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That can ennoble man, and make frail life,
Short as it is, fupportable. Still worse,

Far worse than all the plagues with which his fins -
Infect his happie ft moments, be forebodes
Ages of hopeless mifery. Future death,
And death ftill future, Not an hasty stroke,
Like that which fends him to the dusty grave,
But unrepealable enduring death.

Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears;
What none can prove a forg❜ry, may be true,
What none but bad men with exploded, muft.
That fcruple checks him. Riot is not loud,
Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midft
Of laughter his compunctions are fincere,
And he abhors the jeft by which he shines.
Remorfe begets reform. His master-lust
Falls first before his refolute rebuke,

And feems dethron'd and vanquish'd. Peace enfues,
But fpurious and fhort liv'd, the puny child
Of felf-congratulating pride, begot

On fancy'd Innocence. Again he falls,
And fights again; but finds his best effay,..
A prefage ominous, portending fill
Its own difhonor, by a worfe relapse.
Till Nature, unavailing nature foil'd
So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt,
Scoffs at her own performance. Reafon now
Takes part with appetite, and pleads the caufe,
Perversely, which of late fhe fo condemn'd;
With fhallow fhifts and old devices, worn
And tatter'd in the fervice of debauch,
Cov'ring his fhame from his offended fight.

"Hath

"Hath God indeed giv'n appetites to man, "... And stor'd the earth fo plenteously with means "To gratify the hunger of his wish,

"And doth he reprobate, and will he damn "The ufe of his own bounty? making first "So frail a kind, and then enacting laws "So ftrict, that lefs than perfect must defpair? "Falfehood! which, whofo but fufpects of truth, "Dishonours God, and makes a flave of man. "Do they themselves, who undertake for hire, "The teacher's office, and difpenfe at large, "Their weekly dole of edifying ftrains, "Attend to their own mufic? have they faith "In what with fuch folemnity of tone "And gefture, they propound to our belief? "Nay-condu&t hath the loudeft tongue. The voice "Is but an inftrument, on which the priest "May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, "The unequivocal authentic deed,

"We find found argument, we read the heart."

Such reas'nings, (if that name muft needs belong T' excuses, in which reason has no part) Serve to compose a spirit well inclin❜d, To live on terms of amity with vice, And fin without difturbance. Often urg'd, (As often as libidinous difcourfe Exhaufted, he reforts to folemn themes, Of theological and grave import) They gain at laft his unreferv'd affent. Till harden'd his heart's temper in the forge

Of

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Of luft, and on the anvil of defpair,

He flights the ftrokes of confcience. Nothing moves,
Or nothing much, his conftancy in ill;

Vain tampering has but fofter'd his disease,
'Tis defp'rate, and he fléeps the fleep of death.
Hafte now, philofopher, and fet him free.
Charm the deaf ferpent wifely. Make him hear
Of rectitude and fitnefs; moral truth

How lovely, and the moral fense how sure,
Confulted and obey'd, to guide his fteps
Directly to the FIRST AND ONLY FAIR.
Spare not in fuch a caufe. Spend all the pow'rs
Of rant and rhapsody, in virtue's praise,
Be moft fublimely good, verbofely grand,
And with poetic trappings grace thy prose,
Till it out-mantle all the pride of verse.—
Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high-founding brass,
Smitten in vain! fuch mufic cannot charm
Th' eclipfe that intercepts truth's heav'nly beam,
And chills, and darkens a wide wand'ring foul.
The ftill small voice is wanted. He muft fpeak,
Whofe word leaps forth at once to its effect,
Who calls for things that are not, and they come.

Grace makes the flave a freeman. 'Tis a change, That turns to ridicule the turgid speech, And ftately tone of moralifts, who boast, As if like him of fabulous renown, They had indeed ability to fmooth The fhag of favage nature, and were each An Orpheus, and omnipotent in fong.

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But transformation of apoftate man

From fool to wife, from earthly to divine,

He alone,

Is work for Him that made him.
And he, by means, in philofophic eyes
Trivial, and worthy of difdàin, atchieves-
The wonder; humanizing what is brute
In the loft kind, extracting from the lips.
Of afps, their venom, overpow'ring Arength
By weakness, and hoftility by love.

Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's cause
Bled nobly, and their deeds, as they deferve,
Receive proud recompenfe. We give in charge
Their names to the fweet lyre. Th' hiftoric muse,
Proud of the treasure, marches with it down
To latest times; and fculpture, in her turn,
Gives bond in ftone, and ever-during brafs,
To guard them, and t'immortalize her trust.
But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid,
To thofe who pofted at the fhrine of truth,
Have fall'n in her defence. A patriot's blood,
Well fpent in fuch a ftrife, may earn indeed,
And for a time, infure to his lov'd land,
The fweets of liberty, and equal laws;
But martyrs ftruggle for a brighter prize,
And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed
In confirmation of the nobleft claim,

Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,
To walk with God, to be divinely free,
To foar, and to anticipate the fkies.

Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown,

Till

t

Till perfecution dragg'd them into fame,

And chas'd them up to heaven. Their afhes flew
-No marble tells us whither. With their names,
No bard embalms and fanctifies his fong,
And Hiftory, fo warm on meaner themes,
Is cold on this. She execrates indeed,

The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire,

But gives the glorious fuff 'rers little praife. *

He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are flaves befide, There's not a chain That hellish foes confed'rate for his harm

Can wind around him, but he cafts it off
With as much ease as Samson his green wyths.
He looks abroad into the varied field

Of Nature, and though poor, perhaps, compar'd
With thofe whofe manfions glitter in his fight,
Calls the delightful fcen'ry all his own.
His are the mountains, and the vallies his,
And the refplendent rivers. His t' enjoy,
With a propriety that none can feel,
But who, with filial confidence infpir'd,
Can lift to heav'n an unprefumptuous eye,
And fmiling, fay-My father made them all.
Are they not his by a peculiar right,
And by an emphasis of int'reft his,
Whofe eye they fill with tears of holy joy,
Whofe heart with praife, and whofe exalted mind,
With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love
That plann'd, and built, and ftill upholds a world

* See Hume.

So

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