Here fee, acquitted of all vain pretence,
The reign of genuine Charity commence.
Though fcorn repay her fympathetic tears,
She still is kind, and ftill fhe perfeveres;

The truth fhe loves a fightlefs world blafpheme'Tis childish dotage, a delirious dream!

The danger they difcern not they deny;

Laugh at their only remedy, and die.

But ftill a foul thus touch'd can never cease,
Whoever threatens war, to speak of peace;

Pure in her aim, and in her

temper mild,

Her wisdom feems the weaknefs of a child.

She makes excufes where the might condemn;
Reviled by thofe that hate her, prays for them ;
Sufpicion lurks not in her artlefs breast;
The worst suggested, she believes the best;
Not foon provok'd, however ftung and teas'd;
And, if perhaps made angry, foon appeas'd;
She rather waves than will difpute her right;
And, injur'd, makes forgiveness her delight.

Such was the portrait an apostle drew;

The bright original was one he knew;

Heav'n held his hand-the likeness must be true.

When one, that holds communion with the fkies, Has filled his urn where these pure waters rife, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis ev'n as if an angel fhook his wings; Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide, That tells us whence his treasures are fupplied. So, when a fhip, well freighted with the stores The fun matures on India's spicy fhores,

Has dropt her anchor and her canvass furl'd,

In fome fafe haven of our western world,

'Twere vain inquiry to what

port fhe went;

The gale informs us, laden with the scent.

Some feek, when queafy confcience has its qualms,

To lull the painful malady with alms;

But charity, not feign'd, intends alone

Another's good-their's centres in their own;

And, too fhort liv'd to reach the realms of peace,

Muft cease for ever when the

poor shall cease.

Flavia, moft tender of her own good name,

Is rather careless of her sister's fame:
Her fuperfluity the poor fupplies,

But, if the touch a character, it dies.

The seeming virtue weigh'd against the vice,
She deems all fafe, for fhe has paid the price:
No charity but alms aught values fhe,

Except in porcelain on her mantle-tree.

How many deeds, with which the world has rung, From pride, in league with ignorance, have fprung! But God o'errules all human follies ftill,

And bends the tough materials to his will.

A conflagration, or a wintry flood,

Has left fome hundreds without home or food:
Extravagance and av'rice fhall fubfcribe,

While fame and felf-complacence are the bribe,
The brief proclaim'd, it vifits ev'ry pew,
But first the fquire's-a compliment but due :
With flow deliberation he unties

His glitt❜ring purfe-that envy of all eyes!

And, while the clerk just puzzles out the pfalm,

Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm;

Till, finding (what he might have found before)
A fmaller piece amidst the precious ftore,
Pinch'd close between his finger and his thumb,
He half exhibits, and then drops the fum.

Gold, to be fure!-Throughout the town 'tis told
How the good fquire gives never less than gold.
From motives fuch as his, though not the best,
Springs in due time fupply for the distress'd;
Not less effectual than what love bestows-
Except that office clips it as it goes.

But, left I feem to fin against a friend,
And wound the grace I mean to recommend,
(Though vice derided with a juft defign
Implies no trefpafs against love divine)
Once more I would adopt the graver ftyle-
A teacher should be fparing of his smile.

Unless a love of virtue light the flame,

Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame;
He hides behind a magisterial air

His own offences, and strips others bare;

Affects, indeed, a most humane concern,

That men, if gently tutor'd, will not learn ;
That mulish folly, not to be reclaim'd

By fofter methods, must be made afham'd;
But (I might inftance in St. Patrick's dean)
Too often rails to gratify his fpleen.

Most fatʼrifts are indeed a public fcourge;
Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge;
Their acrid temper turns, as foon as stirr'd,
The milk of their good purpose all to curd.
Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse,
By lean despair upon an empty purse,
The wild affaffins ftart into the street,
Prepar'd to poignard whomfoe'er they meet.
No skill in fwordmanship, however just,
Can be fecure against a madman's thrust;
And even virtue, fo unfairly match'd,

Although immortal, may be prick'd or scratch'd.
When scandal has new minted an old lie,

Or tax'd invention for a fresh supply,