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* Pensantur trutinâ.' Hor. Lib. ii. Epist. 1.
MAN, on the dubious waves of errour toss'd, Jlis ship half founder'd, and his compass lost, Sees, far as human optics may command, A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land : Spreads all his canvass, every sinew plies; Pants for 't, aims at it, enters it, and dies ! Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes, His well-built systems, philosophic dreams; Deceitful views of future bliss farewell! He reads his sentence at the flames of Hell.
Hard lot of man-to toil for the reward Of virtue, and yet lose it! Wherefore hard ? He that would win the race must guide his horse Obedient to the customs of the course ; Else, though unequall'd to the goal he flies, A meaner than himself shall gain the prize. Grace leads the right way: if you choose the wrong, Take it and perish; but restrain your tongue ; Charge not, with light sufficient, and left free, Your wilful suicide on God's decree.
O how unlike the complex works of man, Heaven's easy, artless, unencumber'd plan! No meretricious graces to beguile, No clustering ornaments to clog the pile; From ostentation as from wezkness free, It stands like the cerulean arch we see, Majestic in its owu simplicity. Inscribed above the portal, from afar Conspicuous as the brightness of a star, Legible only by the light they give, Stand the soul-quickening words- Believe and live.
Too many, shock'd at what should charm them most,
Despise the plain direction, and are lost.
Heaven on such terms! (they cry with proud dis-
Incredible, impossible, and vain!
Rebel, because 'tis easy to obey;
for its own sake, the gracious way.
These are the sober, in whose cooler brains
Some thought of immortality remains;
The rest, too busy, or too gay to wait
On the sad theme, their everlasting state,
Sport for a day, and perish in a night,
The foam upon the waters not so light.
Who judged the pharisee? What odious cause
Exposed him to the vengeance of the laws ?
Had he seduced a virgin, wrong'd a friend,
Or stabb'd a man to serve some private end?
Was blasphemy his sin? Or did he stray
From the strict duties of the sacred day?
Sit long and late at the carousing board ?
(Such were the sins with which he charged his Lord.)
No--the man's morals were exact, what then?
'Twas his ambition to be seen of men;
His virtues were his pride; and that one vice
Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price;
He wore them as fine trappings for a show,
A praying, synagogue-frequenting beau.
The self-applauding bird, the peacock, see-
Mark what a sumptuous pharisee is he!
Meridian sun-beams tempt him to unfold
His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold :
He treads as if, some solemn music near,
His measured step were govern'd by his ear:
And seems to say-Ye meaner fowl, give place,
I am all splendour, dignity, and grace!
Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes,
Though he too has a glory in his plumes.
He, christian.like, retreats with modest mien
To the close copse, or far-sequester'd green,
And shines without desiring to be seen.
The plea of works, as arrogant and vain,
Heaven turns from with abhorrence and disdain ;
Not more affronted by avow'd neglect,
Than by the mere dissembler's feign'd respect.
What is all righteousness that men devise ?
What-but a sordid bargain for the skies?
But Christ as soon would abdicate his own,
As stoop from Heaven to sell the proud a throne.
His dwelling a recess in some rude rock,
Book, beads, and maple-dish, his meager stock;
In shirt of hair and weeds of canvass dress'd,
Girt with a bell-rope that the pope has bless'd
Adust with stripes told out for every crime,
And sore tormented long before his time;
His prayer preferr'd to saints that cannot aid;
His praise postponed, and never to be paid ;
See the sage hermit, by mankind admired,
With all that bigotry adopts inspired,
Wearing out life in his religious whim,
Till his religious whimsey wears out him.
His works, his abstinence, his zeal allow'd,
You think him humble-God accounts him proud;
High in demand, though lowly iu pretence,
Of all his conduct this the genuine sense-
My penitential stripes, my streaming blood,
Have pur ased Heaven, and prove my title good.
Turn eastward now, and Fancy shall apply
To your weak sight her telescopic eye.
The bramin kindles on his own bare head
The sacred fire, self-torturing his trade,
His voluntary pains, severe and long,
Would give a barbarous air to British song;
No grand inquisitor could worse invent,
Than he contrives to suffer, well content.
Which is the saintlier worthy of the two?
Past all dispute, yon anchorite, say you.
Your sentence and mine differ. What's a name?
I say the bramin has the fairer claim.
If sufferings, Scripture no where recommends,
Devised by self to answer selfish ends,
Give saintship, then all Europe must agree
Ten starveling hermits suffer less than ne.
The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear,
And prejudice have left a passage clear),
Pride has attain'd its most luxuriant growth,
And poison'd every virtue in then both.
Pride may be pamper'd while the flesh grows lean;
Humility may clothe an English dean;
That grace was Cowper's—his, confess'd by all-
Though placed in golden Durham's second stall.
Not all the plenty of a bishop's board,
His palace, and his lacqueys, and “ My Lord,"
More pourish pride, that condescending vice,
Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice;
It thrives in misery, and abundant grows:
In misery fools upon themselves in pose.
But why before us protestants produce An Indian mystic, or a French recluse? Their sin is plain; but what have we to fear, Reform'd and well instructed ? You shall hear.
Yon ancient prude, whose wicher'd features show
She might be young some forty years ago,
Her elbows pinion'd close upon her hips,
Her bead erect, her fan upon her lips,
Her eye-brows arch'd, her eyes both gone astray
To watch yon amorous couple
With bony and unkerchief'd neck defies
The rude inclemency of wintry skies,
And sails with lappet-head, and mincing airs
Duly at cbink of bell to morning prayers.
To thrift and parsimony much inclined,
She yet allows berself that boy behind;
The shivering urchin, bepding as he goes,
With slipshod heels, and dewdrop at his nose ;
His predecessor's coat advanced to wear,
Which future pages yet are doom'd to share,
Carries her Bible tuck'd beneath his arm,
And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm.
She, half an angel in her own account,
Doubts got hereafter with the saints to mount,
Though not a grace appears on strictest search,
But that she fasts, and item, goes to church.
Conscious of age, she recollects her youth,
And tells, not always with an eye to truth,
Who spapa'd her waist, and who, where'er he came,
Scrawi'd upon glass Miss Bridget's lovely name;
Who stole her slipper, fill'd it with tokay,
And drank the little bumper every day.
Of temper as envenom'd as an asp,
Censorious, and her every word a wasp;
In faithful memory she records the crimes,
Or real or fictitious, of the times;
Laughs at the reputations she has torn,
And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn.
Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride,
Of malice fed while flesh is mortified:
Take, madam, the reward of all your prayers,
Where hermits and where bramins meet with theirs;
Your portion is with them. Nay, never frown,
But, if you please, soine fathoms lower down.
Artist attend-your brushes and your paint-
Produce them-take a chair-now draw a saint.
Oh sorrowful and sad! the streaming tears
Channel her cheeksa Niobe appears!
Is this a saint? Throw tints and all away-
True piety is cheerful as the day,
Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan
For others' woes, but smiles upon her own.
What purpose has the King of saints in view ?
Why falls the Gospel like a gracious dew?
To call up plenty from the teeming earth,
Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth?
Is it that Adam's offspring may be saved
From servile fear, or be the more euslaved ?
To loose the links that gall'd mankind before,
Or bind them faster on, and add still more?
The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove,
Or, if a chain, the golden one of love :
No fear attends to quench his glowing fires,
What fear he feels, his gratitude inspires.