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He dies disputing, and the contest ends;
But not the mischiefs; they still left behind,
Like thistle seeds are sown by every wind.

Thus men go wrong with an ingenious skill,
Bend the straight rule to their own crooked will,
And with a clear and shining lamp supplied,
First put it out, then take it for a guide.
Halting on crutches of unequal size,
One leg by truth supported, one by lies,
They sidle to the goal with awkward pace,
Secure of nothing, but to lose the race.

Faults in the life breed errors in the brain,
And these, reciprocally, those again.
The mind and conduct mutually imprint
And stamp their image in each other's mint.
Each, sire and dam of an infernal race,
Begetting and conceiving all that's base.

None sends his arrow to the mark in view,
Whose hand is feeble, or his aim untrue.
For though ere yet the shaft is on the wing,
Or when it first forsakes the elastic string,
It err but little from the intended line,
It falls at last, far wide of his design.
So he that seeks a mansion in the sky,
Must watch his purpose with a steadfast eye;
That prize belongs to none but the sincere,
The least obliquity is fatal here.

With caution taste the sweet Circæan cup,
He that sips often, at last drinks it up.
Habits are soon assumed, but when we strive
To strip them off, 'tis being flayed alive.
Called to the temple of impure delight,
He that abstains, and he alone, does right.
If a wish wander that way, call it home;
He cannot long be safe whose wishes roam.
But if you pass the threshold, you are caught;
Die then, if power Almighty save you not!
There hardening by degrees, till double steeled,
Take leave of nature's God, and God revealed;
Then laugh at all you trembled at before,
And joining the freethinkers' brutal roar,
Swallow the two grand nostrums they dispense,
That Scripture lies, and blasphemy is sense;
If clemency revolted by abuse

Be damnable, then, damned without excuse.

Some dream that they can silence when they will
The storm of passion, and say, Peace, be still;
But "Thus far and no farther," when addressed
To the wild wave, or wilder human breast,
Implies authority that never can,

That never ought to be the lot of man.

But, Muse, forbear, long flights forebode a fall,

Strike on the deep-toned chord the sum of all.
Hear the just law, the judgment of the skies!
He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies.
And he that will be cheated to the last,
Delusions, strong as hell, shall bind him fast.
But if the wanderer his mistake discern,
Judge his own ways, and sigh for a return,
Bewildered once, must he bewail his loss
For ever and for ever? No-the Cross!
There and there only, (though the deist rave,
And atheist, if earth bear so base a slave)
There and there only, is the power to save.
There no delusive hope invites despair,
No mockery meets you, no deception there,
The spells and charms that blinded you before,
All vanish there, and fascinate no more.

I am no preacher, let this hint suffice,
The Cross once seen is death to every vice:
Else He that hung there suffered all his pain,
Bled, groaned, and agonized, and died in vain.

TRUTH.

Pensentur trutinâ.-HOR.

MAN on the dubious waves of error tossed,
His ship half foundered and his compass lost,
Sees, far as human optics may command,
A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land:
Spreads all his canvas, every sinew plies,
Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies.
Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes,
His well-built systems, philosophic dreams,
Deceitful views of future bliss, farewell!
He reads his sentence at the flames of hell.

Hard lot of man! to toil for the reward
Of virtue, and yet lose it!--Wherefore hard?
He that would win the race, must guide his horse
Obedient to the customs of the course,

Else, though unequalled to the goal he flies,

A meaner than himself shall gain the prize.

Grace leads the right way,-if you choose the wrong,
Take it and perish, but restrain your tongue;
Charge not, with light sufficient and left free,
Your wilful suicide on God's decree.

Oh, how unlike the complex works of man,
Heaven's easy, artless, unencumbered plan!
No meretricious graces to beguile,
No clustering ornaments to clog the pile,
From ostentation as from weakness free,
It stands like the cærulean arch we see,
Majestic in its own simplicity.

Inscribed above the portal, from afar
Conspicuous as the brightness of a star.
Legible only by the light they give,
Stand the soul-quickening words-Believe

and live.

