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Proclaims the soil a conquest he has won,
And scorns to share it with the distant Sun.
—Yet Truth is yours, remote, unenvied isle!
And Peace, the genuine offspring of her smile;
The pride of letter'd Ignorance, that binds
In chains of errour our accomplish'd minds,
That decks, with all the splendour of the true,
A false religion, is unknown to you.
Nature indeed vouchsafes for our delight
The sweet vicissitudes of day and night;
Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer
Field, fruit, and flow'r, and ev'ry creature here;
But brighter beams, than his who fires the skies,
Have ris'n at length on your admiring eyes,
That shoot into your darkest caves the day,
From which our nicer optics turn away.

Here see th' encouragement Grace gives to vice,
The dire effect of mercy without price!
What were they? what some fools are made by art,
They were by nature, atheists, head and heart.
The gross idolatry blind heathens teach
Was too refin'd for them, beyond their reach.
Not ev'n the glorious Sun, though men revere
The monarch most, that seldom will appear,

And though his beams, that quicken where they

shine, May claim some right to be esteem'd divine, Not ev'n the Sun, desirable as rare, Could bend one knee, engage one votary there; ■ They were, what base Credulity believes True Christians are, dissemblers, drunkards, thieves. The full-gorg'd savage, at his nauseous feast Spent half the darkness, and snor'd out the rest, Was one, whom Justice, on an equal plan Denouncing death upon the sins of man, Might almost have indulg'd with an escape, Chargeable only with a human shape.

What are they now ?—Morality may spare Her grave concern, her kind suspicions there: The wretch, who once sang wildly, danc'd and

laugh'd, And suck'd in dizzy madness with his draught, Has wept a silent flood, revers'd his ways, Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays, Feeds sparingly, communicates his store, Abhors the craft he boasted of before, And he that stole has learn'd to steal no more. Well spake the prophet, Let the desert sing, Where sprang the thorn, the spiry fir shall spring,

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And where unsightly and rank thistles grew,
Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew.

Go now, and with important tone demand
On what foundation virtue is to stand,
If self-exalting claims be turn'd adrift,
And grace be grace indeed, and life a gift;
The poor reclaim'd inhabitant, his eyes
Glist'ning at once with pity and surprise,
Amaz'd that shadows should obscure the sight
Of one, whose birth was in a land of light,
Shall answer, Hope, sweet hope, has set me free,
And made all pleasures else mere dross to me.

These, amidst scenes as waste as if denied The common care that waits on all beside, Wild as if Nature tliere, void of all good, Play'd only gambols in a frantic mood, (Yet charge not heav'nly skill with having plann'd A plaything world, unworthy of his hand;) Can see his love, though secret evil lurks In all we touch, stamp'd plainly on his works; Deem life a blessing with it's num'rous woes, Nor spurn away a gift a God bestows. Hard task indeed o'er arctic seas to roam! Is hope exotic? grows it not at home?

Yes, but an object, bright as orient morn,
May press the eye too closely to be borne:
A distant virtue we can all confess,
It hurts our pride, and moves our envy, less

Leuconomus (beneath well-sounding Greek
I slur a name a poet must not speak)
Stood pilloried on Infamy's high stage,
And bore the pelting score of half an age;
The very butt of Slander, and the blot
For e^ry dart that Malice ever shot.
The man that mention'd him at once dismiss'd
All mercy from his lips, and sneer'd and hiss'd;
His crimes were such as Sodom never knew,
And Perjury stood up to swear all true;
His aim was mischief, and his zeal pretence,
His speech rebellion against common sense;
A knave, when tried on honesty's plain rule;
And when by that of reason, a mere fool;
The world's best comfort was, his doom was pass'd;
Die when he might, be must be damn'd at last.

Now Truth perform thine office; waft aside The curtain drawn by Prejudice and Pride, Reveal (the man is dead) to wond'ring eyes This more than monster in his proper guise.

VOL. I. I.

He lov'd the World that hated him: the tear That dropp'd upon his Bible was sincere: Assail'd by scandal and the tongue of strife, His only answer was a blameless life; And he that forg'd, and he that threw the dart, Had each a brother's int'rest in his heart. Paul's love of Christ, and steadiness unbrib'd, Were copied close in him, and well transcrib'd. He follow'd Paul; his zeal a kindred flame, His apostolic charity the same. Like him, cross'd cheerfully tempestuous seas, Forsaking country, kindred, friends, and ease; Like him he labour"d, and like him content To bear it, suffer'd shame where'er he went. Blush Calumny! and write upon his tomb, If honest Eulogy can spare thee room, Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies, Which, aim'd at him, have piere'd th' offended

skies! And say, Blot out my sin, confess'd, deplor'd, Against thine image, in thy saint, O Lord!

No blinder bigot, I maintain it still, Than he who must have pleasure, come what will: He laughs, whatever weapon truth may draw. And deems her sharp artillery mere straw.

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