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Maturer years shall happier stores produce,
Perish the virtue, aS it ought, abhorr'd,
Is virtue then, unless of Christian growth, Mere fallacy, or foolishness, or both? Ten thousand sages lost in endless wo, For ignorance of what they could not know? That speech betrays at once a bigot's tongue, Charge not a God with such outrageous wrong. Truly not I—the partial light men have, My creed persuades me, well-employ'd, may save;
While he that scorns the noonday beam, perverse,
When the great Sov'reign would his will express,
He gives a perfect rule, what can he less?
And guards it with a sanction as severe
As vengeance can inflict, or sinners fear:
Else his own glorious rights he would disclaim,
And man might safely trifle with his name.
He hids him glow with unremitting love
To all on Earth, and to himself above;
Condemns th' injurious deed, the sland'rons tongue,
The thought that meditates a brother's wrong:
Brings not alone the more conspicuous part,
His conduct, to the test, but tries his heart.
Hark! universal nature shook and groan'd, 'Twas the last trumpet—see the Judge enthron'd . Rouse all your courage at your utmost need, Now summon ev'ry virtue, stand and plead. What! silent? Is your boasting heard no more? That self-renouncing wisdom, learn'd before, Had shed immortal glories on your brow, That all your virtues cannot purchase now.
All joy to the believer! He can speak— Trembling yet happy, confident yet meek.
Since the dear hour, that brought me to thy foot, And cut up all my follies by the root, I never trusted in an arm but thine, Nor hop'd, but in thy righteousness divine: My pray'rs and alms, imperfect and defil'd, Were but the feeble efforts of a child
Howe'er perform'd, it was their brightest part,
Tantane, tarn patiens, nullo certamine toltl
Why weeps the muse for England? What appears
In England's case, to move the muse to tears?
From side to side of her delightful isle
Is she not cloth'd with a perpetual smile?
Can Nature add a charm, or Art confer
A new-found luxury not seen in her?
Where under Heav'n is pleasure more pursued,
Or where does cold reflection less intrude?
Her fields a rich expanse of wavy corn,
Pour'd out from Plenty's overflowing horn;
Ambrosial gardens, in which art supplies
The fervour and the force of Indian skies;
Her peaceful shores, where busy Commerce waits
To pour his golden tide through all her gates;
Whom fiery suns, that scorch the russet spice
Of eastern groves, and oceans floor'd with ice