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 wanderer his mistake discern,
Judge his own ways, and sigh for a return,
Bewildered 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 mockery 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 every vice:
Else He that hung there suffered all his pain,
Bled, groaned, and agonized, and died in vain.

TRUTH.

Pensentur trutinâ.-HOR.

MAN on the dubious waves of error tossed,
His ship half foundered and his compass lost,
Sees, far as human optics may command,
A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land :
Spreads all his canvas, every sinew plies,
Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies.
Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes,
His well-built systems, philosophic dreams,
Deceitful views of future bliss, farewell!
He reads his sentence at the flames of hell.
Hard lot of man! to toil for the reward

Of virtue, and yet lose it !-Wherefore hard?
He that would win the race, must guide his horse
Obedient to the customs of the course,

Else, though unequalled to the goal he flies,

A meaner than himself shall gain the prize.

Grace leads the right way,-if you choose the wrong,
Take it and perish, but restrain your tongue;
Charge not, with light sufficient and left free,
Your wilful suicide on God's decree.

Oh, how unlike the complex works of man,
Heaven's easy, artless, unencumbered plan!
No meretricious graces to beguile,
No clustering ornaments to clog the pile,
From ostentation as from weakness free,
It stands like the cærulean arch we see,
Majestic in its own simplicity.

Inscribed above the portal, from afar
Conspicuous as the brightness of a star.
Legible only by the light they give,

Stand the soul-quickening words-BELIEVE AND LIVE.
Too many, shocked at what should charm them most,
Despise the plain direction and are lost.

Heaven on such terms! they cry with proud disdain,
Incredible, impossible, and vain!-

Rebel because 'tis easy to obey,

And scorn for its own sake the gracious way.

These are the sober, in whose cooler brains

Some thought of immortality remains ;
The rest too busy or too gay, to wait
On the sad theme, their everlasting state,
Sport for a day, and perish in a night,
The foam upon the waters not so light.

Who judged the Pharisee? What odious cause
Exposed him to the vengeance of the laws?
Had he seduced a virgin, wronged a friend,
Or stabbed a man to serve some private end?
Was blasphemy his sin? Or did he stray
From the strict duties of the sacred day?
Sit long and late at the carousing board?

(Sura were the sins with which he charged his Lord,)
No-the man's morals were exact; what then?

'Twas his ambition to be seen of men ;

His virtues were his pride; and that one vice
Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price;
He wore them as fine trappings for a show,
A praying, synagogue-frequenting beau.

The self-applauding bird, the peacock see,-
Mark what a sumptuous Pharisee is he?
Meridian sun-beam tempt him to unfold
His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold;
He treads as if, some solemn music near,
His measured step were governed by his ear,
And seems to say, Ye meaner fowl, give place!
I am all splendour, dignity, and grace.

Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes,
Though he too has a glory in his plumes.
He, Christian-like, retreats with modest mien,
To the close copse or far sequestered green,
And shines without desiring to be seen.
The plea of works, as arrogant and vain,

Heaven turns from with abhorrence and disdain;

Not more affronted by avowed neglect,

Than by the mere dissembler's feigned respect.
What is all righteousness that men devise,
What, but a sordid bargain for the skies?
But Christ as soon would abdicate his own,
As stoop from heaven to sell the proud a throne.
His dwelling a recess in some rude rock,

}

Book, beads, and maple dish his meagre stock,
In shirt of hair, and weeds of canvas dressed,
Girt with a bell-rope that the Pope has blessed,
Adust with stripes told out for every crime,
And sore tormented long before his time,
His prayer preferred to saints that cannot aid,
His praise postponed, and never to be paid,
See the sage hermit by mankind admired,
With all that bigotry adopts, inspired,
Wearing out life in his religious whim,
Till his religious whimsy wears out him.
His works, his abstinence, his zeal allowed,
You think him humble, God accounts him proud;
High in demand, though lowly in pretence,
Of all his conduct this the genuine sense,-
My penitential stripes, my streaming blood
Have purchased heaven, and proved my title good.
Turn eastward now, and fancy shall apply
To your weak sight her telescopic eye.
The Brahmin 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 Brahmin has the fairer claim.
If sufferings Scripture nowhere recommends,
Devised by self to answer selfish ends,
Give saintship, then all Europe must agree,
Ten starveling hermits suffer less than he.

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 lackeys, 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,
1 For who would rob a hermit of bis weeds,
His few books, or his beads, o maple dish?-Comus.

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 eyebrows 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 slipshod heels, and dew-drop at his nose,
His predecessor's coat advanced to wear,
Which future pages are yet doomed to share ;
Carries her Bible1 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, where'er 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 Brahmins 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 away!
True piety is cheerful as the day,

Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan
For other's woes, but smiles upon her own.

What purpose has the King of saints in view?
Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew?

1 These lines are evidently formed upon Hogarth's print of Mourning.

To call up plenty from the teeming earth,
Or curse the desert 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 free-born 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 he 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 rogue,
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;

Say, on what hinge does his obedience move?

Has he a world of gratitude and love?

No, not a spark,-'tis all mere sharper's play;

He likes your house, your housemaid, and your pay,
Reduce his wages, or get rid of her,

Tom quits you, with, your most obedient, Sir.

The dinner served, Charles takes his usual stand,
Watches your eye, anticipates command,

Sighs if perhaps your appetite should fail,
And if he but suspects a frown, turns pale;
Consults all day your interest and your ease,
Richly rewarded if he can but please,

And proud to make his firm attachment known,
To save your life would nobly risk his own.

Now, which stands highest in your serious thought?
Charles, without doubt, say you, and so he ought
One act that from a thankful heart proceeds,

Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds.
Thus heaven approves as honest and sincere,
The work of generous love and filial fear;

But with averted eyes the omniscient judge

Scorns the base hireling and the slavish drudge.

Where dwell these matchless saints? old Curio cries;

Even at your side, Sir, and before your eyes,

The favoured few, the enthusiasts you despise;

And pleased at heart because on holy ground

8