Not to deem all Enthusiasts Hypocrites.

Where dwell these matchless saints ?-old Curio

cries.

Ev'n at your side, Sir, and before your eyes,
The favour'd few th' enthusiasts you despise.
And, pleas'd at heart, because on holy ground
Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found,
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 trav'ler urg'd 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.

A Traveller sheltered from a Storm.

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 ev'ry 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 deserv'd, expects the worst. Jeg Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home;

Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come!

A Sinner brought to Faith and forgiven.

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 unblameable 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!

No Hopes for those who have no Fears.

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 who 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,

Liv'd 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,

Infidels Cowards in Sickness.

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 fum'd with frankincense on ev'ry side,
He begs their flatt'ry with his latest breath;
And, smother'd in't at last, is prais'd 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 live-long 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,

Receives no praise; but though her lot be such,
(Toilsome and indigent) she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true-
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;