Too many, shocked at what should charm them most, Despise the plain direction and are lost.

Heaven on such terms! they cry with proud disdain, Incredible, impossible, and vain !—

Rebel because 'tis easy to obey,

And scorn for its own sake the gracious way.

These are the sober, in whose cooler brains
Some thought of immortality remains ;
The rest too busy or too gay, to wait
On the sad theme, their everlasting state,
Sport for a day, and perish in a night,
The foam upon the waters not so light.

Who judged the Pharisee? What odious cause
Exposed him to the vengeance of the laws?
Had he seduced a virgin, wronged a friend,
Or stabbed a man to serve some private end?
Was blasphemy his sin? Or did he stray
From the strict duties of the sacred day?
Sit long and late at the carousing board?

(Sura were the sins with which he charged his Lord,)
No-the man's morals were exact; what then?
'Twas his ambition to be seen of men ;

His virtues were his pride; and that one vice
Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price;
He wore them as fine trappings for a show,
A praying, synagogue-frequenting beau.

The self-applauding bird, the peacock see,-
Mark what a sumptuous Pharisee is he?
Meridian sun-beam tempt him to unfold
His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold;
He treads as if, some solemn music near,
His measured step were governed by his ear,
And seems to say, Ye meaner fowl, give place!
I am all splendour, dignity, and grace.

Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes,
Though he too has a glory in his plumes.
He, Christian-like, retreats with modest mien,
To the close copse or far sequestered green,
And shines without desiring to be seen.
The plea of works, as arrogant and vain,

Heaven turns from with abhorrence and disdain ;
Not more affronted by avowed neglect,

Than by the mere dissembler's feigned respect.
What is all righteousness that men devise,
What, but a sordid bargain for the skies?
But Christ as soon would abdicate his own,
As stoop from heaven to sell the proud a throne,
His dwelling a recess in some rude rock,

1

Book, beads, and maple dish his meagre stock,
In shirt of hair, and weeds of canvas dressed,
Girt with a bell-rope that the Pope has blessed,
Adust with stripes told out for every crime,
And sore tormented long before his time,
His prayer preferred to saints that cannot aid,
His praise postponed, and never to be paid,
See the sage hermit by mankind admired,
With all that bigotry adopts, inspired,
Wearing out life in his religious whim,
Till his religious whimsy wears out him.
His works, his abstinence, his zeal allowed,
You think him humble, God accounts him proud;
High in demand, though lowly in pretence,
Of all his conduct this the genuine sense,-
My penitential stripes, my streaming blood
Have purchased heaven, and proved my title good.
Turn eastward now, and fancy shall apply
To your weak sight her telescopic eye.
The Brahmin kindles on his own bare head
The sacred fire, self-torturing his trade;
His voluntary pains, severe and long,
Would give a barbarous air to British song;
No grand inquisitor could worse invent,
Than he contrives to suffer, well content.
Which is the saintlier worthy of the two?
Past all dispute, yon anchorite, say you.
Your sentence and mine differ. What's a name?
I say the Brahmin has the fairer claim.
If sufferings Scripture nowhere recommends,
Devised by self to answer selfish ends,
Give saintship, then all Europe must agree,
Ten starveling hermits suffer less than he.

The truth is, (if the truth may suit your ear,
And prejudice have left a passage clear,)
Pride has attained its most luxuriant growth,
And poisoned every virtue in them both.

Pride may be pampered while the flesh grows lean,
Humility may clothe an English Dean;
That grace was Cowper's,--his confessed by all-
Though placed in golden Durham's second stall.
Not all the plenty of a Bishop's board,
His palace, and his lackeys, and, my Lord!
More nourish pride, that condescending vice,
Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice.
It thrives in misery, and abundant grows
In misery fools upon themselves impose.
But why before us Protestants produce
An Indian mystic or a French recluse ?
Their sin is plain, but what have we to fear,
1 For who would rob a hermit of his weeds,

His few books, or his beads, or maple dish?-Comus.

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