Of all that deck the lanes, the fields, the bow'rs,
What parts the kindred tribes of weeds and flow'rs? Sweet fcent, or lovely form, or both combin'd, Distinguish ev'ry cultivated kind;
The want of both denotes a meaner breed,
And Chloe from her garland picks the weed.
Thus hopes of ev'ry fort, whatever sect
Efteem them, fow them, rear them, and protect,
If wild in nature, and not duly found,
Gethsemane, in thy dear hallowed ground,
That cannot bear the blaze of fcripture light,
Nor cheer the spirit, nor refresh the fight,
Nor animate the foul to Chriftian deeds,
(Oh caft them from thee!) are weeds, arrant weeds. Ethelred's house, the centre of fix ways,
Diverging each from each, like equal rays,
Himself as bountiful as April rains,
Lord paramount of the furrounding plains,
Would give relief of bed and board to none,
But guests that fought it in th' appointed ONE..
And they might enter at his open door,.
Ev'n till his fpacious hall would hold no more.
He sent a fervant forth by ev'ry road,
To found his horn and publifh it abroad,
That all might mark-knight, menial, high and low
An ord'nance it concern'd them much to know.
If, after all, fome headstrong hardy lout
Would difobey, though fure to be shut out,
Could he with reafon murmur at his cafe,
Himself fole author of his own disgrace?
No! the decree was just and without flaw;
And he that made, had right to make, the law;
His fov'reign pow'r and pleasure unreftrain'd,
The wrong was his who wrongfully complain'd.
Yet half mankind maintain a churlish ftrife
With him the Donor of eternal life,
Because the deed, by which his love confirms
The largess he bestows, prescribes the terms.
Compliance with his will your lot enfures-
Accept it only, and the boon is your's.
And fure it is as kind to smile and give,
As with a frown to fay-Do this, and live!
Love is not pedlar's trump'ry, bought and fold;"
He will give freely, or he will withhold;
His foul abhors a mercenary thought,
And him as deeply who abhors it not;
He ftipulates, indeed, but merely this—
That man will freely take an unbought bliss,
Will truft him for a faithful gen'rous part,
Nor fet a price upon a willing heart.
Of all the ways that seem to promise fair,
To place you where his faints his presence share,
This only can; for this plain caufe, exprefs'd
In terms as plain-himself has fhut the rest.
But oh the ftrife, the bick'ring, and debate,
The tidings of unpurchas'd heav'n create!
The flirted fan, the bridle, and the tofs,
All speakers, yet all language at a lofs.
From stucco'd walls fmart arguments rebound;
And beaus, adepts in ev'ry thing profound,
Die of difdain, or whistle off the found.
Such is the clamour of rooks, daws, and kites,
Th' explosion of the levell'd tube excites,
Where mould'ring abbey-walls o'erhang the glade,
And oaks coeval fspread a mournful shade.
The screaming nations, hov'ring in mid air,
Loudly resent the ftranger's freedom there,
And seem to warn him never to repeat
His bold intrufion on their dark retreat.
Adieu, Vinofa cries, ere yet he fips
The purple bumper, trembling at his lips,
Adieu to all morality—if grace
Make works a vain ingredient in the case!
The Christian hope is-Waiter, draw the cork-
If I mistake not-Blockhead! with a fork!-
Without good works, whatever fome may boast,
Mere folly and delufion-Sir, your toast!--
My firm perfuafion is, at least sometimes,
That heav'n will weigh man's virtues and his crimes With nice attention, in a righteous fcale,
And fave or damn as thefe or those prevail.
I plant my foot upon this ground of truft,
And filence every fear with-God is just.
But if perchance, on fome dull drizzling day,
A thought intrude that fays, or feems to say,
If thus th' important caufe is to be tried,
Suppofe the beam fhould dip on the wrong
fide;
I foon recover from these needlefs frights,
And, God is merciful-fets all to rights.
Thus, between juftice, as my prime fupport,
And mercy, fled to as the last resort,
I glide and steal along with heav'n in view,
And-pardon me-the bottle ftands with you.
I never will believe, the col'nel cries,
The fanguinary schemes that fome devife,
Who make the good Creator, on their plan,
A being of lefs equity than man.
If appetite, or what divines call lust,
Which men comply with, e'en because they muft,
Be punish'd with perdition, who is pure?
Then their's, no doubt, as well as mine, is fure.
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