Reproach a people with his single fall,
And cast his filthy raiment at them all.
Attend an apt similitude shall show,

Whence springs the conduct that offends you so.
See where it smokes along the sounding plain,
Blown all aslant, a driving, dashing rain,
Peal upon peal redoubling all around,
Shakes it again and faster to the ground,
Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play,
Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away;
Ere yet it came the traveller urged his steed,
And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed,
Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his case
He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace;
Suppose, unlook'd for in a scene so rude,
Long hid by interposing hill or wood,
Some mansion neat and elegantly dress'd,
By some kind hospitable heart possess'd,
Offer him warmth, security, and rest,
Think with what pleasure, safe and at his ease,
He hears the tempest howling in the trees,
What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ.
While danger past is turn'd to present joy.
So fares it with the sinner when he feels,
A growing dread of vengeance at his heels,
His conscience, like a glassy lake before,
Lash'd into foaming waves begins to roar,
The law grown clamorous, though silent long,
Arraigns him, charges him with every wrong,
Asserts the rights of his offended Lord,
And death, or restitution, is the word;
The last impossible, he fears the first,
And having well deserved, expects the worst.
Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home,
Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come!
Crush me ye rocks, ye falling mountains hide.
Or bury me in ocean's angry tide-
The scrutiny of those all seeing eyes
I dare not-and you need not, God replies;
The remedy you want I freely give,

The Book shall teach you, read, believe, and live:
'Tis done-the raging storm is heard no more,
Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore,
And justice, guardian of the dread command,
Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand.

A soul redeem'd demands a life of praise,
Hence the complexion of his future days,
Hence a demeanour holy and unspeck'd,
And the world's hatred as its sure effect.
Some lead a life unblamable and just,
Their own dear virtue, their unshaken trust.
They never sin-or if (as all offend)
Some trivial slips their daily walk attend,
The poor are near at hand, the charge is small,
A slight gratuity atones for all.

For though the Pope has lost his int'rest here,
And pardons are not sold as once they were,
No papist more desirous to compound,
Than some grave sinners upon English ground:
That plea refuted, other quirks they seek,
Mercy is infinite and man is weak,

The future shall obliterate the past,

And heav'n no doubt shall be their home at last.
Come then-a still, small whisper in your ear,

He has no hope that never had a fear;
And he that never doubted of his state,
He may perhaps-perhaps he may-too late.
The path to bliss abounds with many a snare,
Learning is one, and wit, however rare:
The Frenchman first in literary fame,
(Mention him if you please-Voltaire? the same)
With spirit, genius, eloquence supplied,

Lived long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and died:
The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew
Bon-mots to gall the Christian and the Jew:
An infidel in health, but what when sick?
Oh then a text would touch him at the quick:
View him at Paris in his last career,
Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere;
Exalted on his pedestal of pride,

And fumed with frankincense on ev'ry side,
He begs their flattery with his latest breath,
And, smother'd in't at last, is praised to death.
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store,
Content though mean, and cheerful, if not gay
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit,