How pleasant in itself, what pleafes him.
Here ev'ry drop of honey hides a fting,
Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flow'rs,
And ev'n the joy that haply fome poor heart
Derives from heav'n, pure as the fountain is,
Is fullied in the ftream; taking a taint,
From touch of human lips, at best impure.
Oh for a world in principle as chafte
As this is grofs and felfish! over which,
Custom, and prejudice, fhall bear no fway,
That govern all things here, fhould'ring afide
The meek and modeft truth, and forcing her
To feek a refuge from the tongue of ftrife,
In nooks obfcure, far from the ways of men.
Where violence fhall never lift the sword,
Nor cunning juftify the proud man's wrong.
Leaving the poor no remedy but tears.
Where he that fills an office, fhall efteem
Th' occafion it prefents of doing good,
More than the perquifite. Where law fhall fpeak
Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts,
And equity; not jealous more to guard
A worthlefs form, than to decide aright.
Where fashion shall not fanctify abuse,

Nor fmooth good-breeding, (fupplemental grace).
With lean performance ape the work of love.

Come then, and added to thy many crowns, Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth. Thou who alone art worthy! it was thine

By

By ancient cov❜nant, ere nature's birth,
And thou haft made it thine by purchase fince,
And overpaid its value with thy blood.

Thy faints proclaim thee King; and in their hearts,
Thy title is engraven with a pen

Dipt in the fountain of eternal love.

Thy faints proclaim thee King; and thy delay
Gives courage to their foes, who, could they fee
The dawn of thy laft advent long-defir'd,
Would creep into the bowels of the hills,
And flee for fafety to the falling rocks,
The very fpirit of the world is tir'd
Of its own taunting question ask'd fo long,
"Where is the promise of your Lord's approach ?”?
The infidel has fhot his bolts away,

'Till his exhaufted quiver yielding none,

He gleans the blunted fhafts that have recoil'd,
And aims them at the fhield of truth again.
The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands,
That hides divinity from mortal eyes,
And all the myfteries to faith, propos'd
Infulted and traduc'd, are caft afide

As ufelefs, to the moles, and to the bats...
They now are deem'd the faithful, and are prais'd,
Who conftant only in rejecting thee,

Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal,
And quit their office for their error's fake.

Blind, and in love with darknefs! yet ev'n thefe, Worthy, compar'd with fycophants, who kneel, Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man.

Se

So fares thy church. But how thy church may fare,
The world takes little thought; who will may preach,
And what they will. All paftors are alike
To wand'ring fheep, refolv'd to follow none.
Two gods divide them all, Pleasure and Gain.
For these they live, they facrifice to thefe,
And in their fervice, wage perpetual war

With confcience, and with thee. Luft in their hearts,
And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth
To prey upon each other; ftubborn, fierce,
High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace.
Thy prophets fpeak of fuch; and noting down.
The features of the laft degen'rate times, ..
Exhibit ev'ry lineament of these.

Come then, and added to thy many crowns,
Receive yet one, as radiant as the rest,
Due to thy laft, and moft effectual work,
Thy word fufill'd, the conqueft of a world.

He is the happy man, whofe life, ev'n now, Shows fomewhat of that happier life to come. Who doom'd to an obfcure, but tranquil ftate, Is pleas'd with it, and were he free to chufe, Would make his fate his choice. Whom peace, the fruit Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one, Content indeed to fojourn, while he must, Below the fkies, but having there his home. The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Of objects, more. illuftrious in her view;

And

And occupied as earnestly as fhe,

Though more fublimely, he o'erlooks the world.
She fcorns his pleasures, for she knows them not;
He feeks not hers, for he has prov'd them vain.
He cannot skim the ground, like fummer birds,
Pursuing gilded flies, and fuch he deems
Her honors, her emoluments, her joys.
Therefore in contemplation is his blifs,
Whose pow'r is fuch, that whom the lifts from earth,
She makes familiar with a heav'n unseen,
And fhows him glories yet to be reveal❜d.
Not flothful he, though feeming unemploy'd,
And cenfur'd oft as ufelefs. Stilleft ftreams
Oft water faireft meadows, and the bird
That flutters leaft, is longeft on the wing.
Afk him indeed, what trophies he has rais'd,
Or what atchievements of immortal fame
He purposes, and he fhall anfwer-none.
His warfare is within. There unfatigu'd
His fervent fpirit labors. 1 here he fights,
And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself,
And never-with'ring wreaths, compar'd with which,
The laurels that a Cæfar reaps are weeds.
Perhaps the felf-approving haughty world,
That as fhe fweeps him with her whistling filks,
Scarce deigns to notice him, or if the fee,
Deems him a cypher in the works of God,
Receives advantage from his noifeless hours
Of which the little dreams. Perhaps the owes
Her funshine and her rain, her blooming fpring,

And

And plenteous harveft, to the pray'r he makes,
When Ifaac like, the folitary faint,

Walks forth to meditate at even-tide,

And think on her, who thinks not for herself.
Forgive him then, thou buftler in concerns.
Of little worth, and idler in the best,
If author of no mifchief, and fome good,
He feek his proper happiness by means
That may advance, but cannot hinder thine.
Nor though he tread the fecret path of life,
Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease,
Account him an incumbrance on the ftate,
Receiving benefits, and rend'ring none.
His fphere, though humble, if that humble fphere
Shine with his fair example, and though small
His influence, if that influence all be spent
In foothing forrow, and in quenching ftrife,
In aiding helpless indigence, in works
From which, at leaft, a grateful few derive
Some tafte of comfort in a world of woe,
Then let the fupercilious great confefs
He ferves his country; recompenfes well
The ftate,. beneath the shadow of whofe vine
He fits fecure, and in the fcale of life
Holds no ignoble, though a flighted place.
The man whofe virtues are more felt than seen,
Muft drop, indeed, the hope of public praife;
But he may boast what few that win it can,
That if his country ftand not by his skill,
At leaft, his follies have not wrought her fall.