He, lost in errors, his vain heart prefers ;
She, safe in the simplicity of her's,

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,
As leanest land supplies the richest wine.
Earth gives too little, giving only bread,
To nourish pride, or turn the weakest head :
To them the sounding jargon of the schools
Seems what it is--a cap and bells for fools :
The light they walk by, kindled from above,
Shows them the shortest way to life and love :
They, strangers to the controversial field,
Where deists, always foil'd, yet scorn to yield,
And never check'd by what impedes the wise,
Believe, rush forward, and possess the prize.

Envy, ye great, the dull unletter'd small :
Ye have much cause for envy—but not all.
We boast some rich ones whom the gospel sways ;
And one who wears a coronet, and prays ;
Like gleanings of an olive tree, they show
Here and there one upon the topmost bough.

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,
A den of mischiefs never to be told :
And she, once mistress of the realms around,
Now scatter'd wide, and no where to be found,
As soon shall rise and re-ascend the throne,
By native power and energy her own,
As nature, at her own peculiar cost,
Restore to man the glories he has lost.
Go-bid the winter cease to chill the year ;
Replace the wandering comet in his sphere ;
Then boast (but wait for that unhop'd for hour)
The self-restoring arm of human power.
But what is man in his own proud esteem ?
Hear him-himself the poet and the theme :
A monarch, cloth'd with majesty and awe ;
His mind his kingdom, and his will his law;
Grace in his mien, and glory in his eyes,
Supreme on earth, and worthy of the skies,
Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod,
And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God!

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 !