O happy Monarch, fent by Heav'n to bless A Salvage Nation with foft Arts of Peace, To teach Religion, Rapine to restrain, Give Laws to Luft, and Sacrifice ordain: Himself a Saint, a Goddess was his Bride, And all the Muses o'er his Acts prefide.
Imitated from CHAUCER, and Inlarg'd.
Parish-Prieft was of the Pilgrim-Train; An Awful, Reverend, and Religi ous Man.
His Eyes diffus'd a venerable Grace,
And Charity it felf was in his Face.
Rich was his Soul, though his Attire was poor;. (As God had cloath'd his own Embassador;) For fuch, on Earth, his blefs'd Redeemer bore. Of Sixty Years he seem'd; and well might laft To Sixty more, but that he liv'd too fast;
Refin'd himself to Soul, to curb the Sense; And made almost a Sin of Abstinence. Yet, had his Aspect nothing of severe, But fuch a Face as promis'd him fincere. Nothing referv'd or fullen was to fee: But sweet Regards; and pleafing Sanctity: Mild was his Accent, and his Action free. With Eloquence innate his Tongue was arm'd; Tho' harsh the Precept, yet the Preacher charm'd. For, letting down the golden Chain from high, He drew his Audience upward to the Sky: And oft, with holy Hymns, he charm'd their Ears: (A Mufick more melodious than the Spheres.) For David left him, when he went to Rest, His Lyre; and after him, he fung the best. He bore his great Commiffion in his Look: But fweetly temper'd Awe; and foftned all he spoke. He preach'd the Joys of Heav'n,and Pains of Hell;- And warn'd the Sinner with becoming Zeal; But on Eternal Mercy lov'd to dwell.
He taught the Gospel rather than the Law:
And forc'd himself to drive; but lov'd to draw..
For Fear but freezes Minds; but Love, like Heat, Exhales the Soul fublime, to seek her Native Seat. To Threats, the ftubborn Sinner oft is hard: Wrap'd in his Crimes, against the Storm prepar'd; But, when the milder Beams of Mercy play, He melts, and throws his cumb'rous Cloak away Lightnings and Thunder (Heav'ns Artillery) As Harbingers before th' Almighty fly: Thofe but proclaim his Stile, and disappear; The ftiller Sound fucceeds; and God is there. The Tythes, his Parith freely paid, he took; But never Su'd; or Curs'd with Bell and Book. With Patience bearing Wrong; but off'ring none: Since every Man is free to lofe his own.
The Country-Churls, according to their Kind, (Who grudge their Dues, and love to be behind,) The lefs he fought his Off'rings, pinch'd the more; And prais'd a Prieft, contented to be Poor,
Yet, of his little, he had fome to spare, To feed the Famish'd, and to cloath the Bare: For Mortify'd he was, to that degree,
A poorer than himself he wou'd not fee.
True Priests, he said, and Preachers of the Word, Were only Stewards of their Sov'raign Lord; Nothing was theirs; but all the publick Store: Intrufted Riches, to relieve the Poor. Who, fhou'd they steal, for want of his Relief; He judg'd himself Accomplice with the Thief. Wide was his Parish; not contracted clofé. In Streets, but here and there a straggling House Yet still he was at Hand, without Request;. To serve the Sick; to fuccour the Diftrefs'd: Tempting, on Foot, alone, without affright, The Dangers of a dark tempeftuous Night.
All this, the good old Man perform'd alone;
Nor fpar'd his Pains ; for Curate he had none;
Nor durft he trust another with his Care;
Nor rode himfelf to Pauls, the publick Fair; To chaffer for Preferment with his Gold, Where Bishopricks and fine Cures are fold. But duly watch'd his Flock, by Night and Day; And from the prowling Wolf redeem'd the Prey: And hungry fent the wily Fox away.
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