The rude companion fmil'd, as if transform'd.
But 'twas a tranfient calm. A ftorm was near,

An unfufpected ftorm.

His hour was come.

The impious challenger of pow'r divine

Was now to learn, that heav'n, though flow to wrath,

Is never with impunity defy'd.

His horfe, as he had caught his master's mood,
Snorting, and ftarting into fudden rage,
Unbidden, and not now to be controul'd,
Rush'd to the cliff, and having reach'd it, flood.
At once the fhock unfeated him. He flew
Sheer o'er the craggy barrier, and immers'd
Deep in the flood, found, when he fought it not,
The death he had deferv'd, and dy'd alone.
So God wrought double juftice; made the fool
The victim of his own tremendous choice,
And taught a brute the way to fafe revenge.

I would not enter on my lift of friends, (Though grac'd with polifh'd manners, and fine fenfe, Yet wanting fenfibility) the man

Who needlessly fets foot upon a worm.

An inadvertent ftep may crufh the fnail,

That crawls at evening, in the public path,
But he that has humanity forewarn'd,
Will tread afide, and let the reptile live.

The creeping vermin, loathfome to the fight,
And charg'd, perhaps, with venom, that intrudes
A vifitor unwelcome, into fcenes

Sacred to neatnefs and repofe, th' alcove,

The

The chamber, or refectory, may die.

A neceffary act incurs no blame.

Not fo, when held within their proper bounds,
And guiltless of offence, they range the air,
Or take their paftime in the fpacious field.
There they are priviledg'd. And he that hunts
Or harms them there, is guilty of a wrong,
Disturbs th' œconomy of nature's realm,
Who, when the form'd, defign'd them an abode.
The fum is this: if man's convenience, health,
Or fafety interfere, his rights and claims
Are paramount, and muft extinguish theirs.
Elfe they are all-the meaneft things that are,
As free to live, and to enjoy that life,
As God was free to form them at the first,
Who in his fov'reign wisdom made them all.
Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your fons
To love it too. The fpring-time of our years
Is foon dishonour'd, and defil'd in most
By budding ills, that afk a prudent hand

To check them. But alas! none fooner fhoots,
If unreftrain'd, into luxuriant growth,

Than cruelty, moft dev'lifh of them all.
Mercy to him that fhows it, is the rule
And righteous limitation of its act,

By which heav'n moves in pard'ning guilty man ;
And he that fhows none, being ripe in years,
And confcious of the outrage he commits,
Shall feek it, and not find it, in his turn.

Diftinguifh'd much by reafon, and ftill more,
By our capacity of grace divine,

From creatures that exift but for our fake,
Which having ferv'd us, perish, we are held
Accountable, and God, fome future day,
Will reckon with us roundly, for th' abuse
Of what he deems no mean or trivial trust.
Superior as we are, they yet depend,
Not more on human help, than we on theirs.
Their ftrength, or fpeed, or vigilance, were giv'n
In aid of our defects. In fome are found
Such teachable, and apprehenfive parts,
That man's attainments in his own concerns,
Match'd with th' expertnefs of the brutes in theirs,
Are oft-times vanquish'd, and thrown far behind.
Some fhow that nice fagacity of fmell,

And read with fuch difcernment, in the port
And figure of the man, his fecret aim,.
That oft we owe our fafety to a skill

We could not teach, and must despair to learn.
But learn we might, if not too proud to floop
To quadrupede inftructors, many a good
And useful quality, and virtue too,
Rarely exemplify'd among ourselves.
Attachment never to be wean'd, or chạng'd,
By any change of fortune, proof alike
Againft unkindness, absence, and neglect;
Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat,
Can move or warp, and gratitude, for small

And

And trivial favors, lafting as the life,
And glist'ning, even in the dying eye.

Man praises man. Wins public honor;

Defert in arts or arms,

and ten thousand fit

Patiently, prefent at a facred song,
Commemoration-mad; content to hear
(Oh wonderful effect of mufic's pow'r ! )
Meffiah's eulogy, for Handel's fake.

But lefs, methinks. than facrilege might ferve-
(For was it lefs? What heathen would have dar'd,
To trip Jove's ftatue of his oaken wreath,
And hang it up in honor of a man?)
Much lefs might ferve, when all that we defign
Is but to gratify an itching ear,

And give the day to a musician's praise.
Remember Handel! who that was not born
Deaf, as the dead to harmony, forgets,
Or can, the more than Homer of his age?
Yes we remember him And while we praise
A talent fo divine, remember too,

That His most holy book from whom it came
Was never meant, was never us'd before
To buckram out the mem'ry of a man.
But hush !—the muse, perhaps, is too severe,
And with a gravity beyond the fize
And measure of th' offence, rebukes a deed
Lefs impious than abfurd, and owing more
To want of judgment, than to wrong defign.
So in the chapel of old Ely House,

When

When wand'ring Charles, who meant to be the third,
Had fled from William, and the news was fresh,
The fimple clerk, but loyal, did announce,
And eke did rear right merrily, two ftaves,
Sung to the praife and glory of King George,
-Man praises man, and Garrick's memʼry next,
When time had fomewhat mellow'd it, and made
The idol of our worship while he liv'd,
The God of our idolatry once more,
Shall have its altar; and the world, fhall
In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine.
The theatre too fmall, fhall fuffocate
Its fqueez'd contents, and more than it admits,
Shall figh at their exclufion, and return
Ungratify'd. For there fome noble lord.

go

Shall ftuff his houlders with king Richard's bunch,
Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak,

And strut, and ftorm, and straddle, ftamp, and stare,
To fhow the world how Garick did not act.
For Garrick was a worfhipper himself;
He drew the Liturgy, and fram'd the rites,
And folemn ceremonial of the day,

And call'd the world to worship, on the banks
Of Avon, fam'd in fong. Ah! pleasant proof,
That piety has ftill in human hearts

Some place, a fpark or two not yet extinct.
The mulb'ry tree was hung with blooming wreaths,
The mulb'ry tree flood centre of the dance,
The mulb'ry tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs,
And from his touchwood trunk, the mulb'ry tree

Supply'd