Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes,
His well-built systems, philosophic dreams ;
Deceitful views of future bliss, farewell !
He reads his sentence at the flames of hell.
Hard lot of man-to toil for the reward,
Of virtue, and yet lose it! Wherefore hard !
He that would win the race must guide his horse
Obedient to the customs of the course;
Else, though unequall'd to the goal he flies,
A meaner than himself shall gain the prize.
Grace leads the right way : if you,

choose the

wrongs Take it, and perish; but restrain your tongue. Charge not, with light sufficient, and left free, Your wilful suicide on God's decree.

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Oh how unlike the complex works of man, Heaven's easy, artless, unincumber'd, plan! No meretricious graces to beguile, No clustering ornaments to clog the pile ; From ostentation, as from weakness free, It stands like the cerulean arch we see, Majestic in its own simplicity. Inscrib'd above the portal, from afar Conspicuous as the brightness of a star, Legible only by the light they give, Stand the soul-quickening words-BELIEVE AND LIVE! Too many, shock'd at what should charm them most, Despise the plain direction, and are lost. Heaven on such terms ! (they cry with proud disdain) Incredible, impossible, and vain ! Rebel, because 'tis easy to obey ; And scorn, for its own sake, the gracious way. These are the sober, in whose cooler brains Some thought of immortality remains ; The rest, too busy, or too gay, to wait On the sad theme, their everlasting state, Sport for a day, and perish in a night ; The foam upon the waters not so light.

Who judg'd the pharisee ? What odious cause
Expos'd him to the vengeance of the laws ?
Had he seduc'd a virgin, wrong'd a friend,
Or stabb'd a man to serve some private end?
Was blasphemy his sin? Or did he stray
From the strict duties of the sacred day?

Sit long and late at the carousing board ?
(Such were the sins with which he charg'd his Lord.)
No-the man's morals were exact. What then?
'Twas his ambition to be seen of men ;
His virtues were his pride ; and that one vice
Made all his virtues ewgaws of no price ;
He wore them, as fine trappings, for a show;
A praying, synagogue-frequenting, beau.

The self-applauding bird, the peacock, see-
Mark what a sumptuous pharisee is he!
Meridian sun-beams tempt him to unfold
His radiant glories ; azure, green and gold :
He treads as if, some solemn music near,
His measur'd step were govern'd by his ear ;
And seems to say-Ye meaner fowl, give place ;
I am all spendour, dignity, and grace!

Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes ;
Though he, too, has a glory in his plumes.
He, christian-like, retreats with modest mien
To the close copse, or far sequester'd green,
And shines, without desiring to be seen.
The plea of works, as arrogant and vain,
Heaven turns from with abhorrence and disdain ;
Not more affronted by avow'd neglect,
Than by the mere dissembler's feign'd respect.
What is all righteousness that men devise ?
What—but a sordid bargain for the skies?
But Christ as soon would abdicate his own,
As stoop from heaven to sell the proud a throne.

His dwelling a recess in some rude rock ; Book, beads, and maple-dish, his meagre stock : In shirt of hair and, weeds of canvass dress'd, Girt with a bell-rope that the pope has bless'd; Adust with stripes, told out for every crime, And sore tormented, long before his time; His prayer preferr'd to saints that cannot aid ; His praise postpon’d and never to be paid ; See the sage hermit, by mankind admir'd, With all that bigotry adopts inspir’d, Wearing out life in his religious whim, Till his religious whimsy wears out him. His works, his abstinence, his zeal, allow'd, You think him humble-God accounts him proud. High in demand, though lowly in pretence, Of all his conduct this the genuine sense My penitential stripes, my streaming blood, Have purchas'd heaven, and prove my title good.

Turn Eastward now, and fancy shall apply
To your weak sight her telescopic eye.
The bramin kindles on his own bare head
The sacred fire-self-torturing his trade ;
His voluntary pains, severe and long,
Would give a barbarous air to British song ;
No grand inquisitor could worse invent,
Than he contrives, to suffer, well content.

Which is the saintlier worthy of the two ? Past all dispute, yon anchorite, say you.

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