To seek him rather, where his mercy shines. The mind indeed, enlighten'd from above, Views him in all; ascribes to the grand cause The grand effect; acknowledges with joy His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. But never yet did philosophic tube, That brings the planets home into the eye Of observation, and discovers, else Not visible, his family of worlds,
Discover him that rules them; such a veil Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, And dark in things divine. Full often too Our wayward intellect, the more we learn Of nature, overlooks her Author more; From instrumental causes proud to draw Conclusions retrograde, and mad mistake. But if his word once teach us, shoot a ray Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal Truths undiscern'd but by that holy light, Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptiz'd In the pure fountain of eternal love, Has eyes indeed; and viewing all she sees As meant to indicate a God to man, Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own. Learning has borne such fruit in other days On all her branches: piety has found
Friends in the friends of science, and true pray'r Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage! Sagacious reader of the works of God, And in his word sagacious. Such too thine, Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, And fed on manna! And such thine, in whom
Our British Themis gloried with just cause, Immortal Hale! for deep discernment prais'd, And sound integrity, not more than fam'd For sanctity of manners undefil'd.
THE DAY OF JUDGMENT: A SEATONIAN PRIZE
THY Justice, heav'nly king! and that great day, When Virtue, long abandon'd and forlorn, Shall raise her pensive head; and Vice, that erst Rang'd unreprov'd and free, shall sink appall'd; I sing advent'rous-but what eye can pierce The vast immeasurable realms of space, O'er which Messiah drives his flaming car, To that bright region, where enthron'd he sits, First-born of Heav'n, to judge assembled worlds, Cloth'd in celestial radiance? Can the Muse, Her feeble wing all damp with earthly dew, Soar to that bright empyreal, where around Myriads of angels, God's perpetual choir, Hymn hallelujahs, and in concert loud Chant songs of triumph to their Maker's praise ?- Yet will I strive to sing, albeit unus'd
To tread poetic soil. What though the wiles Of Fancy me enchanted, ne'er could lure To rove o'er fairy lands; to swim the streams That through her valleys wave their mazy way; Or climb her mountain tops: yet will I raise My feeble voice to tell what harmony (Sweet as the music of the rolling spheres) Attunes the moral world; that Virtue still May hope her promis'd crown: that Vice may dread
Vengeance, though late; that reas'ning Pride may
Just, though unsearchable, the ways of Heav'n. Sceptic! whoe'er thou art, who say'st the soul, That divine particle which God's own breath Inspir'd into the mortal mass, shall rest Annihilate, till Duration has unroll'd Her never-ending line; tell, if thou know'st, Why every nation, ev'ry clime, though all In laws, in rites, in manners disagree, With one consent expect another world, [bards, Where wickedness shall weep? Why Paynim Fabled Elysian plains, Tartarian lakes, Styx and Cocytus? Tell, why Hali's sons Have feign'd a paradise of mirth and love, Banquets, and blooming nymphs? or rather tell, Why, on the brink of Orellana's stream, Where never Science rear'd her sacred torch, Th' untutor'd Indian dreams of happier worlds Behind the cloud-topt hill? Why in each breast Is plac'd a friendly monitor, that prompts, Informs, directs, encourages, forbids? Tell, why on unknown evil grief attends, Or joy on secret good? Why conscience acts With tenfold force, when sickness, age, or pain Stands tott'ring on the precipice of death?" Or why such horror gnaws the guilty soul Of dying sinners, while the good man sleeps Peaceful and calm, and with a smile expires? Look round the world! with what a partial hand The scale of bliss and mis'ry is sustain❜d! Beneath the shade of cold obscurity
Pale Virtue lies; no arm supports her head, No friendly voice speaks comfort to her soul,
Nor soft-eyed Pity drops a melting tear; But, in their stead, Contempt and rude Disdain Insult the banish'd wanderer: on she goes, Neglected and forlorn: Disease and Cold, And Famine, worst of ills, her steps attend! Yet patient, and to Heaven's just will resign'd, She ne'er is seen to weep, or heard to sigh.
Now turn your eyes to yon sweet-smelling bow'r, Where, flush'd with all the insolence of wealth, Sits pamper'd Vice! For him th' Arabian gale Breathes forth delicious odours; Gallia's hills For him pour nectar from the purple vine. Nor think for these he pays the tribute due To Heav'n: of Heav'n he never names the name, Save when with imprecations dark and dire He points his jest obscene. Yet buxom Health Sits on his rosy cheek; yet Honour gilds His high exploits; and downy-pinion'd Sleep Sheds a soft opiate o'er his peaceful couch. Seest thou this, righteous Father! seest thou this, And wilt thou ne'er repay? Shall good and ill Be carried undistinguish'd to the land
Where all things are forgot!-Ah, no! the day Will come when Virtue from the clouds shall burst, That long obscur'd her beams; when Sin shall fly Back to her native Hell; there sink eclips'd In penal darkness; where no star shall rise, Nor ever sunshine pierce th' impervious gloom. On that great day the solemn trump shall sound, (That trump which once in Heav'n on man's revolt Convok'd th' astonish'd seraphs) at whose voice Th' unpeopled graves shall pour forth all their dead; Then shall th' assembled nations of the Earth From ev'ry quarter at the judgment-seat
Unite; Egyptians, Babylonians, Greeks,
Parthians; and they who dwelt on Tiber's banks, Names fam'd of old: or who of later age, Chinese and Russian, Mexican and Turk, Tenant the wild terrene; and they who pitch Their tents on Niger's banks; or where the Sun Pours on Golconda's spires his early light, Drink Ganges' sacred stream. At once shall rise, Whom distant ages to each others' sight Had long denied: before the throne shall kneel Some great progenitor, while at his side
Stand his descendants through a thousand lines. Whate'er their nation, and whate'er their rank, Heroes and patriarchs, slaves and sceptred kings, With equal eye the God of all shall see,
And judge with equal love. What though the great With costly pomp and aromatic sweets Embalm'd his poor remains; or through the dome A thousand tapers shed their gloomy light, While solemn organs to his parting soul Chanted slow orisons? Say, by what mark Dost thou discern him from that lowly swain Whose mouldering bones beneath the thorn-bound turf
Long lay neglected? All at once shall rise, But not to equal glory; for, alas !
With howlings dire, and execrations loud, Some wail their fatal birth. First among these Behold the mighty murd'rers of mankind:
They who in sport whole kingdoms slew; or they Who to the tott'ring pinnacle of power
Waded through seas of blood! How will they curse The madness of ambition! How lament
Their dear-bought laurels; when the widow'd wife
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