"To gratify the hunger of his wish; "And doth he reprobate, 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 music? 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 authentic deed, "We find sound argument, we read the heart." Such reas'nings (if that name must need belong T'excuses in which reason has no part) To live on terms of amity with vice, Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes Of theological and grave import) They gain at last his unreserv'd assent; Of lust, and on the anvil of despair, 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 Th' eclipse that intercepts truth's heav'nly beam, Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a change That turns to ridicule the turgid speech And stately tone of moralists, who boast They had indeed ability to smooth The shag of savage nature, and were each An Orpheus, and omnipotent in song: From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, Is work for Him that made him. He alone, Of asps 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' historic muse, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest times; and sculpture, in her turn, 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, Have fall'n in her defence. A patriot's blood, Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed, And for a time ensure, to his lov'd land The sweets of liberty and equal laws; But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, In confirmation of the noblest claim— Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, To walk with God, to be divinely free, Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown And chas'd them up to heav'n. Their ashes flew No bard embalms and sanctifies his song: * See Hume. |