That confcience there performs her proper part,
And writes a doomsday fentence on his heart!
Forfaking, and forsaken of all friends,
He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends;
Hard task-for one who lately knew no care,
And harder still, as leat beneath despair!
His hours no longer pafs unmark'd away,
A dark importance faddens every day;
He hears the notice of the clock, perplex'd,
And cries-perhaps eternity ftrikes next!
Sweet mufic is no longer mufic here,
And laughter founds like madness in his ear:
His grief the world of all her pow'r difarms
Wine has no taste, and beauty has no charms:
God's holy word, once trivial in his view,
Now by the voice of his experience true,
Seems, as it is, the fountain whence alone
Must spring that hope he pants to make his own. Now let the bright reverse be known abroad; Say man's a worm, and pow'r belongs to God.
As when a felon, whom his country's laws
Have juftly doom'd for fome atrocious cause,
Expects, in darknefs and heart-chilling fears,
The fhameful clofe of all his mifpent years;
If chance, on heavy pinions flowly born,
A tempeft ufher in the dreaded morn,
Upon his dungeon walls the lightning play,
The thunder feems to fummon him away,
The warder at the door his key applies,
Shoots back the bolt, and all his
If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy loft,
When hope, long ling'ring, at laft yields the ghost,
The found of pardon pierce his ftartled ear,
He drops at once his fetters and his fear;
A transport glows in all he looks and speaks,
And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks.
Joy, far fuperior joy, that much outweighs
The comfort of a few poor added days,
Invades, poffeffes, and o'erwhelms, the foul
Of him, whom hope has with a touch made whole.
'Tis heav'n, all heav'n, defcending on the wings Of the glad legions of the King of kings;
'Tis more 'tis God diffus'd through ev'ry part,
'Tis God himself triumphant in his heart!
Oh, welcome now the fun's once hated light,
His noon-day beams were never half so bright.
Not kindred minds alone are call'd t' employ
Their hours, their days, in lift'ning to his joy;
Unconscious nature, all that he furveys,
Rocks, groves, and streams, must join him in his praise.
These are thy glorious works, eternal truth,
The fcoff of wither'd age and beardlefs youth;
These move the cenfure and illib'ral grin
Of fools that hate thee and delight in fin:
But these shall last when night has quench'd the pole,
And heav'n is all departed as a scroll:
And when, as juftice has long fince decreed,
This earth fhall blaze, and a new world fucceed,
Then these thy glorious works, and they who share That hope which can alone exclude defpair,
Shall live exempt from weakness and decay, The brightest wonders of an endless day.
Happy the bard, (if that fair name belong To him that blends no fable with his fong) Whofe lines, uniting, by an honeft art,
The faithful monitor's and poet's part,
Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind,
And, while they captivate, inform the mind:
Still happier, if he till a thankful foil,
And fruit reward his honourable toil :
But happier far, who comfort those that wait
To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow'd gate.
Their language fimple, as their manners meek,
No fhining ornaments have they to seek;
Nor labour they, nor time, nor talents, waste,
In forting flow'rs to fuit a fickle tafte;
But, while they speak the wisdom of the skies,
Which art can only darken and disguise,
Th' abundant harvest, recompenfe divine,
Repays their work-the gleaning only mine.
Qua nibil majus meliufve terris
Fata donavere, boniq; divi,
Nec dabunt, quamvis redeant in aurum
FAIREST and foremost of the train, that wait
On man's most dignified and happiest state,
Whether we name thee Charity or love,
Chief grace below, and all in all above,
Prosper (I prefs thee with a pow'rful plea)
A task I venture on, impell'd by thee:
Oh, never feen but in thy bleft effects,
Or felt but in the foul that heav'n felects;
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