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She speaks of him, her author, guardian, friend,
Whose love knew no beginning, knows no end, 400
In language warm as all that love inspires,
And in the glow of her intense desires,
Pants to communicate her noble fires.
She sees a world stark blind to what employs
Her eager thought, and feeds her flowing joys; 405
Though wisdom hail them, heedless of her call,
Flies to save some, and feels a pang for all :
Herself as weak as her support is strong,
She feels that frailty she denied so long ;
And, from a knowledge of her own disease,

410
Learns to compassionate the sick she sees.
Here see, acquitted of all vain pretence,
The reign of genuine Charity commence.
Though scorn repay her sympathetick tears,
She still is kind and still she perseveres ;

415 The truth she loves a sightless world blaspheme, 'Tis childish dotage, a delirious dream. The danger they discern not, they deny ; Laugh at their only remedy, and die. But still a soul thus touch'd can never cease,

420
Whoever threatens war, to speak of peace.
Pure in her aim, and in her temper mild,
Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child :
She makes excuses where she might condemn,
Revild by those that hate her, prays for them; 425
õuspicion lurks not in her artless breast,
The worst suggested, she believes the best ;
Not soon provok'd, however stung and teaz’d,
And, if perhaps made angry, soon appeas'd ;.
She rather waves than will dispute her right, 430
And injur’d, makes forgiveness her delight.

Such was the portrait an apostle drew,
The bright original was one he knew ;
Heav'n held his hand, the likeness must be true.

When one, that holds communion with the skies, Has fillid his urn where these pure waters rise,

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And once morc mingles with us meaner things,
'Tis e’on as if an angel shook his wings;
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,
That tells us whence his treasures are supplied. 440
So when a ship, well freighted with the stores
The Sun matures on India's spicy shores,
Has dropp'd her anchor, and her canvass furl'd,
In some safu haven of our western world,
'Twere vain inquiry to what port she went, 445
The gale informs us, laden with the scent.

Some seek, when queasy conscience has its qualms,
To lull the painful malady with alms ;
But charity not feign'd, intends alone
Another's good—theirs' centres in their own; 450
And too short-liv'd to reach the realms of peace,
Must cease for ever when the poor shall cease.
Flavia, most tender of her own good name,
Is rather careless of her sister's fame :
Her superfluity the poor supplies,

455 But, if she touch a character, it dies. The seeming virtue weigh'd against the vice, She deems all safe, for she has paid the price : No charity but alms ought values she, Except in porcelain on her mantle-tree.

460 How many deeds, with which the world has rung, From Pride, in league with Ignorance, have sprung! But God o'errules all human follies still, And bends the tough materials to his will. A conflagration or a wintry flood,

465 Has left some hundreds without home or focd; Extravagance and Av’rice shall subscribe, While fame and self-complacence are the brile. The brief proclaim'd, it visits ev'ry pew, But first the squire's a compliment but due ; 470 With slow deliberation he unties His glitt'ring purse, that envy of all eyes, And, while the clerk just puzzles out the psalm, Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm ;

Till finding, what he might have found before, 475
A smaller piece amidst the precious store,
Pinch'd close between his finger and his thumb,
He half exhibits and then drops the sum.
Gold to be sure Throughout the town 'tis told
How the good squire gives never less than gold. 480
From motives such as his, though not the best,
Springs in duo time supply for the distressid ;
Not less effectual than what love bestows,
Except that office clips it as it goes.
But lest I seem to sin against a friend,

485 And wound the grace I mean to recommend, (Though vice derided with a just design Implies no trespass against love divine,) Once more I would adopt the graver style, A teacher should be sparing of his smile,

490 Unless a love of virtue light the flame, Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame; He hides behind a magisterial air His own offences, and strips others' bare : Affects indeed a most humane concern,

495 That men, if gently tutor’d, will not learn; The mulish Folly, not to be reclaim'd By softer methods, must be made asham'd : But, (I might instance in St. Patrick's dean,) Too often rails to gratify his spleen.

500 Most satrists are indeed a publick scourge : Their mildest physick is a färricr's purge ; Their acid temper turns, as soon as stirr’d, The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, 505 By lean despair upon an empty purse, The wild assassins start into the street, Prepar'd to pɔniard whomsoc'er they meet. No skill in swordmanship, however just, Can be secure against a inadman's thrust : 510 And even Virtue, so unfairly match'd, Although immortal, may be prick'd or scratch'd

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When Scandal has new-minted an old lie,
Or tax'd invention for a fresh supply,
'Tis call'd a satire, and the world appears
Gath'ring around it with erected ears :
A thousand names are toss'd into the crowd ;
Some whisper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud ;
Just as the sapience of an author's brain
Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain-
Strange? how the frequent interjected dash
Quickens a market, and helps off the trash;
Th' important letters that include the rest,
Serve as a key to those that are suppress'd ;
Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw,
The world is charm'd, and Scrib escapes the law.
So, when the cold damp shades of night prevail,
Worms may be caught by either head or tail ;
Forcibly drawn from many a close recess,
They meet with little pity, no redress;
Plung’d in the stream, they lodge upon the mud,
Food for the famish'd rovers of the flood.

All zeal for a reform, that gives offence
To peace and charity, is more pretence;
A bold remark, but which if well applied,
Would humble ntany a tow'ring poet's pride.
Perhaps the man was in a sportive fit,
And had no other play place for his wit ;
Perhaps enchanted with the love of fame,
He sought the jewel in his neighbour's shamo;
Perhaps—whatever end he might pursue,
The cause of virtue could not be his view.
At ev'ry stroke wit flashes in our eyes ;
The turns are quick, the polish'd points surprise,
But shine with cruel and tremendous charms,
That, while they please, possess us with alarms;
So have I seen, (and hastend to the sight
On all the wings of holiday delight,)
Where stands that monument of ancient pow'r,
Nam'd with emphatick dignity, the Tow'r,

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Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and small,
In starry forms dispos'd upon the wall ;
We wonder, as we gazing stand below,
That brass and steel should make so fine a show;
But though we praise th' exact designer's skill,

555 Account them implements of mischief still,

No works shall find acceptance in that day,
When all disguises shall be rent away,
That square not truly with the Scripture plan,
Nor spring from love to Gud, or love to man.

560
As he ordains things sordid in their birth
To be resolv'd into their parent earth;
And though the soul shall seek superiour orbs,
Whate'er this world produces it absorbs ;
So self starts nothing, but what tends apace

565 Home to the goal, where it began the race. Such as our motive is, our aim must be ; If this be servile, that can ne'er be free: If solf employ us, whatsoe'er is wrought, We glorify that self, not him we ought;

570 Such virtues had nécd prove their own reward, The judge of all men owes them no regard. True Charity, a plant divinely nurs'd, Fed by the love from which it rose at first, Thrives against þope, and in the rudest scene,

575 Storms but enliven its unfading green , Exub'rant is the shadow it supplies, Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies, To look at him who form'd us and redeem'd, So glorious now, though once so disesteemid, 580 To see a God stretch forth his human hand, T' uphold the boundless scenes of his command ; To recollect that in a form like ours, He bruis'd beneath his feet th' infernal pow'rs, Captivity led captive, rose to claim

585 The wreath he won so dearly in our name ; That, thron'd above all height, he condescends To call the few that trust in him his friends ; Vol. I.

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