To

Turn eastward now, and fancy shall apply

your weak sight her telescopic eye.

The bramin kindles on his own bare head

The sacred fire, self-torturing his trade;
His voluntary pains, severe and long,
Would give a barbarous air to British song;
No grand inquisitor could worse invent,
Than he contrives to suffer, well content.
Which is the saintlier worthy of the two?
Past all dispute, yon anchorite say you.

Your sentence and mine differ. What's a name?

I say the bramin has the fairer claim.

If sufferings, scripture no where recommends,
Devised by self to answer selfish ends,
Give saintship, then all Europe must agree
Ten starveling hermits suffer less than be.

The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear,

And prejudice have left a passage clear)
Pride has attained its most luxuriant growth,
And poisoned every virtue in them both.

Pride may be pampered while the flesh grows lean;
Humility may clothe an English dean;

That grace was Cowper's-his, confessed by all—
Though placed in golden Durham's second stall.
Not all the plenty of a bishop's board,

His palace, and his lacqueys, and "My Lord,"
More nourish pride, that condescending vice,
Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice;
It thrives in misery, and abundant grows
In misery fools upon themselves impose.

But why before us protestants produce
An Indian mystic, or a French recluse;
Their sin is plain; but what have we to fear,
Reformed and well instructed? You shall hear.

Yon ancient prude, whose withered features show She might be young some forty years ago, Her elbows pinioned close upon her hips, Her head erect, her fan upon her lips,

Her eye-brows arched, her eyes both gone astray To watch yon amorous couple in their play, With bony and unkerchiefed neck defies

The rude inclemency of wintry skies,

And sails with lappet-head and mincing airs
Duly at clink of bell to morning prayers.

To thrift and parsimony much inclined,

She yet allows herself that boy behind;
The shivering urchin, bending as he goes,
With slip-shod heels, and dew-drop at his nose;
His predecessor's coat advanced to wear,

Which future pages yet are doomed to share,
Carries her bible tucked beneath his arm,

And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm.
She, half an angel in her own account,

Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount,
Though not a grace appears on strictest search,
But that she fasts, and item, goes to church.
Conscious of age she recollects her youth,
And tells, not always with an eye to truth,
Who spanned her waist,and who, wherever he came,
Scrawled upon glass miss Bridget's lovely name;
Who stole her slipper, filled it with tokay,
And drank the little bumper every day.

Of temper as envenomed as an asp,
Censorious, and her every word a wasp;

In faithful memory she records the crimes,
Or real or fictitious, of the times;

Laughs at the reputations she has torn,

And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn.

Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride,

Of malice fed while flesh is mortified:

Take, Madam, the reward of all your prayers, Where hermits and where bramins meet with theirs; Your portion is with them.-Nay, never frown; But, if you please, some fathoms lower down. Artist attend-your brushes and your paint― Produce them-take a chair-now draw a Saint. Oh sorrowful and sad! the streaming tears Channel her cheeks-a Niobe appears!

Is this a Saint? Throw tints and all awayTrue piety is cheerful as the day, Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan For others' woes, but smiles upon her own. What purpose has the King of saints in view? Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew? To call up plenty from the teeming earth, Or curse the desart with a tenfold dearth? Is it that Adam's offspring may be saved From servile fear, or be the more enslaved?

To loose the links that galled mankind before,
Or bind them faster on, and add still more?
The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove,
Or, if a chain, the golden one of love;

No fear attends to quench his glowing fires,
What fear he feels his gratitude inspires.
Shall she for such deliverance freely wrought,
Recompense ill? He trembles at the thought.
His master's interest and his own combined
Prompt every movement of his heart and mind:
Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince,
His freedom is the freedom of a prince.

Man's obligations infinite, of course

His life should prove that he perceives their force; His utmost he can render is but small

The principle and motive all in all.

You have two servants-Tom, an arch, sly rógue,

From top to toe the Geta now in vogue,

Genteel in figure, easy in address,

Moves without noise, and swift as an express,

Reports a message with a pleasing grace,

Expert in all the duties of his place;