"To gratify the hunger of his wish; "And doth he reprobate, and will he damn, "So strict, that less than perfect must despair? 640 "And gesture they propound to our belief? "Nay-conduct hath the loudest tongue. Thevoice "Is but an instrument, on which the priest 66 651 May play, what tune he pleases. In the deed, "The unequivocal, authentic deed, "We find sound argument, we read the heart." Such reas'nings (if that name must needs belong T'excuses in which reason has no part) To live on terms of amity with vice, And sin without disturbance. Often urg'd, (As often as, libidinous discourse Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes Of theological and grave import) They gain at last his unreserv'd assent; Till harden'd his heart's temper in the forge Of lust, and on the anvil of despair, 660 Heslights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves, Or nothing much, his constancy in ill; Vain tamp'ring has but foster'd his disease; 'Tis desp'rate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. Haste now, philosopher, and set him free. 670 Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear Of rectitude and fitness, moral truth How lovely, and the moral sense how sure, Directly to the FIRST AND ONLY FAIR. Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the pow'rs Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise: And with poetic trappings grace thy prose, 680 Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high sounding brass, Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a change, That turns to ridicule the turgid speech And stately tone of moralists, who boast, As if, like him of fabulous renown, They had indeed ability to smooth The shag of savage nature, and were each An Orpheus, and omnipotent in song: 690 But transformation of apostate man From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, Is work for Him that made him. He alone, And he by means in philosophic eyes 700 Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's cause Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve, Receive proud recompense. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. Th' historic muse, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn, Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass To guard them, and immortalize her trust; But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, To those, who, posted at the shrine of Truth, 710 Have fall'n in her defence. A patriot's blood, Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed, And for a time ensure, to his lov'd land The sweets of liberty, and equal laws; But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed In confirmation of the noblest claim, Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, To walk with God, to be divinely free, To soar, and to anticipate the skies. Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown, Till persecution dragg'd them into fame, And chas'd them up to Heav'n. 720 Their ashes flew With their names No bard embalms and sanctifies his song: And history, so warm on meaner themes, * See Hume. 730 |