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The foldier thus endow'd, who never shrinks,
Nor closets up his thought, whate'er he thinks,
Who fcorns to do an injury by stealth,
Muft go to heav'n-and I muft drink his health.
Sir Smug! he cries (for loweft at the board,
Juft made fifth chaplain of his patron lord,
His fhoulders witneffing by many a shrug,
How much his feelings fuffered, fat Sir Smug)
Your office is to winnow falfe from true,

Come, prophet, drink, and tell us what think you.
Sighing and fmiling as he takes his glass,
Which they that woo preferment, rarely pafs,
Fallible man, the church-bred youth replies,
Is ftill found fallible, however wife,

And diff'ring judgments ferve but to declare,
That truth lies fomewhere, if we knew but where.
Of all it ever was my lot to read,

Of critics now alive or long fince dead,

The book of all the world that charm'd me most

Was, well-a-day, the title page was loft;

The

The writer well remarks, an heart that knows
To take with gratitude what heav'n bestows,
With prudence always ready at our call,
To guide our use of it, is all in all.
Doubtless it is-to which, of my own store,
I fuperadd a few effentials more;
But these, excuse the liberty I take,
I wave just now, for converfation fake.-

Spoke like an oracle, they all exclaim,

And add Right Rev'rend to Smug's honour'd name.
And yet our lot is giv'n us in a land,

Where bufy arts are never at a stand,
Where science points her telescopic eye,

Familiar with the wonders of the sky,
Where bold enquiry driving out of fight,
Brings many a precious pearl of truth to light,
Where nought eludes the perfevering quest,
That fashion, tafte, or luxury fuggeft.

But above all, in her own light array'd,
See mercy's grand apocalypfe display'd!

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The facred book no longer fuffers wrong,
Bound in the fetters of an unknown tongue,
But speaks with plainnefs, art could never mend,
What simplest minds can foonest comprehend.
God gives the word, the preachers throng around,
Live from his lips, and fpread the glorious found:
That found bespeaks falvation on her way,
The trumpet of a life-reftoring day;

'Tis heard where England's eastern glory shines,
And in the gulphs of her Cornubian mines.

And still it spreads.. See Germany fend forth. it on the farthest north :.

Her fons to pour *

Fir'd with a zeal peculiar, they defy

The rage and rigor of a polar fky,
And plant fuccessfully fweet Sharon's rofe,
On icy plains and in eternal fnows.

Oh bleft within th' inclofure of your rocks,
Nor herds have ye to boaft, nor bleating flocks,
No fertilizing ftreams your fields divide,

That fhow revers'd the villas on their fide,

*The Moravian miffionaries in Greenland. Vide Krantz.

No

No

groves have ye; no cheerful found of bird, Or voice of turtle in your land is heard;

Nor grateful eglantine regales the smell,

Of those that walk at ev'ning where ye dwell-
But winter, arm'd with terrors here unknown,
Sits abfolute on his unfhaken throne;

Piles up his ftores amidst the frozen waste,

And bids the mountains he has built, ftand fast,
Beckons the legions of his forms away

From happier scenes, to make your land a prey;
Proclaims the foil a conqueft he has won,
And fcorns to fhare it with the diftant fun.
-Yet truth is yours, remote, unenvied isle,
And peace, the genuine offspring of her fimile;
The pride of letter'd ignorance that binds,
In chains of error, our accomplish'd minds,
That decks with all the fplendor of the true,
A false religion, is unknown to you.
Nature indeed vouchfafes for our delight,
The sweet viciffitudes of day and night;

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Soft airs and genial moisture, feed and cheer,
Field, fruit and flow'r, and ev'ry creature here;
But brighter beams than his who fires the skies,
Have ris'n at length on your admiring eyes,
That shoot into your darkest caves the day,
From which our nicer optics turn away.

Here fee th' encouragement grace gives to vice,
The dire effect of mercy without price!

What were they? what fome fools are made by art,
They were by nature, atheists, head and heart.
The grofs idolatry blind heathens teach,

Was too refin❜d for them, beyond their reach;
Not ev❜n the glorious fun, though men revere

The monarch most that seldom will appear,

And though his beams that quicken where they shine,
May claim fome right to be esteem'd divine,

Not ev❜n the fun, defirable as rare,

Could bend one knee, engage one vot'ry there;

They were what base credulity believes

True Chriftians are, diffemblers, drunkards, thieves.

The

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