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Serve as a key to those that are suppressed:
Conjecture grips the victims in his paw,
The world is charmed, and Scrib escapes the law.
So when the cold damp shades of night prevail,
Worms may be caught by either head or tail;
Forcibly drawn from many a close recess,
They meet with little pity, no redress;
Plunged in the stream they lodge upon the mud,
Food for the famished rovers of the flood.

All zeal for a reform that gives offence
To peace and charity, is mere pretence;
A bold remark, but which, if well applied,
Would humble many a towering poet's pride.
Perhaps the man was in a sportive fit,
And had no other play-place for his wit;
Perhaps, enchanted with the love of fame,
He sought the jewel in his neighbour's shame;
Perhaps—whatever end he might pursue,
The cause of virtue could not be his view.
At every stroke wit flashes in our eyes,
The turns are quick, the polished points surpr/se.
But shine with cruel and tremendous charms,
That while they please, possess us with alarms .
So have I seen, (and hastened to the sight
On all the wings of holiday delight,)
Where stands that monument of ancient power,
Named with emphatic dignity, the Tower,
Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and smaV.
In starry forms disposed upon the wall;
We wonder, as we gazing stand below,
That brass and steel should make so fine a show;
But though we praise the exact designer's skill,
Account them implements of mischief still.

No works shall find acceptance in that day
When all disguises shall be rent away,
That square not truly with the Scripture plan,
Nor spring from love to God, or love to man.
As he ordains things sordid in their birth,
To be resolved into their parent earth,
And though the soul shall seek superior orbs,
Whate'er this world produces, it absorbs:
So self starts nothing but what tends apace,
Home to the goal where it began the race.
Such as our motive is our aim must be,
If this be servile, that can ne'er be free;
If self employ us, whatsoe'er is wrought,
We glorify that self, not Him we ought:
Such virtues had need prove their own rewarJ,
The judge of all men owes them no regard.
True charity, a plant divinely nursed,
Fed by the love from which it rose at first,
Thrives against hope, and in the rudest scene

Storms but enliven its unfading green;

Exuberant is the shadow it supplies,

Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies.

To look at Him who formed us and redeemed,

So glorious now, though once so disesteemed,

To see a God stretch forth his human hand,

To uphold the boundless scenes of his command,—

To recollect that in a form like ours

He bruised beneath his feet the infernal powers,

Captivity led captive, rose to claim

The wreath he won so dearly in our name;

That throned above all height ■ he condescends

To call the few that trust in him his friends;

That in the heaven of heavens, that space he deems

Too scanty for the exertion of his beams,

And shines, as if impatient to bestow

Life and a kingdom upon worms below;

That sight imparts a never-dying flame,

Though feeble in degree, in kind the same.

Like Him the soul thus kindled from above

Spreads wide her arms of universal love,

And still enlarged as she receives the grace,

Includes creation in her close embrace.

Behold a Christian!—and without the fires

The founder of that name alone inspires,

Though all accomplishments, all knowledge meet,

To make the shining prodigy complete,

Whoever boasts that name—behold a cheat!

Were love, in these the world's last doting years, As frequent, as the want of it appears, The churches warmed, they would no longer hold Such frozen figures, stiff as they are cold; Relenting forms would lose their power or cease, And e'en the dipped and sprinkled, live in peace: Each heart would quit its prison in the breast, And flow in free communion with the rest. The statesman skilled in projects dark and deep, Might burn his useless Machiavel, and sleep; His budget often filled, yet always poor, Might swing at ease behind his study door, No longer prey upon our annual rents, Nor scare the nation with its big contents: Disbanded legions freely might depart, And slaying man would cease to be an art. No learned disputants would take the field, Sure not to conquer, and sure not to yield; Both sides deceived, if rightly understood, Pelting each other for the public good. Did charity prevail, the press would prove A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love; And I might spare myself the pains to show 1 Paradise Lost, iii/58.

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What few can learn, and all suppose they know.

Thus have I sought to grace a serious lay
With many a wild indeed but flowery spray,
In hopes to gain, what else I must have lost,
The attention pleasure has so much engrossed.
But if unhappily deceived I dream,
And prove too weak for so divine a theme,
Let charity forgive me a mistake
That zeal, not vanity, has chanced to make,
And spare the poet for his subject sake.

CONVERSATION.
Nam neque me tantum venientis sibilus austri,
Nee percussa juvant fluctu tarn Htora, nee qus
Saxosas inter decurrunt flumina valles.

Virg. Eel. 5.

Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense

To every man his modicum of sense,

And conversation in its better part

May be esteemed a gift and not an art,

Yet much depends, as in the tiller's toil,

On culture, and the sowing of the soil.

Words learned by rote a parrot may rehearse,

But talking is not always to converse,

Not more distinct from harmony divine

The constant creeking of a country sign,

As alphabets in ivory employ

Hour after hour the yet unlettered boy,

Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee

Those seeds of science called his ABC,

So language in the mouths of the adult,

Witness its insignificant result,

Too often proves an implement of play,

A toy to sport with and pass time away.

Collect at evening what the day brought forth,

Compress the sum into its solid worth,

And if it weigh the importance of a fly,

The scales are false, or algebra a lie.

Sacred interpreter of human thought,

How few respect or use thee as they ought!

But all shall give account of every wrong

Who dare dishonour or defile the tongue,

Who prostitute it in the cause of vice,

Or sell their glory at a market-price,

Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon,

The dear-bought placeman, and the cheap buffoon.

There is a prurience in the speech of some, Wrath stays him, or else God would strike them du"il>: His wise forbearance has their end in view, They fill their measure and receive their due. The heathen lawgivers of ancient days, Names almost worthy of a Christian praise.

Would drive them forth from the resort of men,

And shut up every satyr in his den.

Oh, come not ye near innocence and truth,

Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth!

Infectious as impure, your blighting power

Taints in its rudiments the promised flower,

Its odour perished and its charming hue;

Thenceforth 'tis hateful, for it smells of you.

Not even the vigorous and headlong rage

Of adolescence or a firmer age,

Affords a plea allowable or just,

For making speech the pamperer of lust;

But when the breath of age commits the fault,

'Tis nauseous as the vapour of a vault,

So withered stumps disgrace the sylvan scene,

No longer fruitful and no longer green,

The sapless wood divested of the bark

Grows fungous, and takes fire at every spark.

Oaths terminate, as Paul observes, all strife;
Some men have surely then a peaceful life.
Whatever subject occupy discourse,
The feats of Vestris or the naval force,
Asseveration blustering in your face
Makes contradiction such an hopeless case;
In every tale they tell, or false or true,
Well known, or such as no man ever knew,
They fix attention, heedless of your pain,
With oaths like rivets forced into the brain;
And even when sober truth prevails throughout,
They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt.
A Persian, humble servant of the sun,
Who, though devout, yet bigotry had none,
Hearing a lawyer, grave in his address,
With adjurations every word impress,
Supposed the man a Bishop, or at least,
God's name so much upon his lips, a priest,
Bowed at the close with all his graceful airs,
And begged an interest in his frequent prayers.

Go quit the rank to which ye stood preferred,
Henceforth associate in one common herd;
Religion, virtue, reason, common sense,
Pronounce your human form a false pretence,—
A mere disguise in which a devil lurks,
Who yet betrays his secret by his works.

Ye powers who rule the tongue, if such there are,
And make colloquial happiness your care,
Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate,—
A duel in the form of a debate:
The clash of arguments and jar of words,
Worse than the mortal brunt of rival swords,
Decide no question with their tedious length,
For opposition gives opinion strength,

Divert the champions prodigal of breath,

And put the peaceably-disposed to death.

Oh, thwart me not, Sir Soph., at every turn,

Nor carp at every flaw you may discern;

Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue,

I am not surely always in the wrong;

'Tis hard if all is false that I advance,

A fool must now and then be right by chance.

Not that all freedom of dissent I blame;

No,—there I grant the privilege I claim.

A disputable point is no man's ground,

Rove where you please, 'tis common all around;

Discourse may want an ammated No,

To brush the surface and to make it flow;

But still remember, if you mean to please,

To press your point with modesty and ease.

The mark at which my juster aim I take,

Is contradiction for its own dear sake:

Set your opinion at whatever pitch,

Knots and impediments make something hitch;

Adopt his own, 'tis equally in vain,

Your thread of argument is snapt again;

The wrangler, rather than accord with you,

Will judge himself deceived,—and prove it too.

Vociferated logic kills me quite,—

A noisy man is always in the right;

I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair,

Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare,

And when I hope his blunders are all out,

Reply discreetly—To be sure—no doubt.

Dubius is such a scrupulous good man,— Yes, you may catch him tripping if you can. He would not with a peremptory tone Assert the nose upon his face his own; With hesitation admirably slow, He humbly hopes, presumes it may be so. His evidence, if he were called by law To swear to some enormity he saw, For want of prominence and just relief, Would hang an honest man and save a thief. Through constant dread of giving truth offence, He ties up all his hearers in suspense, Knows what he knows as if he knew it not, What he remembers seems to have forgot, His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall, Centering at last in having none at all. Yet though he tease and baulk your listening ear, He makes one useful point exceeding clear; Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme A sceptic in philosophy may seem, Reduced to practice, his beloved rule Would only prove him a consummate fool.

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