No meretricious graces to beguile,

No clustering ornaments to clog the pile,
From ostentation as from weakness free,
It stands like the cærulean arch we see,
Majestic in its own simplicity.
Inscribed above the portal, from afar
Conspicuous as the brightness of a star,
Legible only by the light they give,
Stand the soul-quickening words-BELIEVE AND LIVE.
Too many, shock'd at what should charm them most,
Despise the plain direction and are lost.
Heaven on such terms! they cry with proud disdain,
Incredible, impossible, and vain !-

Rebel because 'tis easy to obey,

And scorn for its own sake the gracious way.
These are the sober, in whose cooler brains
Some thought of immortality remains;
The rest too busy, or too gay, to wait
On the sad theme, their everlasting state,
Sport for a day and perish in a night,
The foam upon the waters not so light.

Who judged the Pharisee? What odious cause
Exposed him to the vengeance of the laws?
Had he seduced a virgin, wrong'd a friend,
Or stabb'd a man to serve some private end?
Was blasphemy his sin? Or did he stray
From the strict duties of the sacred day?
Sit long and late at the carousing board?
(Such were the sins with which he charged his Lord.)
No-the man's morals were exact; what then?
"Twas his ambition to be seen of men;
His virtues were his pride; and that one vice
Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price;
He wore them as fine trappings for a show,
A praying, synagogue-frequenting beau.

The self-applauding bird, the peacock see,Mark what a sumptuous pharisee is he! Meridian sun-beams tempt him to unfold His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold; He treads as if, some solemn music near, His measured step were govern'd by his ear, And seems to say, Ye meaner fowl, give place! I am all splendour, dignity, and grace.

Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes, Though he too has a glory in his plumes: He, Christian-like, retreats with modest mien, To the close copse or far sequester'd green, And shines without desiring to be seen. The plea of works, as arrogant and vain, Heaven turns from with abhorrence and disdain; Not more affronted by avow'd neglect, Than by the mere dissembler's feign'd respect. What is all righteousness that men devise, What, but a sordid bargain for the skies? But Christ as soon would abdicate his own, As stoop from heaven to sell the proud a throne. His dwelling a recess in some rude rock, Book, beads, and maple dish his meagre stock, In shirt of hair and weeds of canvass dress'd, Girt with a bell-rope that the pope has bless'd, Adust with stripes told out for every crime, And sore tormented long before his time, His prayer preferr'd to saints that cannot aid, His praise postponed, and never to be paid, See the sage hermit by mankind admired, With all that bigotry adopts, inspired, Wearing out life in his religious whim, Till his religious whimsy wears out him. His works, his abstinence, his zeal allow'd,

You think him humble-God accounts him proud;

High in demand, though lowly in pretence,
Of all his conduct this the genuine sense,-
My penitential stripes, my streaming blood
Have purchased heaven, and prove my title good.
Turn Eastward now, and fancy shall apply
To your weak sight her telescopic eye.
The Bramin kindles on his own bare head
The sacred fire, self-torturing his trade;
His voluntary pains, severe and long,
Would give a barbarous air to British song;
No grand inquisitor could worse invent,
Than he contrives to suffer, well content.

Which is the saintlier worthy of the two?
Past all dispute, yon anchorite, say you.
Your sentence and mine differ. What's a name?
I say the Bramin has the fairer claim.
If sufferings scripture nowhere recommends,
Devised by self to answer selfish ends,
Give saintship, then all Europe must agree,
Ten starveling hermits suffer less than he.

The truth is, (if the truth may suit your ear, And prejudice have left a passage clear) Pride has attain'd its most luxuriant growth, And poison'd every virtue in them both. Pride may be pamper'd while the flesh grows lean, Humility may clothe an English dean; That grace was Cowper's-his confess'd by allThough placed in golden Durham's second stall. Not all the plenty of a bishop's board, His palace, and his lackeys, and, "my lord!" More nourish pride, that condescending vice, Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice. It thrives in misery, and abundant grows In misery fools upon themselves impose.

