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Some mansion, neat and elegantly dress'd,
By some kind hospitable heart possessid,
Offer him warmth, security, and rest ;
Think with what pleasure, safe, and at his ease,
He hears the tempest howling in the trees ;
What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ,
While danger past is turn'd to present joy.
So fares it with the sinner, when he feels
A growing dread of vengeance at his heels
His conscience, like a glassy lake before,
Lash'd into foaming waves, begins to roar ;
The law grown clamorous, though silent long,
Arraigns him-charges him with every wrong
Asserts the rights of his offended Lord ;
And death, or restitution, is the word :
The last impossible, he fears the first,
And, having well deserv'd, expects the worst.
Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home ;
Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come !
Crush me, ye rocks ; ye falling mountains, hide
Or bury me in ocean's angry
The scrutiny of those all-seeing eyes
I dare not-And you need not, God replies ;
The remedy you want I freely give :
The book shall teach you-read, believe, and live!
"Tis done—the raging storm is heard no more,
Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore ;
And justice, guardian of the dread command,
Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand,
A soul, redeem'd, demands a life of praise ;
Hence the complexion of his future days.
Hence a demeanour holy and unspeck'd,
And the world's hatred, as its sure effect.
Some lead a life unblameable and just,
Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust:
They never sin-or, if (as all offend)
Some trivial slips their daily walk attend,
The poor are near at hand, the charge is small,
A slight gratuity atones for all!
For, though the pope has lost his interest here,
And pardons are not sold as once they were,
No papist more desirous to compound,
Than some grave sinners upon English ground.
That plea refuted, other quirks they seek-
Mercy is infinite, and man is weak;
The future shall obliterate the past,
And heaven, no doubt, shall be their home at last.
Come, then-a still, small whisper in your ear He has no hope who never had a fear ; And he that never doubted of his state, He may, perhaps-perhaps he may-too late.
The path to bliss abounds with many a snare ; Learning is one, and wit, however rare. The Frenchman, first in literary fame, (Mention him, if you please. Voltaire ?- The same.) With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied, Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartly, and died.
The scripture was his jest book, whence he drew
Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew.
An infidel in health, but what when sick?
Oh--then a text would touch him at the quick.
View him at Paris, in his last career :
Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere ;
Exalted on his pedestal of pride,
And fum'd with frankincense on every side,
He begs their flattery with his latest breath ;
And smother'd in't at last, is prais'd to death!
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store ;
Content, though mean ; and cheerful, if not gayi
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns a scanty pittance ; and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light :
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit;
Receives no praise; but, though her lot be such,
(Toilsome and indigent) she renders much ;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew ;
And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.
Oh, happy peasant ! Oh unhappy bard! His the mere tinsel, her's the rich reward ; He prais'd, perhaps, for ages yet to come ; She never heard of half a mile from home ;