Accomplishments have taken virtue's place,
And wisdom falls before exterior grace;
We slight the precious kernel of the stone,
And toil to polish its rough coat alone.
A just deportment, manners graced with ease,
Elegant phrase, and figure form'd to please,
Are qualities that seem to comprehend
Whatever parents, guardians, schools intend;
Hence an unfurnish'd and a listless mind,
Though busy, trifling; empty, though refined;
Hence all that interferes, and dares to clash
With indolence and luxury, is trash;
While learning, once the man's exclusive pride,
Seems verging fast towards the female side.
Learning itself, received into a mind
By nature weak, or viciously inclined,
Serves but to lead philosophers astray
Where children would with ease discern the way.
And of all arts sagacious dupes invent

To cheat themselves and gain the world's assent,
The worst is Scripture warp'd from its intent.
The carriage bowls along and all are pleased
If Tom be sober, and the wheels well greased,
But if the rogue have gone a cup too far,
Left out his linchpin, or forgot his tar,
It suffers interruption and delay,

And meets with hindrance in the smoothest way.
When some hypothesis absurd and vain
Has fill'd with all its fumes a critic's brain,
The text that sorts not with his darling whim,
Though plain to others, is obscure to him.
The will made subject to a lawless force,
All is irregular, and out of course,

And judgment drunk, and bribed to lose his way,
Winks hard, and talks of darkness at noonday.
A critic, on the sacred book, should be
Candid and learn'd, dispassionate and free:
Free from the wayward bias bigots feel,
From fancy's influence, and intemp'rate zeal.
But, above all, (or let the wretch refrain,
Nor touch the page he cannot but profane,)
Free from the domineering pow'r of lust,
A lewd interpreter is never just.

How shall I speak thee, or thy pow'r address, Thou god of our idolatry, the Press?

E

T

By thee, religion, liberty, and laws,

Exert their influence, and advance their cause,
By thee worse plagues, than Pharaoh's land befel,
Diffused, make earth the vestibule of hell:
Thou fountain, at which drink the good and wise,
Thou ever-bubbling spring of endless lies,
Like Eden's dread probationary tree,
Knowledge of good and evil is from thee.
No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest,
Till half mankind were like himself possess'd.
Philosophers, who darken and put out
Eternal truth by everlasting doubt,

Church quacks, with passions under no command,
Who fill the world with doctrines contraband,
Discov'rers of they know not what, confined
Within no bounds, the blind that lead the blind,
To streams of popular opinion drawn,
Deposit in those shallows all their spawn.

e wriggling fry soon fill the creeks around,
Pois'ning the waters where their swarms abound;
Scorn'd by the nobler tenants of the flood,
Minnows and gudgeons gorge th' unwholesome foot
The propagated myriads spread so fast,
E'en Lewenhoek' himself would stand aghast,
Employ'd to calculate the enormous sum,
And own his crab-computing pow'rs o'ercome.
Is this hyperbole? The world well known,
Your sober thoughts will hardly find it one.
Fresh confidence the speculatist takes
From

every hair-brain'd proselyte he makes,
And therefore prints. Himself but half-deceived,
'Till others have the soothing tale believed.
Hence comment after comment, spun as fine
As bloated spiders draw the flimsy line.
Hence the same word that bids our lusts obey,
Is misapplied to sanctify their sway.

If stubborn Greek refuse to be his friend,
Hebrew or Syriac shall be forced to bend;
If languages and copies all
cry, No-

Somebody proved it centuries ago.

Like trout pursued, the critic, in despair,
Darts to the mud and finds his safety there.

1 A Dutch naturalist, born at Delft in 1632. With single lenses. extreme polish, he made some very curious microscopic investigations. 1698, he showed to Peter the Great the circulation of the blood in the tar an eel. He died in 1723.

of

la

Women, whom custom has forbid to fly
The scholar's pitch (the scholar best knows why),
With all the simple and unletter'd poor,
Admire his learning, and almost adore.
Whoever errs, the priest can ne'er be wrong,
With such fine words familiar to his tongue.
Ye ladies! (for, indiff'rent in your cause,
I should deserve to forfeit all applause,)
Whatever shocks, or gives the least offence
To virtue, delicacy, truth, or sense,
(Try the criterion, 'tis a faithful guide,)
Nor has, nor can have Scripture on its side.
None but an author knows an author's cares,
Or fancy's fondness for the child she bears.
Committed once into the public arms,

