But all he gains for his harangue is—Well,

What monstrous lies some travellers will tell!
The soul, whose sight all-quick'ning grace
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 worse 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 its
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.

How many deeds, with which the world has rung,

From Pride, in league with Ignorance, have sprung!

But God o'errules all human follies still,

And bends the tough materials to his will.

A conflagration, or a wintry flood,

Has left some hundreds without home or food;

Extravagance and Av'rice shall subscribe,

While fame and self-complacence are the bribe.

The brief proclaim'd, it visits ev'ry pew,

But first the squire's, a compliment but due:

With slow deliberation he unties

His glitt'ring purse, that envy of all eyes,

And, while the clerk just puzzles out the psalm,

Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm;

Till finding, what he might have found before,

A smaller piece amidst the precious store,

Pinch'd close between his finger and his thumb,

He half exhibits, and then drops the sum.

Gold to be sure!—Throughout the town 'tis told.

How the good squire gives never less than gold.

From motives such as his, though not the best,

Springs in due time supply for the distress'd;

Not less effectual than what love bestows, •

Except that office clips it as it goes.

But lest I seem to sin against a friend, And wound the grace I mean to recommend, (Though vice derided with a just design Implies no trespass against love divine,) Once more I would adopt the graver style, A teacher should be sparing of his smile. Unless a love of virtue light the flame, Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame; He hides behind a magisterial air His own offences, and strips others bare; Affects indeed a most humane concern, That men, if gently tutor'd, will not learn; That mulish Folly, not to be reclaim'd By softer methods, must be made asham'd; But (I might instance in St. Patrick's dean) Too often rails to gratify his spleen. Most sat'rists are indeed a public scourge; Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge; Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd, The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, By lean despair upon an empty purse, The wild assassins start into the street, Prepar'd to poniard whomsoe'er they meet.

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