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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 j
He prais'd perhaps for ages yet to come,
She never heard of half a mile from home ;
He loft in errors his vain heart prefers,
She safe in the fimplicity of hers.

Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound
In science, win one inch of heav'nly ground ;
And is it not a mortifying thought

poor should gain it, and the rich should not
No-the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget
One pleasure loft, lose heav'n without regret ;
Regret would rouse them and give birth to pray'r,
Pray'r would add faith, and faith would fix them


Not that the Former of us all in this,
Or aught he does, is govern’d by caprice,
The suppofition is replete with sin,
And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in.


Not fo--the filver trumpet's heav'nly call,
Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all s
Kings are invited, and would kings obey,
No Náves on earth more welcome were than they:
But royalty, nobility, and state,
Are such a dead preponderating weight,
That endless bliss (how strange foe'er it seem)
In counterpoise, Aies up and kicks the beam.
'Tis open and ye cannot enter--why?

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

The feed fown there, how vigorous is the plant !
No foil 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 :


and want,

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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 fways,
And one that 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?
Sinful and weak, in ev'ry sense a wretch,
An instrument whose chords upon the stretch
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 pow'r 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 wand'ring comet in his sphere,
Then boast (but wait for that unhop'd-for hour)
The self-restoring arm of human pow'r.
But what is man in his own proud esteem?
Hear him, himself the poet and the theme ;
A monarch cloath'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 fings he, charm'd with his own mind and

The song magnificent, the theme a worm :
Himself so much the source of his delight,
His maker has no beauty in his fight :
See where he fits contemplative and fixt,
Pleasure and wonder in his features mixt,
His passions tam’d and all at his controul,
How perfect the composure of his soul !
Complacency has breath'd a gentle gale
O'er all his thoughts, and swell’d his easy fail :
His books well trimm'd and in the gayest stile,
Like regimented coxcombs rank and file,
Adorn his intellects as well as shelves,
And teach him notions splendid as themselves :
The bible only stands neglected there,
Though that of all most worthy of his care,
And like an infant, troublesome awake,
Is left to sleep for peace and quiet fake.


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