The bias of the purpose. How much more,
Pour'd forth by beauty splendid and polite,
In language soft as adoration breathes?

Ah, spare your idol! think him human still.
Charms he may have, but he has frailties too!

Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye

admire.

All truth is from the sempiternal source Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome, Drew from the stream below. More favour'd, we Drink, when we choose it, at the fountain head. To them it flow'd much mingled and defil'd With hurtful error, prejudice, and dreams Illusive of philosophy, so call'd,

But falsely.

Sages after

sages strove

In vain to filter off a crystal draught

Pure from the lees, which often more enhanc'd

The thirst that slack'd it, and not seldom bred

Intoxication and delirium wild.

In vain they push'd inquiry to the birth

And spring-time of the world; ask'd, Whence is

man?

Why form'd at all? and wherefore as he is?

Where must he find his Maker? with what rites Adore him? Will he hear, accept, and bless?

Or does he sit regardless of his works?

Has man within him an immortal seed?

Or does the tomb take all? If he survive

His ashes, where? and in what weal or woe?
Knots worthy of solution, which alone

A Deity could solve. Their answers, vague,
And all at random, fabulous, and dark,

Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life,
Defective and unsanction'd, prov'd too weak
To bind the roving appetite, and lead

Blind nature to a God not yet reveal'd.
'Tis revelation satisfies all doubts,

Explains all mysteries, except her own,
And so illuminates the path of life,

That fools discover it, and stray no more.

Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir,
My man of morals, nurtur'd in the shades
Of Academus-is this false or true?

Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools?
If Christ, then why resort at ev'ry turn
To Athens or to Rome, for wisdom short
Of man's occasions, when in him reside
Grace, knowledge, comfort-an unfathom'd store?
How oft, when Paul has serv'd us with a text,
Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preach'd!

Men that, if now alive, would sit content
And humble learners of a Saviour's worth,
Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth,
Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too!

And thus it is.—The pastor, either vain By nature, or by flatt'ry made so, taught To gaze at his own splendour, and t'exaltAbsurdly, not his office, but himself;

Or unenlighten'd, and too proud to learn;

Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach;

Perverting often, by the stress of lewd

And loose example, whom he should instruct; Exposes, and holds up to broad disgrace,

The noblest function, and discredits much

The brightest truths that man has ever seen.
For ghostly counsel; if it either fall

Below the exigence, or be not back'd

With show of love, at least with hopeful proof

Of some sincerity on th' giver's part;

Or be dishonour'd, in th' exterior form

And mode of its conveyance, by such tricks

As move derision, or by foppish airs

And histrionic mumm'ry, that let down

The pulpit to the level of the stage;

Drops from the lips a disregarded thing.

The weak perhaps are mov'd, but are not taught, While prejudice in men of stronger minds

Takes deeper root, confirm'd by what they see. A relaxation of religion's hold

Upon the roving and untutor'd heart

Soon follows, and, the curb of conscience snapt,

The laity run wild.-But do they now?
Note their extravagance, and be convinc'd.

As nations, ignorant of God, contrive
A wooden one, so we, no longer taught
By monitors that mother church supplies,
Now make our own. Posterity will ask
(If e'er posterity see verse of mine)

Some fifty or an hundred lustrums hence,
What was a monitor in George's days!
My very gentle reader, yet unborn,

Of whom I needs must augur better things,
Since heav'n would sure grow weary of a world
Productive only of a race like our's,

A monitor is wood-plank shaven thin.

We wear it at our backs. There, closely brac'd

And neatly fitted, it compresses hard

The prominent and most unsightly bones,