Thus taught, down falls the plumage of his pride;
He feels his need of an unerring guide,
And knows, that falling he shall rise no more,
Unless the pow'r that bade him stand restore.
This is indeed philosophy; this known
Makes wisdom, worthy of the name, his own;
And without this, whatever he discuss;
Whether the space between the stars and us;
Whether he measure Earth, compute the sea,
Weigh sunbeams, carve a fly, or spit a flea;
The solemn trifler with his boasted skill
Toils much, and is a solemn trifler still:
Blind was he born, and his misguided eyes
Grown dim in trifling studies, blind he dies.
Self-knowledge truly learn'd of course implies
The rich possession of a nobler prize;
For self to self, and God to man reveal'd,
(Two themes to Nature's eye for ever seal'd)
Are taught by rays, that fly with equal pace
From the same centre of enlight'ning grace.
Here stay thy foot; how copious, and how clear,
Th' o'erflowing well of Charity springs here!
Hark! 'tis the music of a thousand rills,
Some through the groves, some down the sloping
Winding a secret or an open course,
And all supplied from an eternal source.
The ties of Nature do but feebly bind;
And Commerce partially reclaims mankind;
Philosophy, without his heav'nly guide,
May blow up self-conceit, and nourish pride,
But, while his promise is the reas'ning part,
Has still a veil of midnight on his heart:
'Tis Truth divine, exhibited on Earth,
Gives Charity her being and her birth.
Suppose (when thought is warm and fancy flows, What will not argument sometimes suppose?) An isle possess'd by creatures of our kind, Endued with reason, yet by nature blind. Let Supposition lend her aid once more, And land some grave optician on the shore: He claps his lens, if haply they may see, Close to the part where vision ought to be; But finds, that, though his tubes assist the sight, They cannot give it, or make darkness light. He reads wise lectures, and describes aloud
A sense they know not, to the wond'ring crowd; He talks of light, and the prismatic hues,
As men of depth in erudition use;
But all he gains for his harangue is-Well,-
What monstrous lies some travellers will tell!
The soul, whose sight all-quick'ning grace renews,
Takes the resemblance of the good she views,
As diamonds, stripp'd of their opaque disguise,
Reflect the noonday glory of the skies.
She speaks of him, her author, guardian, friend,
Whose love knew no beginning, knows no end,
In language warm as all that love inspires,
And in the glow of her intense desires,
Pants to communicate her noble fires.
She sees a world stark blind to what employs
Her eager thought, and feeds her flowing joys;
Though Wisdom hail them, heedless of her call,
Flies to save some, and feels a pang for all:
Herself as weak as her support is strong,
She feels that frailty she denied so long;
And, from a knowledge of her own disease,
Learns to compassionate the sick she sees.
Here see, acquitted of all vain pretence,
The reign of genuine Charity commence.
Though scorn repay her sympathetic tears,
She still is kind, and still she perseveres ;
The truth she loves a sightless world blaspheme, 'Tis childish dotage, a delirious dream,
The danger they discern not, they deny;
Laugh at their only remedy, and die.
But still a soul thus touch'd can never cease,
Whoever threatens war, to speak of peace.
Pure in her aim, and in her temper mild,
Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child:
She makes excuses where she might condemn,
Revil'd by those that hate her, prays for them;
Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast,
The worst suggested, she believes the best;
Not soon provok'd, however stung and teas'd,
And, if perhaps made angry, soon appeas'd;
She rather waves than will dispute her right,
And injur'd makes forgiveness her delight.
Such was the portrait an apostle drew, The bright original was one he knew; Heav'n held his hand, the likeness must be true. When one, that holds communion with the skies, Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis ev'n as if an angel shook his wings;
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,
That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.
So when a ship well freighted with the stores,
The sun matures on India's spicy shores,
Has dropp'd her anchor, and her canvass furl'd,
In some safe haven of our western world,
"Twere vain inquiry to what port she went,
The gale informs us, laden with the scent.
Some seek, when queasy conscience has it's
To lull the painful malady with alms;
But charity not feign'd intends alone
Another's good-their's centres in their own;
And, too short liv'd to reach the realms of peace,
Must cease for ever when the poor shall cease.
Flavia, most tender of her own good name,
Is rather careless of her sister's fame:
Her superfluity the poor supplies,
But, if she touch a character, it dies.
The seeming virtue weigh'd against the vice,
She deems all safe, for she has paid the price:
No charity but alms aught values she,
Except in porc'lain on her manteltree.
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