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Where dwell these matchless Saints ? Old
Ev'n at your side, Sir, and before your eyes,
The favour'd few, th’ enthusiasts you despise.
And pleas'd at heart because on holy ground,
Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found,
Reproach a people with his fingle fall,
And cast his filthy raiment at them all,
Attend—an apt similitude shall show,
Whence springs the conduct that offends you so.
See where it smoaks along the founding plain,
Blown all aslant, a driving dashing rain,
upon peal redoubling all around, Shakes it again and faster to the ground, Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play, Swift beyond thought the light’nings dart away;
yet it came the traveller urg'd his steed, And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed, Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his
case, He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace ;
Suppose, unlook'd for in a scene so rude,
Long hid by interposing hill or wood,
Some mansion neat and elegantly dress’d,
By some kind hospitable heart possess’d,
Offer him warmeb, 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 finner 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,
Afferts 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 oceans angry tide-
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 demeanor 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 Nips their daily walk attend,
The poor are near at hand, the charge is small,
A Night gratuity atones for all.
For though the Pope has lost his int'rest here,
And pardons are not fold as once they were,
No Papist more desirous to compound,
Than some grave finners upon English ground :
That plea refuted, other quirks they seek,
Mercy is infinite and man is weak,
The future shall obliterate the past,
And heav'n no doubt shall be their home at last.
Come then-a still, small whisper in your ear,
He has no hope that 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 fame) With spirit, genius, eloquence supplied, Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily and died: The scripture was his jeft-book, whence he drew Ton môts to gall the Christian and the Jew :
An infidel in health, but what when fick ?
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 ev'ry 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 chearsul, if not gay,
Shuffing her threads about the live-long day,
Just carns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
Şhe 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,