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He, lost in errors, his vain heart prefers ;
Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound In science, win one inch of heavenly ground. And, is it not a mortifying thought, The poor should gain it, and the rich should not ? No—the volupt’aries, who ne'er forget One pleasure lost, lose heaven without regret ; Regret would rouse them, and give birth to prayer ; Prayer would add faith, and faith would fix them there.
Not that the Former of us all in this,' Or aught he does, is govern'd by caprice ; The supposition is replete with sin, And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in. Not so—the silver trumpet's heavenly call Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all : Kings are invited ; and, would kings obey, No slaves on earth more welcome were than they : But royalty, nobility, and state, Are such a dead preponderating weight, That endless bliss, (how strange soe'er it-seem) In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam. 'Tis open, and ye cannot enter--why? Because ye will not, Conyers would reply And he says much that many may dispute And cavil at with ease, but none refute. Oh, bless'd effect of penury and want, The seed sown there, how vigourous is the plant !
No soil like poverty for growth divine,
Envy, ye great, the dull unletter'd small :
How readily, upon the gospel plan, That question has its answer- What is man? Sinfaland weak, in every sense a wretch ; An instrument, whose chords, upon the stretcb; And strain'd to the last screw that he can bear, Yield only discord in his Maker's ear. Once the blest residence of truth divine, Glorious as Solyma’s interior shrine, Where, in his own oracular abode, Dwelt visibly the light-creating God;
But made long since, like Babylon of old,
So sings he, charm'd with his own mind and form, The song magnificent-the theme a worm! Himself so much the source of his delight, His Maker has no beauty in his sight. See where he sits, contemplative and fix'd, Pleasure and wonder in his features mix'd ; His passions tam'd, and all at his controul, How perfect the composure of his soul !