Happy the bard, (if that fair name belong To him that blends no fable with his song) Whose lines, uniting, by an honest art,

The faithful monitor's and poet's part,

Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind, And, while they captivate, inform the mind: Still happier, if he till a thankful soil,

And fruit reward his honourable toil:

But happier far, who comfort those that wait To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow'd gate. Their language simple, as their manners meek, No shining ornaments have they to seek;

Nor labour they, nor time, nor talents, waste,
In sorting flow'rs to suit a fickle taste;

But, while they speak the wisdom of the skies,
Which art can only darken and disguise,
Th' abundant harvest, recompense divine,

Repays their work-the gleaning only mine.

CHARITY.

Qua nihil majus meliusve terris

Fata donavere, boniq; divi,

Nec dabunt, quamvis redeant in aurum

Tempora priscum.

HOR. Lib. IV. Ode 2.

FAIREST and foremost of the train, that wait

On man's most dignified and happiest state,
Whether we name thee Charity or love,
Chief grace below, and all in all above,
Prosper (I press thee with a pow'rful plea)
A task I venture on, impell'd by thee:
Oh, never seen but in thy blest effects,

Or felt but in the soul that heav'n selects;
Who seeks to praise thee, and to make thee known

To other hearts, must have thee in his own.

Come, prompt me with benevolent desires,
Teach me to kindle at thy gentle fires,

And, though disgrac'd and slighted, to redeem
A poet's name, by making thee the theme.

God, working ever on a social plan,

By various ties attaches man to man:
He made at first, though free and unconfin'd,
One man the common father of the kind;

That ev'ry tribe, though plac'd as he sees best,
Where seas or deserts part them from the rest,
Diff'ring in language, manners, or in face,
Might feel themselves allied to all the race.
When Cook-lamented, and with tears as just
As ever mingled with heroic dust-

Steer'd Britain's oak into a world unknown,
And in his country's glory sought his own,
Wherever he found man, to nature true,

The rights of man were sacred in his view.
He sooth'd with gifts, and greeted with a smile,
The simple native of the new-found isle;

He spurn'd the wretch that slighted or withstood The tender argument of kindred blood,

Nor would endure that any should controul

His free-born brethren of the southern pole.
But, though some nobler minds a law respect,
That none shall with impunity neglect,

In baser souls unnumber'd evils meet,

To thwart its influence, and its end defeat.

While Cook is lov'd for savage lives he sav'd,
See Cortez odious for a world enslav'd!

Where wast thou then, sweet Charity? where then,
Thou tutelary friend of helpless men?

Wast thou in monkish cells and nunn'ries found,
Or building hospitals on English ground?
No.-Mammon makes the world his legatee
Through fear, not love; and heav'n abhors the fee.
Wherever found, (and all men need thy care)
Nor age nor infancy could find thee there.
The hand that slew, till it could slay no more,
Was glu'd to the sword-hilt with Indian gore.

Their prince, as justly seated on his throne

As vain imperial Philip on his own,

Trick'd out of all his royalty by art,

That stripp'd him bare, and broke his honest heart,
Died, by the sentence of a shaven priest,

For scorning what they taught him to detest.
How dark the veil that intercepts the blaze
Of heav'n's mysterious purposes and ways!
God stood not, though he seem'd to stand, aloof;
And at this hour the conqu'ror feels the proof:
The wreath he won drew down an instant curse,
The fretting plague is in the public purse,
The canker'd spoil corrodes the pining state,
Starv'd by that indolence their mines create.

Oh, could their ancient Incas rise again,
How would they take up Israel's taunting strain!
Art thou too fall'n, Iberia? Do we see

The robber and the murd'rer weak as we?

Thou, that hast wasted earth, and dar'd despise

Alike the wrath and mercy of the skies,