But why before us Protestants produce An Indian mystic or a French recluse? Their sin is plain, but what have we to fear, Reform'd and well instructed? You shall hear. Yon ancient prude, whose wither'd features show She might be young some forty years ago, Her elbows pinion'd close upon her hips, Her head erect, her fan upon her lips, Her eyebrows arch'd, her eyes both gone astray To watch yon amorous couple in their play, With bony and unkerchief'd neck defies The rude inclemency of wintry skies, And sails with lappet-head and mincing airs Duly at clink of bell, to morning prayers. To thrift and parsimony much inclined, She yet allows herself that boy behind; The shivering urchin, bending as he goes, With slipshod heels, and dew-drop at his nose, His predecessor's coat advanced to wear, Which future pages are yet doom'd to share, Carries her bible tuck'd beneath his arm, And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm. She, half an angel in her own account, Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount, Though not a grace appears on strictest search, But that she fasts, and item, goes to church. Conscious of age, she recollects her youth, And tells, not always with an eye to truth, Who spann'd her waist, and who, where'er he came, Scrawl'd upon glass Miss Bridget's lovely name, Who stole her slipper, fill'd it with tokay, And drank the little bumper every day. Of temper as envenom'd as an asp, Censorious, and her every word a wasp, In faithful memory she records the crimes, Or real or fictitious, of the times;

Laughs at the reputations she has torn,
And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn.
Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride,
Of malice fed while flesh is mortified.
Take, madam, the reward of all your prayers,
Where hermits andwhere Bramins meet with theirs!
Your portion is with them: nay, never frown,
But, if you please, some fathoms lower down.

Artist, attend!-your brushes and your paint-
Produce them-take a chair,-now draw a saint.
Oh sorrowful and sad! the streaming tears
Channel her cheeks,-a Niobe appears.
Is this a saint? Throw tints and all away!
True piety is cheerful as the day,
Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan
For others' woes, but smiles upon her own.

What purpose has the King of Saints in view? Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew? To call up plenty from the teeming earth, Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth? Is it that Adam's offspring may be saved From servile fear, or be the more enslaved? To loose the links that gall'd mankind before, Or bind them faster on, and add still more? The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove, Or if a chain, the golden one of love; No fear attends to quench his glowing fires, What fear he feels his gratitude inspires. Shall he for such deliverance freely wrought, Recompense ill? He trembles at the thought: His master's interest and his own combined, Prompt every movement of his heart and mind; Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince, His freedom is the freedom of a prince.

Man's obligations infinite, of course

His life should prove that he perceives their force;
His utmost he can render is but small,
The principle and motive all in all.

You have two servants,-Tom, an arch sly rogue,
From top to toe the Geta now in vogue ;
Genteel in figure, easy in address,
Moves without noise, and swift as an express,
Reports a message with a pleasing grace,
Expert in all the duties of his place :
Say, on what hinge does his obedience move?
Has he a world of gratitude and love?
No, not a spark,-'tis all mere sharper's play;
He likes your house, your housemaid, and your pay;
Reduce his wages, or get rid of her,
Tom quits you, with, Your most obedient, sir.-
The dinner served, 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 interest 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 Heaven approves as honest and sincere,
The work of generous love and filial fear;
But with averted eyes the omniscient Judge
Scorns the base hireling and the slavish drudge.
Where dwell these matchless saints? old Curio

cries;

Even at your side, sir, and before your eyes, The favour'd few, the enthusiasts you despise;

And pleased 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 traveller urged 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;
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 every 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 deserved, expects the worst.
Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home;
Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come!
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 unblameable and just,
Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust.
They never sin,-or if (as all offend)
Some trivial slips their daily walk attend,
The poor are near at hand, the charge is small,
A slight gratuity atones for all ;
For though the pope has lost his interest 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 heaven no doubt shall be their home at last.
Come then, a still small whisper in your ear,
He has no hope that 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,
Lived 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:
An infidel in health, but what when sick?
Oh, then a text would touch him at the quick.
View him at Paris in his last career:
Surrounding throngs the demigod revere,
Exalted on his pedestal of pride,

And fumed with frankincense on every side,
He begs their flattery with his latest breath,
And smother'd in't at last, is praised 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,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit,
Receives no praise, but (though her lot be such,
Toilsome and indigent) she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more, her bible true,
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew,
And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

O happy peasant! O unhappy bard!
His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward;
He praised perhaps for ages yet to come,
She never heard of half a mile from home;
He lost in errors his vain heart prefers,
She safe in the simplicity of hers.

Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound
In science, win one inch of heavenly ground:
And is it not a mortifying thought
The poor should gain it, and the rich should not?
No; the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget

One pleasure lost, lose heaven without regret ;
Regret would rouse them and give birth to prayer,
Prayer would add faith, and faith would fix them
Not that the Former of us all in this, [there.
Or aught he does, is govern'd by caprice;
The supposition is replete with sin,
And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in.
Not so ;-the silver trumpet's heavenly call
Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all;
Kings are invited, and would kings obey,

No slaves on earth more welcome were than they:
But royalty, nobility, and state,

Are such a dead preponderating weight,
That endless bliss (how strange soe'er it seem)
In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam.
Tis open and ye cannot enter;-why?
Because ye will not, Conyers would reply ;-
And he says much that many may dispute
And cavil at with ease, but none refute.
Oh bless'd effect of penury and want,
The seed sown there, how vigorous is the plant!
No soil like poverty for growth divine,
As leanest land supplies the richest wine.
Earth gives too little, giving only bread,
To nourish pride or turn the weakest head:
To them, the sounding jargon of the schools
Seems what it is, a cap and bells for fools:
The light they walk by, kindled from above,
Shows them the shortest way to life and love:

They, strangers to the controversial field, Where deists always foil'd, yet scorn to yield, And never check'd by what impedes the wise, Believe, rush forward, and possess the prize.

Envy, ye great, the dull unletter'd small, Ye have much cause for envy--but not all; We boast some rich ones whom the gospel sways, And one that wears a coronet and prays; Like gleanings of an olive-tree they show, Here and there one upon the topmost bough.

How readily, upon the gospel plan That question has its answer,-what is man? Sinful and weak, in every sense a wretch; An instrument whose chords, upon the stretch And strain'd to the last screw that he can bear, Yield only discord in his Maker's ear: Once the blest residence of truth divine, Glorious as Solyma's interior shrine, Where, in his own oracular abode, Dwelt visibly the light-creating God; But made long since, like Babylon of old, A den of mischiefs never to be told: And she once mistress of the realms around, Now scatter'd wide and nowhere to be found, As soon shall rise and reascend the throne, By native power and energy her own, As Nature, at her own peculiar cost, Restore to man the glories he has lost. Go bid the winter cease to chill the year, Replace the wandering comet in his sphere, Then boast (but wait for that unhoped for hour) The self-restoring arm of human power! But what is man in his own proud esteem? Hear him, himself the poet and the theme: A monarch clothed with majesty and awe, His mind his kingdom, and his will his law; Grace in his mien and glory in his eyes, Supreme on earth and worthy of the skies;. Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod, And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a god!

So sings he, charm'd with his own mind and form, The song magnificent, the theme a worm! Himself so much the source of his delight, His Maker has no beauty in his sight. See where he sits contemplative and fix'd, Pleasure and wonder in his features mix'd : His passions tamed and all at his control, How perfect the composure of his soul ! Complacency has breathed a gentle gale O'er all his thoughts, and swell'd his easy sail. His books well trimm'd and in the gayest style, Like regimented coxcombs rank and file, Adorn his intellects as well as shelves, And teach him notions splendid as themselves: The Bible only stands neglected there, Though that of all most worthy of his care; And, like an infant, troublesome awake, Is left to sleep for peace and quiet sake. What shall the man deserve of humankind, Whose happy skill and industry combined Shall prove (what argument could never yet) The Bible an imposture and a cheat? The praises of the libertine profess'd, The worst of men, and curses of the best. Where should the living, weeping o'er his woes, The dying, trembling at the awful close, Where the betray'd, forsaken, and oppress'd, The thousands whom the world forbids to rest, Where should they find (those comforts at an end The Scripture yields) or hope to find, a friend?

Sorrow might muse herself to madness then, And, seeking exile from the sight of men, Bury herself in solitude profound,

Grow frantic with her pangs, and bite the ground.
Thus often Unbelief, grown sick of life,
Flies to the tempting pool, or felon knife;
The jury meet, the coroner is short,
And lunacy the verdict of the court:
Reverse the sentence, let the truth be known,
Such lunacy is ignorance alone.

They knew not, what some bishops may not know,
That Scripture is the only cure of woe:
That field of promise, how it flings abroad
Its odour o'er the Christian's thorny road!
The soul, reposing on assured relief,
Feels herself happy amidst all her grief,
Forgets her labour as she toils along,
Weeps tears of joy, and bursts into a song.

But the same word that, like the polish'd share,
Ploughs up the roots of a believer's care,
Kills too the flowery weeds, where'er they grow,
That bind the sinner's Bacchanalian brow.
Oh that unwelcome voice of heavenly love,
Sad messenger of mercy from above,
How does it grate upon his thankless ear,
Crippling his pleasures with the cramp of fear!
His will and judgment at continual strife,
That civil war embitters all his life :

In vain he points his powers against the skies,
In vain he closes or averts his eyes,
Truth will intrude-she bids him yet beware-
And shakes the sceptic in the scorner's chair.

