Shone brighter ftill, once call'd to public view. 'Tis therefore many, whofe fequefter'd lot Forbids their interference, looking on,

Anticipate perforce fome dire event;

And, feeing the old caftle of the state,
That promis'd once more firmness, so affail'd
That all its tempeft-beaten turrets shake,
Stand motionless expectants of its fall.

All has its date below; the fatal hour
Was register'd in heav'n ere time began.
We turn to duft, and all our mightiest works
Die too: the deep foundations that we lay,
Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains.

We build with what we deem eternal rock:

A diftant age afks where the fabric stood;
And in the duft, fifted and search'd in vain,
The undiscoverable secret fleeps.

But there is yet a liberty, unfung By poets, and by fenators unprais'd,

Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'rs

Of earth and hell confed'rate take away:

A liberty, which persecution, fraud,
Oppreffion, prifons, have no pow'r to bind;
Which whofo taftes can be enflav'd no more.
'Tis liberty of heart, deriv'd from heav'n;
Bought with HIS blood who gave it to mankind,
And feal'd with the fame token! It is held
By charter, and that charter fanction'd füre
By th' unimpeachable and awful oath
And promife of a God! His other gifts
All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his,
And are auguft; but this tranfcends them all.
His other works, the visible difplay

Of all-creating energy and might,

Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the word
That, finding an interminable space
Unoccupied, has fill'd the void fo well,

And made fo fparkling what was dark before,

But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true,

Smit with the beauty of fo fair a scene,
Might well suppose th' artificer divine
Meant it eternal, had he not himself
Pronounc'd it tranfient, glorious as it is,
And, ftill defigning a more glorious far,
Doom'd it as infufficient for his praise.
Thefe, therefore, are occasional, and pass;
Form'd for the confutation of the fool,
Whofe lyeing heart difputes against a God;
That office ferv'd, they must be swept away.
Not fo the labours of his love: they shine
In other heav'ns than these that we behold,
And fade not. There is paradife that fears
No forfeiture, and of its fruits he fends
Large prelibation oft to faints below.
Of these the first in order, and the pledge

And confident affurance of the reft,

Is liberty:-a flight into his arms

Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way,

A clear escape from tyrannizing luft,

And full immunity from penal woe.

Chains are the portion of revolted man,
Stripes and a dungeon; and his body ferves
The triple purpose. In that fickly, foul,
Opprobrious refidence, he finds them all.
Propense his heart to idols, he is held
In filly dotage on created things,

Careless of their Creator. And that low
And fordid gravitation of his pow'rs

To a vile clod fo draws him, with fuch force
Refistless from the centre he should feek,
That he at last forgets it. All his hopes
Tend downward; his ambition is to fink,
To reach a depth profounder ftill, and still
Profounder, in the fathomless abyss

Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death.
But, ere he gain the comfortless repose
He feeks, and acquiefcence of his foul,

In heav'n-renouncing exile, he endures-
What does he not? from lufts oppos'd in vain,
And felf-reproaching confcience. He forefees

The fatal iffue to his health, fame, peace,
Fortune, and dignity; the lofs of all

That can ennoble man, and make frail life,
Short as it is, fupportable. Still worse,

Far worse than all the plagues with which his fins
Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes
Ages of hopeless mis'ry. Future death,

And death ftill future. Not an hasty stroke,
Like that which fends him to the dusty grave;
But unrepealable enduring death!

Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears:

What none can prove a forg'ry, may be true;
What none but bad men with exploded, muft.
That fcruple checks him. Riot is not loud,
Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midft
Of laughter his compunctions are fincere;
And he abhors the jeft by which he fhines.