Juft earns a fcanty pittance, and at night
Lies down fecure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding and no wit,

Receives no praise, but (though her lot be such,
Toilfome and indigent) fhe renders much;
Juft knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;
And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

Oh happy peasant! Oh unhappy bard!
His the mere tinsel, her's the rich reward;
He prais'd perhaps for ages yet to come,
She never heard of half a mile from home;
He loft in errors his vain heart prefers,
She fafe in the fimplicity of hers.

Not many wife, rich, noble, or profound
In science, win one inch of heav'nly ground:
And is it not a mortifying thought

The poor fhould gain it, and the rich fhould not?
No-the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget

One pleasure loft, lofe heav'n without regret ;

Regret would rouse them and give birth to pray'r,

Pray'r would add faith, and faith would fix them there. Not that the Former of us all in this,

Or aught he does, is govern'd by caprice,

The

The supposition is replete with fin,

And bears the brand of blafphemy burnt in.
Not fo-the filver trumpet's heavenly call,

Sounds for the poor, but founds alike for all;
Kings are invited, and would kings obey,

No flaves on earth more welcome were than they;
But royalty, nobility, and state,

Are fuch a dead preponderating weight,
That endless blifs (how ftrange foe'er it feem)
In counterpoife, flies up and kicks the beam.
'Tis open and ye cannot enter-why?
Because ye will not, Conyers would reply-
And he fays much that many may dispute
And cavil at with ease, but none refute.
Oh blefs'd effect of penury and want,
The feed fown there, how vigorous is the plant!
No foil like poverty for growth divine,
As leaneft land fupplies the richest wine.
Earth gives too little, giving only bread,
To nourish pride or turn the weakest head :
To them, the founding jargon of the schools,
Seems what it is, a cap and bells for fools :
The light they walk by, kindled from above,
Shews them the shortest way to life and love:
They, ftrangers to the controverfial field,
Where deifts always foil'd, yet fcorn to yield,
VOL. I.

E

And

And never check'd by what impedes the wife,
Believe, rush forward, and possess the prize.

Envy, ye great, the dull unletter'd small,
Ye have much cause for envy-but not all;
We boast some rich ones whom the gospel sways,
And one who wears a coronet and prays;

Like gleanings of an olive-tree they show,
Here and there one upon the topmost bough.
How readily upon the gofpel plan,
That question has its anfwer-what is man?
Sinful and weak, in ev'ry sense a wretch,
An inftrument whofe chords upon the ftretch,
And ftrain'd to the last screw that he can bear,
Yield only difcord in his Maker's car:
Once the bleft refidence of truth divine,
Glorious at Solyma's interior shrine,
Where in his own oracular abode,
Dwelt vifibly the light-creating God;
But made long fince, like Babylon of old,
A den of mischiefs never to be told:

And fhe, once mistress of the realms around,
Now scatter'd wide and no where to be found,
As foon fhall rife and re-afcend the throne,
By native pow'r and energy her own,
As nature at her own peculiar cost,
Restore to man the glories he has lost.

Go

Go bid the winter ceafe to chill the year,

Replace the wand'ring comet in his sphere,
Then boast (but wait for that unhop'd for hour)
The self-reftoring arm of human pow'r.
But what is man in his own proud esteem?
Hear him, himself the poet and the theme;
A monarch cloath'd with majefty and awe,
His mind his kingdom and his will his law,
Grace in his mein and glory in his eyes,
Supreme on earth and worthy of the skies.
Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod,
And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God.

So fings he, charm'd with his own mind and form, The fong magnificent, the theme a worm: Himself fo much the fource of his delight, His maker has no beauty in his fight: See where he fits, contemplative and fix'd, Pleasure and wonder in his features mix'd, His paffions tam'd and all at his controul, How perfect the composure of his foul! Complacency has breath'd a gentle gale O'er all his thoughts, and swell'd his easy fail : His books well trimm'd and in the gayest style, Like regimented coxcombs rank and file,

Adorn his intellects as well as shelves,

And teach him notions fplendid as themselves:

The Bible only ftands neglected there,
Though that of all moft worthy of his care,
And like an infant, troublesome awake,
Is left to fleep for peace and quiet fake.

What shall the man deserve of human kind,
Whofe happy skill and industry combin'd,
Shall prove (what argument could never yet)
The Bible an impofture and a cheat?
The praises of the libertine profefs'd,
The worst of men, and curses of the best.
Where should the living, weeping o'er his woes,
The dying, trembling at their awful close,
Where the betray'd, forfaken and opprefs'd,
The thousands whom the world forbids to rest,
Where should they find (those comforts at an end
The fcripture yields) or hope to find a friend?
Sorrow might muse herself to madness then,
And seeking exile from the fight of men,
Bury herself in folitude profound,

Grow frantic with her pangs and bite the ground.

Thus often unbelief, grown fick of life,

Flies to the tempting pool or felon knife,

The jury meet, the coroner is fhort,

And lunacy the verdict of the court:

Reverse the sentence, let the truth be known,
Such lunacy is ignorance alone;

They