Where dwell these matchlefs Saints? Old Curio
Ev'n at your fide, Sir, and before your eyes,
The favour'd few, th' enthusiasts you despise:
And pleas'd at heart because on holy ground,
Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found,
Reproach a people with his fingle fall,
And caft his filthy raiment at them all.
Attend an apt fimilitude fhall fhow,
Whence fprings the conduct that offends you fo.
See where it smokes along the founding plain,
Blown all aflant, a driving, dafhing rain,
Peal upon peal redoubling all around,
Shakes it again and fafter to the ground,
Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play,
Swift beyond thought the light'nings dart away;
Ere yet it came the traveller urg'd his fteed,
And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed,
Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his
He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace;
Suppofe, unlook'd for in a fcene fo rude,
Long hid by interpofing hill or wood,
Some mansion, neat and elegantly drefs'd,
By fome kind hofpitable heart poffefs'd,
Offer him warmth, fecurity and reft;
Think with what pleafure, fafe and at his cafe,
He hears the tempeft howling in the trees,
What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ,
While danger paft is turn'd to prefent joy.
So fares it with the finger when he feels,
A growing dread of vengeance at his heels,
His confcience, like a glaffy lake before,"
Lafh'd into foaming waves begins to roar,
The law grown clamorous, though filent long,
Arraigns him, charges him with every wrong,
Afferts the rights of his offended Lord,
And death or reftitution is the word;
The laft impoffible, he fears the first,
And having well deferv'd, expects the worst.
Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home,
Oh for a fhelter from the wrath to come!
Crush me ye rocks, ye falling mountains hide,
Or bury me in ocean's angry tide-
The fcrutiny of those all-feeing eyes
I dare not-and you need not, God replies;
The remedy you want I freely give,
The book shall teach you, read, believe and live: 'Tis done the raging ftorm is heard no more, Mercy receives him on her peaceful fhore,
And justice, guardian of the dread command,
Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand.
A foul redeem'd demands a life of praife,
Hence the complexion of his future days,
Hence a demeanor holy and unfpeck'd,
And the world's hatred as its fure effect.
Some lead a life unblameable and just,
Their own dear virtue, their unshaken trust.
They never fin-or if (as all offend)
Some trivial flips their daily walk attend,
The poor are near at hand, the charge is fmall,
A flight gratuity atones for all.
For though the Pope has loft his int'rest here,
And pardons are not fold as once they were,
No Papift more defirous to compound,
Than fome grave finners upon English ground:
That plea refuted, other quirks they feek,
Mercy is infinite, and man is weak,
The future fhall obliterate the past,
And heav'n no doubt fhall be their home at last.
Come then-a ftill, fmall whifper in your ear,
He has no hope who never had a fear
And he that never doubted of his state,
He may perhaps-perhaps he may-too late.
The path to blifs abounds with many a snare,
Learning is one, and wit, however rare :
The Frenchman, first in literary fame,
(Mention him if you pleafe-Voltaire? the fame)
With fpirit, genius, eloquence fupplied,
Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily and died;
The fcripture was his jeft-book, whence he drew
Bon mots to gall the Chriftian and the Jew:
An infidel in health, but what when fick ?
Oh then, a text would touch him at the quick:
View him at Paris in his laft career,
Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere,
Exalted on his pedestal of pride,
And fum'd with frankincenfe on ev'ry fide,
He begs their flatt'ry with his latest breath,
And fmother'd in't at laft, is prais'd to death.
Yon cottager who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store,
Content though mean, and cheerful, if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the live-long day,
Juft earns a fcanty pittance, and at night.
Lies down fecure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble fphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit,
Receives no praife, but (though her lot be fuch,
Toilfome and indigent) fhe renders much;
Juft knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;
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