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Shall be, for such deliverance freely wrought,
Man's obligatious infinite, of course
The dinner served, Charles takes his usual stand,
Now which stands highest in your serious thought?
Thus Fleaven approves, as honest and sincere,
Where dwell these matchless saints ?-old Curio
cries, E'err: at your side, Sir, and before your eyes, The favour'd few—the enthusiasts you despise. And pleased at heart, because on holy ground Sometimes a cauting hypocrite is fouud, Reproach a people with his single fall, And cast his filthy raiment at them all; Atteud !-an apt similitude shall show Wheace springs the conduct that offends you so.
See where it smokes along the sounding plain, Blown all aslant, a driving, dashing rain, Peal upon peal redoubling all around, Shakes it again and faster to the ground; Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play, Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away. Ere yet it came the traveller urged his steed, And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed; Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his case, He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace. Suppose, unlook'd-for in a scene so rude, Long hid by interposing bill or wood, Some mansion, neat and elegantly dress'd, By some kind hospitable heart possess'd, Offer him warmth, security, and rest; Think with what pleasure, safe and at his ease, He hears the tempest howling in the trees; What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ, While danger past is turn'd to present joy. So fares it with the sinner, when he feels A growing dread of vengeance at his heels; His conscience, like a glassy lake before, Lash'd into foaming waves, begins to roar; The law grown clamorous, though silent long, Arraigns bim-charges him with every wrong Asserts the rights of his offended Lord, And death or restitution is the word : The last impossible, he fears the first, And, having well deserved, expects the worst.
Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home;
Some lead a life unblameable and just,
Come then-a still, small whisper in your earHe has no hope who never had a fear; And he that never doubted of his state, He may perhaps-perhaps he may—too late.
The path to bliss abounds with many a snare ; Learning is one, and wit, however rare. The Frenchman, first in literary fame, (Mention him if you please. Voltaire?-The same,) With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied, Lived long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and died.
The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,
O happy peasant! O unhappy bard!
Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound
Not that the Former of us all, in this, Or aught he does, is govern'd by caprice; The supposition is replete with sin, And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in. Not so—the silver trumpet's heavenly call Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all: Kings are invited, and would kings obey, No slaves on earth more welcome were than they : But royalty, nobility, and state, Are such a dead preponderating weight, That endless bliss (how strange soe'er it seem) Io counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam. 'Tis open, and ye cannot enter-why? Because ye will not, Conyers would replyAnd he says much that many may dispute, And cavil at with ease, but none refute. O bless'd effect of penury and want; The seed sown there, how vigorous is the plant! No soil 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 sounding jargon of the schools Seems what it is a cap and bell 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 sways, 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 every sense a wretch; An instrument, whose chords upon the stretch,