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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, Heav'n 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 Heav'n to sell the proud a throne.
His dwelling a recess in some rude rock,
Turn eastward now, and Fancy shall apply
No grand inquisitor could worse invent,
Which is the saintlier worthy of the two ?
But why before us protestants produce
Yon ancient prude, whose wither'd features show
To thrift and parsimony much inclin'd,
tuck'd beneath his arm,
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 ev'ry day. Of temper as envenom'd as an asp, Censorious, and her ev'ry word a wasp; In faithful mem'ry 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 pray’rs, Where hermitsand where Brahmins 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 paintProduce 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 heaye 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 sav'd From-servile fear, or be the more enslav'd ? 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 deliv'rance freely wrought, Recompense ill? He trembles at the thought. His Master's intrest and his own combin'd Prompt ev'ry 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 i His utmost he can render is but smallThe principle and motive all in all. You have two servants—Tom, an arch, sly rogue, From top to tpe 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 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 case,
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 th’ omniscient Judge Scorns the base hireling, and the slavish drudge. Where dwell these matchless saints ? old Curio cries, E'en 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,