TRUTH.

Penfentur trutina.

HOR.

MAN

AN on the dubious waves of error tofs'd,. His ship half founder'd and his compass loft, Sees far as human optics may command, A fleeping fog, and fancies it dry land: Spreads all his canvass, ev'ry finew plies, Pants for't, aims at it, enters it, and dies. Then farewell all felf-fatisfying schemes, His well-built fyftems, philofophic dreams, Deceitful views of future blifs, farewell! He reads his fentence in the flames of hell.

Hard lot of man! to toil for the reward Of virtue, and yet lofe it-wherefore hard? He that would win the race, must guide his horfe Obedient to the customs of the course,

Elfe

Elfe, though unequall'd to the goal he flies,

A meaner than himself shall gain the prize.
Grace leads the right way, if you chufe the wrong,
Take it and perish, but reftrain your tongue;
Charge not, with light fufficient and left free,

Your wilful fuicide on God's decree.

Oh how unlike the complex works of man,
Heav'ns eafy, artless, unincumber'd plan!
No meretricious graces to beguile,
No cluft'ring ornaments to clog the pile,
From oftentation as from weakness free,
It ftands like the cærulean arch we fee,
Majestic in its own fimplicity.
Infcrib'd above the portal, from afar
Confpicuous as the brightness of a star,

Legible only by the light they give,

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Stand the foul-quick'ning words-BELIEVE AND

LIVE.

Too many, fhock'd at what should charm them most, Defpife the plain direction and are lost.

Heav'n on fuch terms! they cry with proud disdain, Incredible, impoffible, and vain—

Rebel because 'tis eafy to obey,

And scorn, for its own fake, the gracious way.
These are the fober, in whofe cooler brains.

Some thought of immortality remains;

The

The reft too bufy or too gay, to wait
On the fad theme, their everlasting state,
Sport for a day and perish in a night,
The foam upon the waters not fo light.
Who judg'd the Pharifee? What odious caufe
Expos'd him to the vengeance of the laws?
Had he seduc'd a virgin, wrong'd a friend,
Or stabb'd a man to ferve fome private end?
Was blafphemy his fin? Or did he stray
From the strict duties of the facred day?
Sit long and late at the carousing board?

(Such were the fins with which he charg'd 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, fynagogue frequenting beau.

The felf-applauding bird, the peacock fee-
Mark what a sumptuous Pharifce is he!
Meridian fun-beams tempt him to unfold
His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold;
He treads as if fome folemn mufic near,
His measur'd step were govern'd by his ear,
And feems to fay, ye meaner fowl, give place,
I am all fplendor, dignity and grace.

Not

Not fo the pheasant on his charms prefumes,
Though he too has a glory in his plumes.
He, chriftian like, retreats with modeft mein,
To the close copfe or far fequefter'd green,
And shines without defiring to be seen.

The plea of works, as arrogant and vain,
Heav'n turns from with abhorrence and difdain::
Not more affronted by avow'd neglect,

Than by the mere dissemblers feign'd respect..
What is all righteousness that men devise,
What, but a fordid bargain for the skies?
But Chrift as foon would abdicate his own,
As ftoop from heav'n to fell the proud a throne..
His dwelling a recefs in fome rude rock,
Books, beads, and maple-dish his meagre ftock,
In fhirt of hair and weeds of canvafs drefs'd,
Girt with a bell-rope that the Pope has blefs'd,
Aduft with stripes told out for ev'ry crime,
And fore tormented long before his time,
His pray'r preferr❜d to faints that cannot aid,,
His praise poftpon'd, and never to be paid,
See the fage hermit, by mankind admir'd,,
With all that bigotry adopts, infpir'd,
Wearing out life in his religious whim,.
"Till his religious whimfy wears out him.
His works, his abftinence, his zeal allow'd,
You think him humble, God accounts him proud;

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High in demand, though lowly in pretence,. Of all his conduct, this the genuine fenfeMy penitential stripes, my streaming blood Have purchas'd heaven, and prove my title good. Turn eastward now, and fancy fhall apply To your weak fight her telescopic eye. The Bramin kindles on his own bare head The facred fire, felf-torturing his trade; His voluntary pains, fevere and long, Would give a barb'rous air to British song; Nor grand inquifitor could worfe invent, Than he contrive to fuffer, well content. Which is the faintlier worthy of the two? Paft all difpute, yon anchorite fay you. Your fentence and mine differ. What's a name? I say the Bramin has the fairer claim. If fuff'rings, fcripture no where recommends, Devis'd by felf to answer felfish ends, Give fantship, then all Europe' must agree,

Ten ftarveling hermits fuffer less than he.

The truth is (if the truth may fuit your ear, And prejudice have left a paffage clear)

Pride has attain'd its most luxuriant growth,

And poifon'd every virtue in them both..

Pride may be pamper'd while the flesh grows lean; Humility may clothe an English Dean;