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Their fragant mem'ry will outlast their tomb,
Embalm’d for ever in it's own perfume.
And to say truth, though in it's early prime,
And when unstain'd with any grosser crime,
Youth has a sprightliness and fire to boast,
That in the valley of decline are lost,
And Virtue with peculiar charms appears,
Crown'd with the garland of life's blooming years;
Yet Age, by long experience well inform’d,
Well read, well temper’d, with religion warm’d,
That fire abated, which impels rash Youth,
Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth,
As time improves the grapes authentic juice,
Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use,
And claims a rev'rence in it's short'ning day,
That 'tis an honour and a joy to pay.
The fruits of Age, less fair, are yet more sound,
Than those a brighter season pours around;
And, like the stores autumnal suns mature,
Through wintry rigours unimpair'd endure.

What is fanatic frenzy, scorn'd so much,
And dreaded more than a contagious touch?
I grant it dang'rous, and approve your fear,
That fire is catching if you draw too near;

But

sage observers oft mistake the flame, And give true piety that odious name. To tremble (as the creature of an hour Ought at the view of an almighty pow'r) Before his presence, at whose awful throne All tremble in all worlds, except our own, To supplicate his mercy, love his ways, And prize them above pleasure, wealth, or praise, Though common sense, allow'd a casting voice, And free from bias, must approve the choice, Convicts a nian fanatic in th' extreme, And wild as madness in the World's esteem. But that disease, when soberly defin'd, Is the false fire of an o'erheated mind; It views the truth with a distorted eye, And either warps or lays it useless by; 'Tis narrow, selfish, arrogant, and draws It's sordid nourishment from man's applause; And while at heart sin unrelinquish'd lies, Presumes itself chief fav'rite of the skies. "Tis such a light as putrefaction breeds In fly-blown flesh, whereon the maggot feeds, Shines in tħe dark, but, usher'd into day, The stench remains, the lustre dies away.

True bliss, if man may reach it, is compos'd Of hearts in union mutually disclos'd; And, farewell else all hope of pure delight, Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, upright. Bad men, profaning friendship’s hallow'd name, Form, in it's stead, a covenant of shame, A dark confed'racy against the laws Of virtue, and religion's glorious cause: They build each other up with dreadful skill, As bastions set point blank against God's will; Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt, Deeply resolv'd to shut a Saviour out: Call legions up from Hell to back the deed; And, curs'd with conquest, finally succeed. But souls, that carry on a blest exchange Of joys, they meet with in their heav'nly range, And with a fearless confidence make known The sorrows, sympathy esteems it's own, Daily derive increasing light and force From such communion in their pleasant course, Feel less the journey's roughness and it's length, Meet their opposers with united strength, And, one in heart, in int'rest, and design, Gird up each other to the race divine.

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But Conversation, choose what theme we may, And chiefly when religion leads the way, Should flow, like waters after summer show'rs, Not as if rais’d by mere mechanic pow'rs. The Christian, in whose soul, though now distress'd, Lives the dear thought of joys he once possess'd, When all his glowing language issued forth With God's deep stamp upon it's current worth, Will speak without disguise, and must impart, Sad as it is, his undissembling heart, Abhors constraint, and dares not feign a zeal, Or seem to boast a fire he does not feel. The song of Sion is a tasteless thing, Unless, when rising on a joyful wing, The soul can mix with the celestial bands, And give the strain the compass it demands.

Strange tidings these to tell a World, who treat All but their own experience as deceit! Will they believe, though credulous enough, To swallow much upon much weaker proof, That there are blest inhabitants of Earth, Partakers of a new ethereal birth, Their hopes, desires, and purposes estrang’d From things terrestrial, and divinely chang'd,

Their very language of a kind, that speaks
The soul's sure int'rest in the good she seeks,
Who deal with Scripture, its importance felt,
As Tully with philosophy once dealt,
And in the silent watches of the night,
And through the scenes of toil-renewing light,
The social walk, or solitary ride,
Keep still the dear companion at their side?
No-sha me upon a self-disgracing age,
God's work may serve an ape upon a stage
With such a jest, as fill'd with hellish glee
Certain invisibles as shrewd as he;
But veneration or respect finds none,
Save from the subjects of that work alone.
The World grown old her deep discernment shows,
Claps spectacles on her sagacious nose,
Peruses closely the true Christian's face,
And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace;
Usurps God's office, lays his bosom bare,
And finds hypocrisy close lurking there;
And, serving God herself through mere constraint,
Concludes his unfeign'd love of him a feint.
And yet, God knows, look human nature through,
(And in due time the World shall know it too)

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