Reverse the sentence, let the truth be known,

Such lunacy is ignorance alone.

They knew not, what fome bishops may not know,
That fcripture is the only cure of woe.

That field of promise, how it flings abroad
Its odour o'er the Chriftian's thorny road!
The foul, repofing on affur'd relief,

Feels herself happy amidst all her grief,
Forgets her labour as fhe toils along,

Weeps tears of joy, and burfts into a fong.

But the fame word, that, like the polish'd share,

Ploughs up the roots of a believer's care,

Kills, too, the flow'ry weeds, where'er they grow,

That bind the finner's Bacchanalian brow,

Oh, that unwelcome voice of heav'nly love,
Sad meffenger of mercy from above!

How does it grate upon his thankless ear,
Crippling his pleasures with the cramp of fear!

His will and judgment at continual ftrife,

That civil war imbitters all his life:

In vain he points his pow'rs against the skies,
In vain he closes. or averts his eyes,

Truth will intrude-she bids him yet beware;

And shakes the sceptic in the fcorner's chair.
Though various foes against the truth combine,
Pride above all opposes her design;

Pride, of a growth fuperior to the rest,
The subtlest serpent, with the loftiest crest,
Swells at the thought, and, kindling into rage,
Would hifs the cherub mercy from the stage.

And is the foul, indeed, so lost?-she cries;
Fall'n from her glory, and too weak to rife?
Torpid and dull, beneath a frozen zone,

Has fhe no fpark that may be deem'd her own?
Grant her indebted to what zealots call.

Grace undeferv'd-yet, furely, not for all!
Some beams of rectitude she yet difplays,
Some love of virtue, and fome pow'r to praife;
Can lift herself above corporeal things,
And, foaring on her own unborrow'd wings,

Poffefs herself of all that's good or true,

Affert the skies, and vindicate her due.
Paft indifcretion is a venial crime;

And, if the youth, unmellow'd yet by time,
Bore on his branch, luxuriant then and rude,
Fruits of a blighted fize, auftere and crude,
Maturer years shall happier ftores produce,
And meliorate the well concocted juice.
Then, conscious of her meritorious zeal,
To justice she may make her bold appeal;
And leave to mercy, with a tranquil mind,
The worthlefs and unfruitful of mankind.
Hear, then, how mercy, flighted and defied,
Retorts the affront against the crown of pride.

Perish the virtue, as it ought, abhorr'd,

And the fool with it, who infults his Lord.
Th' atonement a Redeemer's love has wrought
Is not for you the righteous need it not.
Seeft thou yon harlot, wooing all fhe meets,
The worn-out nuifance of the public streets;.

Herfelf, from morn to night, from night to morn,
Her own abhorrence, and as much your scorn!
The gracious fhow'r, unlimited and free,

Shall fall on her, when heav'n denies it thee.
Of all that wisdom dictates, this the drift
That man is dead in fin, and life a gift.

Is virtue, then, unless of Christian growth,
Mere fallacy, or foolishness, or both?
Ten thousand fages loft in endless woe,
For ignorance of what they could not know?
That speech betrays at once a bigot's tongue-
Charge not a God with such outrageous wrong!
Truly, not I-the partial light men have,

My creed perfuades me, well employed, may fave; While he that fcorns the noon-day beam, perverfe, Shall find the bleffing, unimprov'd, a curse.

Let heathen worthies, whofe exalted mind

Left fenfuality and drofs behind,

Poffefs, for me, their undisputed lot,

And take, unenvied, the reward they fought.

But ftill, in virtue of a Saviour's plea,

Not blind by choice, but deftin'd not to fee.
Their fortitude and wisdom were a flame

Celestial, though they knew not whence it came,
Deriv'd from the fame fource of light and grace
That guides the Christian in his swifter race.
Their judge was confcience, and her rule their law:
That rule, pursued with rev'rence and with awe,
Led them, however falt'ring, faint, and flow,
From what they knew to what they wish'd to know.
But let not him that shares a brighter day
Traduce the fplendour of a noon-tide ray,

Prefer the twilight of a darker time,
And deem his bafe ftupidity no crime

The wretch, who flights the bounty of the skies,
And finks, while favour'd with the means to rife,
Shall find them rated at their full amount,

The good he fcorn'd all carried to account.

Marshalling all his terrors as he came;

Thunder, and earthquake, and devouring flame;