Though various foes against the truth combine,
Pride above all opposes her design;
Pride, of a growth superior to the rest,
The subtlest serpent with the loftiest crest,
Swells at the thought, and kindling into rage,
Would hiss the cherub Mercy from the stage.
And is the soul indeed so lost,—she cries,—
Fallen from her glory and too weak to rise,
Torpid and dull beneath a frozen zone,
Has she no spark that may be deem'd her own?
Grant her indebted to what zealots call
Grace undeserved, yet surely not for all ;-
Some beams of rectitude she yet displays,
Some love of virtue and some power to praise;
Can lift herself above corporeal things,
And soaring on her own unborrow'd wings,
Possess herself of all that's good or true,
Assert the skies, and vindicate her due.
Past indiscretion is a venial crime,
And if the youth, unmellow'd yet by time,
Bore on his branch luxuriant then and rude,
Fruits of a blighted size, austere and crude,
Maturer years shall happier stores produce,
And meliorate the well concocted juice.
Then, conscious of her meritorious zeal,
To Justice she may make her bold appeal,
And leave to Mercy, with a tranquil mind,
The worthless and unfruitful of mankind.
Hear then how Mercy, slighted and defied,
Retorts the affront against the crown of Pride.
Perish the virtue, as it ought, abhorr'd,
And the fool with it that insults his Lord.
The atonement a Redeemer's love has wrought
Is not for you, the righteous need it not.
Seest thou yon harlot wooing all she meets,
The worn-out nuisance of the public streets,
Herself from morn to night, from night to morn,
Her own abhorrence, and as much your scorn,

The gracious shower, unlimited and free,
Shall fall on her, when Heaven denies it thee.
Of all that wisdom dictates, this the drift,
That man is dead in sin, and life a gift.

Is virtue then, unless of Christian growth,
Mere fallacy, or foolishness, or both?
Ten thousand sages lost in endless woe,
For ignorance of what they could not know?
That speech betrays at once a bigot's tongue;
Charge not a God with such outrageous wrong!
Truly not I.-The partial light men have,

My creed persuades me, well employ'd may save ;
While he that scorns the noonday beam, perverse,
Shall find the blessing unimproved a curse.
Let heathen worthies, whose exalted mind
Left sensuality and dross behind,
Possess for me their undisputed lot,
And take unenvied the reward they sought.
But still in virtue of a Saviour's plea,
Not blind by choice, but destined not to see.
Their fortitude and wisdom were a flame
Celestial, though they knew not whence it came,
Derived from the same source of light and grace,
That guides the Christian in his swifter race;
Their judge was Conscience, and her rule their law;
That rule pursued with reverence and with awe,
Led them, however faltering, faint, and slow,
From what they knew, to what they wish'd to know.
But let not him that shares a brighter day,
Traduce the splendour of a noontide ray,
Prefer the twilight of a darker time,
And deem his base stupidity no crime;

The wretch, that slights the bounty of the skies,
And sinks while favour'd with the means to rise,
Shall find them rated at their full amount,
The good he scorn'd all carried to account.

Marshaling all his terrors as he came,
Thunder and earthquake and devouring flame,
From Sinai's top Jehovah gave the law,
Life for obedience, death for every flaw.
When the great Sovereign would his will express,
He gives a perfect rule; what can He less?
And guards it with a sanction as severe
As vengeance can inflict, or sinners fear:
Else his own glorious rights he would disclaim,
And man might safely trifle with his name.
He bids him glow with unremitting love
To all on earth, and to Himself above;
Condemns the injurious deed, the slanderous tongue,
The thought that meditates a brother's wrong;
Brings not alone the more conspicuous part,
His conduct to the test, but tries his heart.

Hark! universal Nature shook and groan'd ;
"Twas the last trumpet-see the Judge enthroned!
Rouse all your courage at your utmost need,
Now summon every virtue, stand and plead.
What! silent? Is your boasting heard no more?
That self-renouncing wisdom, learn'd before,
Had shed immortal glories on your brow,
That all your virtues cannot purchase now.
All joy to the believer! he can speak,
Trembling yet happy, confident yet meek.
Since the dear hour, that brought me to thy foot,
And cut up all my follies by the root,

I never trusted in an arm but thine,
Nor hoped but in thy righteousness divine:
My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled,
Were but the feeble efforts of a child;
Howe'er perform'd, it was their brightest part,
That they proceeded from a grateful heart;

Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood,
Forgive their evil, and accept their good;
I cast them at thy feet-my only plea
Is what it was, dependence upon Thee;
While struggling in the vale of tears below,
That never fail'd, nor shall it fail me now.
Angelic gratulations rend the skies,
Pride falls unpitied, never more to rise,

