Where dwell these matchlefs Saints? Old
Ev'n at your fide, Sir, and before your eyes,
The favour'd few, th' enthusiasts you defpife.
And pleas'd at heart because on holy ground,
Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found,
Reproach a people with his fingle fall,
And caft his filthy raiment at them all;
Whence springs the conduct that offends you so.'
See where it fmoaks along the founding plain, Blown all aflant, a driving dafhing rain,
Peal upon peal redoubling all around,
Shakes it again and faster to the ground,
Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play,
Swift beyond thought the light'nings dart away;
Ere yet it came the traveller urg'd his steed,
And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed,
Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his
He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace;
Suppofe, unlook'd for in a scene fo rude,
Long hid by interpofing hill or wood,
Some manfion neat and elegantly drefs'd,
By fome kind hofpitable heart poffefs'd,
Offer him warmth, fecurity and reft;
Think with what pleasure, fafe and at his ease,
He hears the tempeft howling in the trees,
What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ,
While danger paft is turn'd to prefent joy.
So fares it with the finner when he feels,
A growing dread of vengeance at his heels,
His confcience like a glaffy lake before,
Lash'd into foaming waves begins to roar,
The law grown clamorous, though filent long,
Arraigns him, charges him with every wrong,
Afferts the rights of his offended Lord,
And death or reftitution is the word;
The laft impoffible, he fears the first,
And having well deferv'd, expects the worst
Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home,
Oh for a fhelter from the wrath to come!
Crush me ye rocks, ye falling mountains hide,
Or bury me in oceans angry tide-
The fcrutiny of thofe all feeing eyes
I dare not-and you need not, God replies;
The remedy you want I freely give,
The book shall teach you, read, believe and live: 'Tis done the raging ftorm is heard no more, Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore,
And justice, guardian of the dread command,
Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand.
A foul redeem'd demands a life of praise,
Hence the complexion of his future days,
Hence a demeanor holy and unfpeck'd,
And the world's hatred as its fure effect.
Some lead a life unblameable and juft,
Their own dear virtue, their unfhaken truft.
They never fin-or if (as all offend)
Some trivial flips their daily walk attend,
poor are near at hand, the charge is small, A flight gratuity atones for all.
For though the Pope has loft his int'reft here,
And pardons are not fold as once they were,
No Papist more defirous to compound,
Than fome grave finners upon English ground:
That plea refuted, other quirks they seek,
Mercy is infinite and man is weak,
The future fhall obliterate the past,
And heav'n no doubt fhall be their home at last.
Come then-a ftill, small whisper in your ear,
He has no hope that never had a fear ;
And he that never doubted of his state,
He may perhaps perhaps he may-too late.
The path to blifs abounds with many a fnare,
Learning is one, and wit, however rare :
The Frenchman first in literary fame,
(Mention him if you please-Voltaire? The fame)
With fpirit, genius, eloquence fupplied,
Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily and died:
The fcripture was his jeft-book, whence he drew
Bon mots to gall the Chriftian and the Jew :
An infidel in health, but what when fick?
Oh then, a text would touch him at the quick :
View him at Paris in his laft career,
Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere,
Exalted on his pedestal of pride,
And fum'd with frankincense on ev'ry fide,
He begs their flattery with his latest breath,
And smother'd in't at last, is prais'd to death.
Yon cottager who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store,
Content though mean, and chearful, if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the live-long day,
Juft earns a fcanty pittance, and at night
Lies down fecure, her heart and pocket light;
She for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit,
Receives no praife, but (though her lot be fuch,
Toilfome and indigent) fhe renders much;
Juft knows, and knows no more, her bible true,
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew,
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