An observant and grateful Servant.
Reduce his wages, or get rid of her,
Tom quits you, with-Your most obedient, Sir.
The dinner serv'd, Charles takes his usual stand
Watches your eye, anticipates command;
Sighs, if perhaps your appetite should fail ;
And, if he but suspects a frown, turns pale ;
Consults all day your int'rest and your ease,
Richly rewarded if he can but please;
And, proud to make his firm attachment known,
To save your life would nobly risk his own.
Now which stands highest in your serious thought?
Charles, without doubt, say you-and so he ought;
One act, that from a thankful heart proceeds,
Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds.
Thus heav'n approves, as honest and sincere,
The work of gen'rous love and filial fear;
But, with averted eyes the omniscient Judge
Scorns the base hireling, and the slavish drudge,
Not to deem all Enthusiasts Hypocrites..
Where dwell these matchless saints?-old Curio
Ev'n at your side, 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 single fall,
And cast his filthy raiment at them all.
Attend! an apt similitude shall show
Whence springs the conduct that offends you so.
See where it smokes along the sounding plain,
Blown all aslant, a driving, dashing rain,
Peal upon peal redoubling all around,
Shakes it again, and faster, to the ground,
Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play,
Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away.
Ere yet it came the trav❜ller urg'd his steed;
And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed;
Now, drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his case,
He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace.
A Traveller sheltered from a Storm.
Suppose, unlook'd for in a scene so rude,
Long hid by interposing hill or wood
Some mansion, neat and elegantly dress'd,
By some kind hospitable heart possess'd,
Offer him warmth, security, and rest;
Think with what pleasure, safe, and at his ease,
He hears the tempest howling in the trees;
What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ,
While danger past is turn'd to present joy.
So fares it with the sinner, when he feels
A growing dread of vengeance at his heels:
His conscience, like a glassy lake before
Lash'd into foaming waves, begins to roar;
The law, grown clamorous, though silent long,
Arraigns him-charges him with ev'ry wrong—
Asserts the rights of his offended Lord;
And death, or restitution, is the word:
The last impossible, he fears the first,
And, having well deserv'd, expects the worst.
Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home;
Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come!
A Sinner brought to Faith and forgiven.
Crush me, ye rocks; ye falling mountains, hide
Or bury me in ocean's angry tide.-
The scrutiny of those all-seeing 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 storm is heard no more,
Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore;
And Justice, guardian of the dread command,
Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand.
A soul redeem'd demands a life of praise;
Hence the complexion of his future days.
Hence a demeanour holy and unspeck'd,
And the world's hatred, as its sure effect.
Some lead a life unblamable and just,
Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust:
They never sin-or, if (as all offend)
Some trival slips their daily walk attend,
The poor are near at hand, the charge is small,
A slight gratuity atones for all
No Hopes for those who have no Fears.
For, though the pope has lost his int'rest here,
And pardons are not sold as once they were,
No papist more desirous to compound,
Than some grave sinners upon English ground.
That plea refuted, other quirks they seek-
Mercy is infinite, and man is weak;
The future shall obliterate the past,
And heav'n, no doubt, shall be their home at last.
Come, then-a still, small whisper 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 bliss abounds with many a snare;
Learning is one, and wit, however rare.
The Frenchman, first in literary fame,
(Mention him, if you please. Voltaire? The same. With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied,
Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and died The scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew
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