Not fo-the filver trumpet's heav'nly call
Sounds for the poor, but founds alike for all:
Kings are invited; and, would kings obey,

No flaves on earth more welcome were then they:
But royalty, nobility, and state,

Are fuch a dead preponderating weight,
That endless blifs, (how ftrange foe'er it seem)
In counterpoife, flies up and kicks the beam.
'Tis open, and ye cannot enter-why?
Because ye will not, Conyers would reply-
And he fays much that many may dispute
And cavil at with ease, but none refute.
Oh, bless'd effect of penury and want,
The feed fown there, how vig'rous is the plant!
No foil like poverty for growth divine,
As leaneft land fupplies the richest wine.
Earth gives too little, giving only bread,
To nourish pride, or turn the weakest head:
To them the founding jargon of the schools
Seems what it is-a cap and bells for fools:

The light they walk by, kindled from above,
Shows them the shortest way to life and love:
They, strangers to the controverfial field,
Where deifts, always foil'd, yet fcorn to yield,
And never check'd by what impedes the wise,
Believe, rush forward, and poffefs the prize.

Envy, ye great, the dull unletter'd small :

Ye have much caufe for envy-but not all.
We boast some rich ones whom the gospel fways;
And one who wears a coronet, and prays;
Like gleanings of an olive-tree, they show
Here and there one upon the topmost bough,
How readily, upon the gospel plan,

That question has its answer -What is man?
Sinful and weak, in ev'ry fense a wretch;
An instrument, whofe chords, upon the stretch,
And ftrain'd to the last screw that he can bear,
Yield only discord in his Maker's ear:
Once the bleft refidence of truth divine,
Glorious as Solyma's interior fhrine,

Where, in his own oracular abode,

Dwelt vifibly the light-creating God;

But made long fince, like Babylon of old,
A den of mischiefs never to be told:

And fhe, once mistress of the realms around
Now fcatter'd wide, and no where to be found,
As foon fhall rife and re-afcend the throne,
By native pow'r and energy her own,
As nature, at her own peculiar cost,
Reftore to man the glories he has loft.
Go-bid the winter cease to chill the year;
Replace the wand'ring comet in his sphere;
Then boaft (but wait for that unhop'd for hour)
The self-reftoring arm of human pow'r.
But what is man in his own proud esteem?
Hear him-himself the poet and the theme:
A monarch, cloth'd with majefty and awe;
His mind his kingdom, and his will his law;
Grace in his mien, and glory in his eyes,
Supreme on earth, and worthy of the fkies,

Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod,

And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God!

So fings he, charm'd with his own mind and form. The fong magnificent-the theme a worm!

Himself so much the fource of his delight,
His Maker has no beauty in his fight.
See where he fits, contemplative and fix'd,
Pleasure and wonder in his features mix'd;
His paffions tam'd, and all at his controul,
How perfect the composure of his foul!
Complacency has breath'd a gentle gale
O'er all his thoughts, and fwell'd his eafy fail:
His books well trimm'd, and in the gayeft ftyle,
Like regimented coxcombs, rank and file,
Adorn his intellects as well as fhelves,

And teach him notions fplendid as themselves:
The Bible only stands neglected there—
Though that of all most worthy of his care;
And, like an infant, troublesome awake,
Is left to fleep, for peace and quiet fake.

What shall the man deferve of human kind, Whose happy skill and industry, combin'd, Shall prove (what argument could never yet)

The Bible an impofture and a cheat?

The praises of the libertine, profess'd

The worst of men, and curses of the best.
Where fhould the living, weeping o'er his woes;
The dying, trembling at the awful close;
Where the betray'd, forfaken, and oppress'd,
The thousands whom the world forbids to rest;
Where should they find, (those comforts at an end
The fcripture yields) or hope to find, a friend?
Sorrow might mufe herself to madness then;

And, feeking exile from the fight of men,

Bury herself in folitude profound,

Grow frantic with her pangs, and bite the ground.

Thus often unbelief, grown fick of life,

Flies to the tempting pool, or felon knife.

The jury meet, the coroner is fhort,

And lunacy the verdict of the court.