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, 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 ev'ry crime, And sore tormented long before his time; His pray'r preferr'd to saints that cannot aid; His praise postpon'd, and never to be paid. See the sage hermit, by mankind admir'd, With all that bigotry adopts inspir'd, Wearing out life in his religious whim, Till his religious whimsey 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 senseMy penitential stripes, my streaming blood, Have purchas'd Heav'n, and prove my title good. Turn eastward now, and Fancy shall apply your weak sight her telescopic eye, To The Brahmin kindles on his own bare head No grand inquisitor could worse invent, The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear, 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 all- His palace, and his lacqueys, and "My Lord," An Indian mystic, or a French recluse? She might be young some forty years ago, Her eye-brows arch'd, her eyes both gone astray To thrift and parsimony much inclin❜d, And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn. Of malice fed while flesh is mortified: Take, Madam, the reward of all your pray'rs, Will weep, indeed, and heave a pitying groan 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 say'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 int'rest 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; 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, Say, on what hinge does his obedience move? No, not a spark-'tis all mere sharper's play; Tom quits you, with-Your most obedient, Sir. Consults all day your int'rest and your case, And, proud to make his firm attachment known, 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, 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 trav'ller urg'd 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; |