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And, like the stores autumnal suns mature,
Through wintry rigours unimpaired endure.

What is fanatic phrenzy, scorned so much,
And dreaded more than a contagious touch?
I grant it dangerous, and approve your fear,
That fire is catching if you draw too near;
But sage observers oft mistake the flame,
And give true piety that odious name.
To tremble (as the creature of an hour
Ought at the view of an almighty power)
Before his presence, at whose awful throne
All tremble in all worlds, except our own,
To supplicate his mercy, love his ways,
And prize them above pleasure, wealth, or praise,
Though common sense allowed a casting voice,
And free from bias, must approve the choice,
Convicts a man fanatic in the extreme,
And wild as madness in the world's esteem.
But that disease, when soberly defined,
Is the false fire of an overheated mind;
It views the truth with a distorted eyè,
And either warps or lays it useless by; it
'Tis narrow, selfish, arrogant, and draws
Its sordid nourishment from man's applause;
And while at heart sin unrelinquished lies,
Presumes itself chief favourite of the skies.
"Tis such a light as putrefaction breeds
In fly-blown Rexh, whereon the maggot feeds,
Shrines in the dark, bút ushered into day
The stcuch remains, the lustre dies away.

True bliss, if man may reach it, is composed Of hearts in union mutually disclosed; And, farewell else all hope of pure delight, Those hearts should be reclaimed, renewed, upright. Bad men, profaning friendship's hallowed name, Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame,. , A dark confederacy against the laws Of virtue, and religion's glorious cause: They build each other up with dreadful skill, As bastions set point blank against God's will; Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt, Deeply resolved to shut a Saviour out; . Call legions up from hell to baok the deed; And, curst with conquest, finally succeed. But souls, that carry on a blest exchange Of joys, they meet with in their heavenly range; And with a fearless confidence make known The sorrows, sympathy esteems its own, Daily derive increasing light and force From such communion in their pleasant course, Feel less the journey's roughness and its length, Meet their opposers with united strength, And, one in heart, in interest, and design, Gird. up each other to the race divine.

But conversation, choose what theme we may, And chiefly when religion leads the way, Should flow, like waters after summer showers, Nor as if raised by mere mechanic powers.

The Christian, in whose soul, though now distressed, · Lives the dear thought of joys he once possessed,

When all his glowing language issued forth '
With God's deep stamp upon its current worth,
Will speak without disguise, and must impart,
Sad as it is, his undissembling heart,
Abhors constraint, and dares not feign a zeal,
Or seem to boast a fire, he does not feel.
The song of Sion is a tasteless thing,
Unless, when rising on a joyful wing,
The soul can mix with the celestial bands,
And give the strain the compass it demands.

Strange tidings these to tell a world, who treat
All but their own experience as deceit!
Will they believe, though credulous enough
To swallow much upon much weaker proof,
That there are blest inhabitants of earth,
Partakers of a new ethereal birth, i
Their hopes, desires, and purposes estranged
From things terrestrial, and divinely changed,
Their very language of a kind, that speaks
The soul's sure interest in the good she seeks,
Who deal with scripture, its importance felt,
As Tully with philosophy once dealt, .
And in the silent watches of the night,
And through the scenes of toil-renewing light,
The social walk, or solitary ride,
Keep still the dear companion at their side?
No-shame upon a self-disgracing age,
God's work may serve an ape upon a stage
With such a jest, as filled with hellish glee
Certain invisibles as shrewd as he;

But veneration or respect finds none,
Save from the subjects of that work alone.
The world grown old her deep discernment shows,
Claps spectacles on her sagacious nose,
Perụses closely the true Christian's face,
And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace,
Usurps God's office, lays his bosoni bare,
And finds hypocrisy close lurking there,
And serving God herself through mere constraint,
Concludes his unfeigned love of him, a feint.
And yet, God knows, look human nature through,
(And in due time the world shall know it too)
That since the flowers of Eden felt the blast, :
That after man's defection. laid all waste,
Sincerity towards the heart-searching God
Has made the new-born creature her abode,
Nor shall be found in unregenerate souls,
Till the last fire burn all between the poles.
Sincerity! Why 'tis his only pride,
Weak and imperfect in all grace beside,
He knows that God demands his heart entire,
And gives him all his just demands require.
Without it his pretensions were as vain,
As having it he deems the world's disdain;
That great defect would cost him not alone
Man's favourable judgment, but his own;
His birthright shaken, and no longer clear,
Than while his conduct proves his heart sincere.
Retort the charge, and let the world be told
She boasts a confidence she does not hold;

That, conscious of her crimes, she feels instead A cold misgiving, and a killing dread; That while in health the ground of her support Is madly to forget that life is short; That sick she trembles knowing she must die, Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie;

That while she dotes and dreams that she believes,
She mocks her Maker, and herself deceives,
Her utmost reach, historical assent,
The doctrines warpt to what they never meant;
That truth itself is in her head as dull,
And useless, as a candle in a scull,
And all her love of God a groundless claim,
A trick upon the canvass, painted flame.
Tell her again, the sneer upon her face,'
And all her censures of the work of grace,
Are insincere, meant only to conceal
A dread she would not, yet is forced to feel;
That in her heart the Christian she reveres,
And while she seems to scorn him, only fears.

A poet does not work by square or line, ".
As smiths and joiners perfect a design;
At least we moderns, our attention less,
Beyond the example of our sires digress,
And claim a right to scamper and run wide,
Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide.
The world and I fortuitously met;
I owed a trifle, and have paid the debt;
She did me wrong, I recompensed the deed,
And, baving struck the balance, now proceech

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