We envy not the warmer clime, that lies
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies;
Nor at the coarfenefs of our heav'n repine,
Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads fhine:
'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's ifle,
And makes her barren rocks, and her bleak mountains fmile.
Charity. A Paraphrafe on the 13th Chapter of the First
Epiftle to the Corinthians.
DID fweeter founds adorn my flowing tongue,
Than ever man pronounc'd, or angel fung;
Had I all knowledge, human and divine,
That Thought can reach, or Science can define;
And had I pow'r to give that knowledge birth,
In all the fpeeches of the babbling earth;
Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire,
To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire;
Or had I faith like that which Ifrael saw,
When Mofes gave them miracles, and law;
Yet, gracious Charity, indulgent guest,
Were not thy pow'r exerted in my breast;
Thofe fpeeches would fend up unheeded pray'r;
That fcorn of life would be but wild defpair;
A cymbal's found were better than my voice;
My faith were form; my eloquence were noise.
Charity, decent, modeft, easy, kind,
Softens the high, and rears the abject mind;
Knows with juft reins, and gentle hand, to guide
Betwixt vile fhame, and arbitrary pride.
Not foon provok'd, the eafily forgives;
And much the suffers, as the much believes.
Soft peace fhe brings where-ever she arrives;
She builds our quiet, as the forms our lives;
Lays the rough paths of peevith nature even;
And opens in each heart a little heav'n.
Each other gift, which God on man bestows,
Its proper bounds, and due reftriction knows;
To one fixt purpose dedicates its pow'r;
And finishing its act, exists no more.
Thus, in obedience to what Heav'n decrees,
Knowledge shall fail, and Prophecy shall cease;
But lafting Charity's more ample sway,
Nor bound by time, nor fubject to decay,
In happy triumph fhall for ever live;
And endless good diffufe, and endlefs praife receive. As through the artift's intervening glafs,
Our eye obferves the diftant planets pass;
A little we discover; but allow,
That more remains unfeen, than Art can fhow; So whilft our mind its knowledge wou'd improve, (Its feeble eye intent on things above,)
High as we may, we lift our reafon up,
By Faith directed, and confirm'd by Hope;
Yet are we able only to furvey
Dawnings of beams, and promifes of day;
Heav'n's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled fight;
Too great its fwiftnefs, and too ftrong its light.
But foon the mediate clouds fhall be difpell'd;
The fun fhall foon be face to face beheld,
In all his robes, with all his glory on,
Seated fublime on his meridian throne.
Then conftant Faith, and holy Hope fhall die,
One loft in certainty, and one in joy:
Whilft thou, more happy pow'r, fair Charity,
Triumphant fifter, greateft of the three,
Thy office, and thy nature still the fame,
Lafting thy lamp, and unconfum'd thy flame,
Shalt ftill furvive—
Shalt ftand before the host of heav'n confest,
For ever blessing, and for ever blest.
SOME angel guide my pencil, while I draw,
What nothing lefs than angel can exceed,
A man on earth devoted to the skies;
Like fhips at fea, while in, above the world.
With afpect mild, and elevated eye,
Behold him feated on a mount ferene,
Above the fogs of Senfe, and Passion's storm:
All the black cares, and tumults, of this life,
Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet,
Excite his pity, not impair his peace.
Earth's genuine fons, the fceptred, and the flave,
A mingled mob! a wand'ring herd! he fees,
Bewilder'd in the vale; in all unlike!
His full reverfe in all! What higher praise ?
What stronger demonstration of the right?
The prefent all their care; the future his.
When public welfare calls, or private want,
They give to fame; his bounty he conceals.
Their virtues varnish nature; his exalt.
Mankind's efteem they court; and he his own.
Theirs the wild chafe of falfe felicities;
His, the compos'd pofsefsion of the true.
Alike throughout is his confiftent piece,
All of one colour, and an even thread;
While party-colour'd fhreds of happiness,
With hideous gaps between, patch up for them
A madman's robe; each puff of fortune blows
The tatters by, and thows their nakednefs.
He fees with other eyes than theirs: Where they Behold a fun, he spies a Deity;
What makes them only fmile, makes him adore.
Where they fee mountains, he but atoms fees;
An empire in his balance, weighs a grain.
They things terreftrial worship, as divine:
His hopes immortal blow them by, as duft,
That dims his fight, and fhortens his furvey,
Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound.
Titles and honours (if they prove his fate)
He lays afide to find his dignity;
No dignity they find in aught befides.
They triumph in externals, (which conceal
Man's real glory,) proud of an eclipse :
Himself too much he prizes to be proud;
And nothing thinks fo great in man, as man.
Too dear he holds his int'reft, to neglect
Another's welfare, or his right invade;
Their int'reft, like a lion, lives on prey.
They kindle at the shadow of a wrong;
Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heav'n,
Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe:
Nought, but what wounds his virtue, wounds his peace.
A cover'd heart their character defends;
A cover'd heart denies him half his praise.
With nakedness his innocence agrees!
While their broad foliage teftifies their fall!
Their no joys end, where his full feaft begins:
His joys create, theirs murder, future blifs.
To triumph in exiftence, his alone;
And his alone triumphantly to think
His true existence is not yet begun.
His glorious course was, yesterday, complete:
Death, then, was welcome; yet life ftill is fweet.
The Pleafures of Retirement.
O KNEW he but his happiness, of men
The happieft he! who, far from public rage,
Deep in the vale, with a choice few retir'd,
Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life.
What tho' the dome be wanting, whofe proud gate,
Each morning, vomits out the fneaking crowd
Of flatterers falfe, and in their turn abus'd!
Vile intercourfe! What tho' the glitt'ring robe,
Of ev'ry hue reflected light can give,
Or floated loofe, or ftiff with mazy gold,
The pride and gaze of fools, opprefs him not?
What tho', from utmost land and fea purvey'd,
For him each rarer tributary life
Bleeds not, and his infatiate table heaps
With luxury, and death? What tho' his bowl
Flames not with coftly juice; nor funk in beds
Oft of gay Care, he tofses out the night,
Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state?
What tho' he knows not those fantastic joys,
That fill amufe the wanton, fill deceive;
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