Legible only by the light they give,
Stand the foul-quick'ning words-BELIEVE AND
fhock'd at what fhould charm them most,
Defpife the plain direction and are loft.
Heav'n on fuch terms ! they cry with proud disdain,
Incredible, impoffible, and vain
Rebel because 'tis eafy to obey,
And scorn for its own fake the gracious way.
These are the fober, in whose cooler brains
Some thought of immortality remains ;
The reft too busy or too gay, to wait
On the fad theme, their everlasting flate,
Sport for a day and perish in a night,
The foam upon the waters not fo light.
Who judg'd the Pharifee? What odious caufe
Expos'd him to the vengeance of the laws?
Had he feduc'd a virgin, wrong'd a friend,
Or ftabb'd a man to ferve fome private end?
Was blafphemy his fin? Or did he stray
From the strict duties of the facred day ?
Sit long and late at the carousing board?
(Such were the fins with which he charg'd his Lord)
No-the man's morals were exact, what then?
'Twas his ambition to be feen of men ;
His virtues were his pride; and that one vice
Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price;
He wore them as fine trappings for a show,
A praying, fynagogue frequenting beau.
The self-applauding bird, the peacock fee—
Mark what a fumptuous Pharifee is he!
Meridian fun-beams tempt him to unfold
His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold;
He treads as if fome folemn mufic near,
His meafur'd step were govern'd by his ear,
And seems to fay, ye meaner fowl, give place,
I am all fplendor, dignity and grace.
Not fo the pheasant on his charms prefumes,
Though he too has a glory in his plumes.
He, christian like, retreats with modest mien,
To the close copfe or far fequefter'd green,
And fhines without defiring to be seen.
The plea of works, as arrogant and vain,
Heav'n turns from with abhorrence and difdain: Not more affronted by avow'd neglect,
Than by the mere diffemblers feign'd respect.
What is all righteoufnefs that men devise,
What, but a fordid bargain for the skies?
But Chrift as foon would abdicate his own,
As floop from heav'n to fell the proud a throne.
His dwelling a recefs in fome rude rock,
Book, beads, and maple-difh his meagre stock,
In fhirt of hair and weeds of canvafs drefs'd,
Girt with a bell-rope that the Pope has blefs'd,
Aduft with stripes told out for ev'ry crime,
And fore tormented long before his time,
His pray'r preferr'd to faints that cannot aid,
His praise postpon'd, and never to be paid,
See the fage hermit by mankind admir'd,
With all that bigotry adopts, infpir'd,
Wearing out life in his religious whim,
'Till his religious whimfy wears out him.
His works, his abftinence, 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 fenfe-
My penitential ftripes, my ftreaming blood
Have purchas'd heav'n, and prove my title good.
Turn eastward now, and fancy fhall apply
To your weak fight her telescopic eye.
The Bramin kindles on his own bare head
The facred fire, felf-torturing his trade,
His voluntary pains, fevere and long,
Would give a barb'rous air to British song,
Nor grand inquifitor could worfe invent,
Than he contrives to fuffer, well content.
Which is the faintlier worthy of the two?
Paft all difpute, yon anchorite fay you.
Your fentence, and mine differ. What's a name?
I fay the Bramin has the fairer claim.
If fuff'rings fcripture no where recommends,
Devis'd-by felf to anfwer felfish ends
Give faintship, then all Europe must agree,
Ten ftarvling hermits fuffer less than he.
The truth is (if the truth may fuit your ear
And prejudice have left a paffage clear)
Pride has attain'd its most luxuriant growth,
And poison'd every virtue in them both.
Pride may
be pamper❜d while the flesh grows lean
Humility may cloath an English Dean;
That grace was Cowper's-his confefs'd by all-
Though plac'd in golden Durham's fecond stall.
Not all the plenty of a Bishop's board,
His palace, and his lacqueys, and, my Lord!
More nourish pride, that condefcending vice,.
Than abstinence, and beggary and lice.
It thrives in mifery, and abundant grows
In mifery fools upon themselves impofe.
But why before us Protestants produce
An Indian mystic or a French recluse?
Their fin is plain, but what have we to fear,
Reform'd and well inftructed? You fhall hear.
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