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Not fo--the silver trumpet's heavonly call
Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all:
Kings are invited; and, would kings obey,
No Naves on earth more welcome were then they:
But royalty, nobility, and state,
Are such a dead preponderating weight,
That endless bliss, (how strange foe’er it seem)
In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam.
'Tis open, and ye cannot enter—why ?
Because ye will not, Conyers would reply-
And he says much that many may dispute
And cavil at with ease, but none refute.
Oh, bless'd effect of penury and want,
The seed fown there, how vig’rous is the plant!
No foil like poverty for growth divine,
As leanest land supplies 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 controversial field,
Where deists, always foil'd, yet scorn to yield,
And never check'd by what impedes the wise,
Believe, rush forward, and possess the prize.
Envy, ye great, the dull unletter'd small :
Ye have much cause 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 sense a wretch; An instrument, whose chords, upon the stretch, And strain’d to the last screw that he can bear, Yield only discord in his Maker's ear: Once the blest residence of truth divine, Glorious as Solyma’s interior fhrine,
Where, in his own oracular abode,
Dwelt visibly the light-creating God;
But made long since, like Babylon of old,
A den of mischiefs never to be told: :
And she, once mistress of the realms around,
Now scatter'd wide, and no where to be found,
As soon shall rise and re-ascend the throne,
By native pow'r and energy her own,
As nature, at her own peculiar cost,
Restore to man the glories he has lost.
Go-bid the winter cease to chill the year;
Replace the wand'ring comet in his sphere;
Then boast (but wait for that unhop'd for hour)
The self-restoring 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 majesty 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 skies,
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 source 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 passions tam'd, and all at his controul,
How perfect the composure of his soul!
Complacency has breath'd a gentle gale
O'er all his thoughts, and swell’d his easy fail:
His books well trimm'd, and in the gayest style,
Like regimented coxcombs, rank and file,
Adorn his intellects as well as shelves,
And teach him notions splendid 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 Neep, for peace and quiet fake.
What shall the man deserve of human kind,
Whose happy skill and industry, combin’d,
Shall prove (what argument could never yet):
The Bible an imposture and a cheat?
The praises of the libertine, professid
The worst of men, and curses of the best.
Where should the living, weeping o'er his woes;
The dying, trembling at the awful close;
Where the betray’d, forsaken, and oppress’d,
'The thousands whom the world forbids to rest;
Where should they find, (those comforts at an end
The scripture yields) or hope to find, a friend?
Sorrow might muse herself to madness then; :
And, seeking exile from the sight of men, .::
Bury herself in folitude profound,
Grow frantic with her pangs, and bite the ground. ,
Thus often unbelief, grown sick of life,
Flies to the tempting pool, or felon knife.. : ;
The jury meet, the coroner is short, . . .
And lunacy the verdict of the court..