The baby seems to smile with added charms;
Like something precious ventured far from shore,
'Tis valued for the danger's sake the more.
He views it with complacency supreme,
Solicits kind attention to his dream,

And daily more enamour'd of the cheat,
Kneels, and asks Heav'n to bless the dear deceit,
So one, whose story serves at least to show
Men loved their own productions long ago,
Woo'd an unfeeling statue for his wife,
Nor rested till the gods had giv'n it life.
If some mere driv'ler suck the sugar'd fib,
One that still needs his leading-string and bib,
And praise his genius, he is soon repaid
In praise applied to the same part, his head;
For 'tis a rule that holds for ever true,
Grant me discernment, and I grant it you.
Patient of contradiction as a child,
Affable, humble, diffident, and mild,

Such was Sir Isaac, and such Boyle, and Locke,
Your blund'rer is as sturdy as a rock;
The creature is so sure to kick and bite,
A muleteer's the man to set him right.
First appetite enlists him truth's sworn foe,
Then obstinate self-will confirms him so.

Tell him he wanders, that his error leads
To fatal ills; that though the path he treads

1 Pygmalion, a sculptor of Cyprus, who, becoming enamoured of a marble statue, prevailed on Venus to turn it into a woman, whom he married.

* Newton.

Be flow'ry, and he see no cause of fear,
Death and the pains of hell attend him there;
In vain; the slave of arrogance and pride,
He has no hearing on the prudent side.
His still refuted quirks he still repeats,
New-raised objections with new quibbles meets,
Till, sinking in the quicksand he defends,
He dies disputing, and the contest ends;
But not the mischiefs: they still left behind,
Like thistle-seeds are sown by every wind.

Thus men go wrong with an ingenious skill,
Bend the straight rule to their own crooked will,
And, with a clear and shining lamp supplied,
First put it out, then take it for a guide.
Halting on crutches of unequal size,
One leg by truth supported, one by lies,
They sidle to the goal with awkward pace,
Secure of nothing but to lose the race.

Faults in the life breed errors in the brain,
And these, reciprocally, those again.
The mind and conduct mutually imprint
And stamp their image in each other's mint.
Each, sire and dam, of an infernal race,
Begetting and conceiving all that's base.

None sends his arrow to the mark in view,
Whose hand is feeble, or his aim untrue.
For though e'er yet the shaft is on the wing,
Or when it first forsakes th' elastic string,
It err but little from th' intended line,
It falls at last far wide of his design.
So he that seeks a mansion in the sky,
Must watch his
with a steadfast eye,
purpose
That prize belongs to none but the sincere,
The least obliquity is fatal here.

With caution taste the sweet Circæan cup,
He that sips often, at last drinks it up.
Habits are soon assumed, but when we strive
To strip them off, 'tis being flay'd alive.
Call'd to the temple of impure delight,
He that abstains, and he alone does right.
If a wish wander that way call it home,
He cannot long be safe, whose wishes roam.
But if you pass the threshold, you are caught,
Die then, if pow'r Almighty save you not.
There hard'ning by degrees, till double steel'd,
Take leave of nature's God, and God reveal'd,

Then laugh at all you trembled at before,
And, joining the freethinkers' brutal roar,
Swallow the two grand nostrums they dispense,
That Scripture lies, and blasphemy is sense:
If clemency revolted by abuse

Be damnable, then damn'd without excuse.

Some dream that they can silence when they will The storm of passion, and say, "Peace, be still;" But "Thus far and no farther," when address'd To the wild wave, or wilder human breast, Implies authority that never can,

That never ought to be the lot of man.

But, muse, forbear, long flights forebode a fall, Strike on the deep-toned chord the sum of all. Hear the just law, the judgment of the skies! He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies. And he that will be cheated to the last, Delusions, strong as hell, shall bind him fast. But if the wand'rer his mistake discern, Judge his own ways, and sigh for a return, Bewilder'd once, must he bewail his loss, For ever and for ever? No-the Cross. There, and there only (though the deist rave, And atheist, if earth bear so base a slave), There, and there only, is the power to save. There no delusive hope invites despair, No mock'ry meets you, no deception there; The spells and charms that blinded you before, All vanish there, and fascinate no more.

I am no preacher, let this hint suffice,

The Cross once seen, is death to ev'ry vice:
Else He that hung there suffer'd all His pain,
Bled, groan'd, and agonized, and died in vain.

MAN, on the dubious waves of error toss'd,
His ship half founder'd and his compass lost,
Sees, far as human optics may command,.
A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land:
Spreads all his canvass, ev'ry sinew plies,
Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies.