Of all-creating energy and might,

Are grand no doubt, and worthy of the word,
That, finding an interminable space
Unoccupied, has fill'd the void so well,

And made so sparkling what was dark before.
But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true,
Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene,
Might well suppose th' artificer divine
Meant it eternal, had he not himself
Pronounc'd it transient, glorious as it is,
And still designing a more glorious far,
Doom'd it as insufficient for his praise.
These therefore are occasional, and pass;
Form'd for the confutation of the fool,
Whose lying heart disputes against a God;
That office serv'd, they must be swept away.
Not so the labours of his love; they shine
In other heav'ns than these that we behold,
And fade not. There is Paradise that fears
No forfeiture, and of its fruits he sends
Large prelibation oft to saints below.
Of these the first in order, and the pledge,
And confident assurance of the rest,
Is liberty; a flight into his arms,
Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way,
A clear escape from tyrannizing lust,
And full immunity from penal wo.

Chains are the portion of revolted man, Stripes, and a dungeon; and his body serves The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul, Opproprious residence he finds them all. Propense his heart to idols, he is held

In silly dotage on created things,
Careless of their Creator. And that low,
And sordid gravitation of his pow'rs

To a vile clod so draws him, with such force
Resistless from the centre he should seek,
That he at last forgets it. All his hopes
Tend downward; his ambition is to sink,
To reach a depth profounder still, and still
Profounder, in the fathomless abyss
Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death.
But ere he gain the comfortless repose
He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul
In Heav'n-renouncing exile, he endures→→
What does he not, from lusts oppos'd in vain,
And self-reproaching conscience? He foresees
The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace,
Fortune, and dignity; the loss of all

That can ennoble man, and make frail life,
Short as it is, supportable. Still worse,

Far worse than all the plagues, with which his sins
Infect his happiest moments, he forbodes
Ages of hopeless mis'ry. Future death,
And death still future. Not a hasty stroke,
Like that which sends him to the dusty grave;
But unrepealable enduring death.

Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears;
What none can prove a forg'ry may be true;
What none but bad men wish exploded must.
That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud
Nor drunk enough, to drown it. In the midst
Of laughter his compunctions are sincere ;
And he abhors the jest by which he shines.

Remorse begets reform. His master lust
Falls first before his resolute rebuke,

And seems dethron'd and vanquish'd. Peace ensues,
But spurious and short-liv'd; the puny child

Of self-congratulating Pride, begot

On fancied Innocence. Again he falls,
And fights again; but finds his best essay
A presage ominous, portending still
Its own dishonour by a worse relapse,
Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foil'd
So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt,
Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now
Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause
Perversely, which of late she so condemn'd;
With shallow shifts and old devices, worn
And tatter'd in the service of debauch,
Cov'ring his shame from his offended sight.

Hath God indeed giv'n appetites to man,
And stor❜d the earth so plenteously with means,
To gratify the hunger of his wish;

'And doth he reprohate, and will he damn 'The use of his own bounty? making first 'So frail a kind, and then enacting laws "So strict, that less than perfect must despair? "Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truth 'Dishonours God, and makes a slave of man. 'Do they themselves, who undertake for hire "The teacher's office, and dispense at large "Their weekly dole of edifying strains, 'Attend to their own musick? have they faith 'In what with such solemnity of tone And gesture they propound to our belief?

Nay--conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice Is but an instrument, on which the priest

May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, "The unequivocal, authentick deed,

"We find sound argument, we read the heart.' Such reas'nings (if that name must needs belong T'excuses in which reason has no part) Serve to compose a spirit weli inclin❜d, To live on terms of amity with vice, And sin without disturbance. Often urg'd, (As often as libidinous discourse

Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes

Of theological and grave import)
They gam at last his unreserv'd assent;

Till, harden'd his heart's temper in the forge
Of lust, and on the anvil of despair,

He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves,
Or nothing much, his constancy in ill;

Vain tamp'ring has but foster'd his disease;

'Tis desp'rate, and he sleeps the sleep of death.
Haste now, philosopher, and set him free.
Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear
Of rectitude and fitness, moral truth

How lovely, and the moral sense how sure,
Consulted and obey'd, to guide his steps
Directly to the first and only fair.

Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the pow'rs
Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise :
Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand,
And with poetick trappings grace thy prose,
Till it outmantle all the pride of verse.-
Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high-sounding brass,

Smitten in vain! such musick cannot charm
The eclipse, that intercepts truth's heav'nly beam,
And chills and darkens a wide-wand'ring soul.
The still small voice is wanted. He must speak,
Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect;
Who calls for things that are not, and they come.
Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a change,
That turns to ridicule the turgid speech
And stately tone of moralists, who boast,
As if, like him of fabulous renown,
They had indeed ability to smooth
The shag of savage nature, and were each
An Orpheus, and omnipotent in song:
But transformation of apostate man
From fool to wise, from earthly to divine,
Is work for him that made him. He alone
And he by means in philosophick eyes
Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves
The wonder; humanizing what is brute
In the lost kind, extracting from the lips
Of asps their venom, overpow'ring strength
By weakness, and hostility by love.

Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's cause
Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve,
Receive proud recompense. We give in charge
Their names to the sweet lyre. Th' historick muse
Proud of the treasure, marches with it down
To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turr,
Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass
To guard them, and t'immortalize her trust;
But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid,
To those, who, posted at the shrine of Truth,