WHY weeps the Muse for England? What appears
In England's case to move the Muse to tears?
From side to side of her delightful isle

Is she not clothed with a perpetual smile?
Can Nature add a charm, or art confer
A new-found luxury not seen in her?
Where under heaven is pleasure more pursued,
Or where does cold reflection less intrude?
Her fields a rich expanse of wavy corn
Pour'd out from Plenty's overflowing horn;
Ambrosial gardens, in which Art supplies
The fervour and the force of Indian skies;
Her peaceful shores, where busy Commerce waits
To pour his golden tide through all her gates;
Whom fiery suns that scorch the russet spice
Of Eastern groves, and oceans floor'd with ice,
Forbid in vain to push his daring way
To darker climes, or climes of brighter day;
Whom the winds waft where'er the billows roll,
From the world's girdle to the frozen pole;
The chariots bounding in her wheel-worn streets;
Her vaults below, where every vintage meets;
Her theatres, her revels, and her sports,
The scenes to which not youth alone resorts,
But age, in spite of weakness and of pain,
Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again;
All speak her happy :-let the Muse look round
From East to West, no sorrow can be found,
Or only what in cottages confined,
Sighs unregarded to the passing wind.
Then wherefore weep for England? What appears
In England's case to move the Muse to tears!

The prophet wept for Israel, wish'd his eyes
Were fountains fed with infinite supplies;
For Israel dealt in robbery and wrong, [tongue,
There were the scorner's and the slanderer's
Oaths used as playthings or convenient tools,
As interest bias'd knaves, or fashion fools;
Adultery neighing at his neighbour's door,
Oppression labouring hard to grind the poor,
The partial balance and deceitful weight,
The treacherous smile, a mask for secret hate,
Hypocrisy, formality in prayer,

And the dull service of the lip, were there.
Her women insolent and self-caress'd,
By Vanity's unwearied finger dress'd,
Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart
To modest cheeks, and borrow'd one from art;
Were just such trifles without worth or use,
As silly pride and idleness produce;
Curl'd, scented, furbelow'd and flounced around,
With feet too delicate to touch the ground,

Her princes captive, and her treasures spoil'd;
Wept till all Israel heard his bitter cry,
Stamp'd with his foot, and smote upon his thigh;
But wept and stamp'd and smote his thigh in vain,
Pleasure is deaf when told of future pain,
And sounds prophetic are too rough to suit
Ears long accustom'd to the pleasing lute;
They scorn'd his inspiration and his theme,
Pronounced him frantic and his fears a dream,
With self-indulgence wing'd the fleeting hours,
Till the foe found them, and down fell the towers.
Long time Assyria bound them in her chain,
Till penitence had purged the public stain,
And Cyrus, with relenting pity moved,
Return'd them happy to the land they loved:
There, proof against prosperity, awhile
They stood the test of her ensnaring smile,
And had the grace in scenes of peace to show
The virtue they had learn'd in scenes of woe.
But man is frail, and can but ill sustain
A long immunity from grief and pain,
And after all the joys that plenty leads,
With tiptoe step vice silently succeeds.

When he that ruled them with a shepherd's rod, In form a man, in dignity a God,

Came not expected in that humble guise,
To sift, and search them with unerring eyes,
He found, conceal'd beneath a fair outside,
The filth of rottenness and worm of pride,
Their piety a system of deceit,
Scripture employ'd to sanctify the cheat,
The pharisee the dupe of his own art,
Self-idolized, and yet a knave at heart.

When nations are to perish in their sins,
"Tis in the church the leprosy begins:
The priest, whose office is, with zeal sincere,
To watch the fountain, and preserve it clear,
Carelessly nods and sleeps upon the brink,
While others poison what the flock must drink;
Or, waking at the call of lust alone,
Infuses lies and errors of his own:
His unsuspecting sheep believe it pure,
And, tainted by the very means of cure,
Catch from each other a contagious spot,
The foul forerunner of a general rot.
Then Truth is hush'd, that Heresy may preach;
And all is trash that Reason cannot reach;
Then God's own image on the soul impress'd
Becomes a mockery and a standing jest ;
And faith, the root whence only can arise
The graces of a life that wins the skies,
Loses at once all value and esteem,
Pronounced by greybeards a pernicious dream;
Then ceremony leads her bigots forth,
Prepared to fight for shadows of no worth,
While truths, on which eternal things depend,
Find not, or hardly find, a single friend;
As soldiers watch the signal of command,
They learn to bow, to kneel, to sit, to stand;
Happy to fill religion's vacant place

With hollow form, and gesture, and grimace.

C