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Its Sacred majesty thro' all depends
What strange events can strike with more surprize,
The great, vain man, who far’d on costly food, Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; Who made his iv'ry stands with goblets shine, And forc'd his guests to morning draughts of wine, Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, And still he welcomes, but with less of coft.
The mean, suspicious Wretch, whose bolted door, Ne'er mov'd in duty to the wand'ring Poor ; With him I left the cup, to teach his mind That heav'n can bless, if mortals will be kind.
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, And feels compassion touch his grateful foul.
Thus artists melt the fullen oar of lead,
With heaping coals of fire upon its head ;
Long had our pious friend in virtue trod,
But now had all his fortune felt a wrack,
Thus heav'n instructs thy mind: this trial o'er,
On sounding pinions here the Youth withdrew,
The bending Hermit here a pray’r begun,
PIETY, or the VISION *.
?TW WAS when the night in silent sable filed,
When chearful morning fprung with rising red, When dreams and vapours leave to croud the brain, And best the vision draws its heavenly scene ; 'Twas then, as slumb'ring on my couch I lay, A sudden splendor seem'd to kindle day, A breeze came breathing in a sweet perfume, Blown from eternal gardens, fillid the room i And in a void of blue, that clouds invest, Appear'd a daughter of the realms of reft; Her head a ring of golden glory wore, Her honour'd hand the facred volume bore,
* This, and the following poem, are not in the octavo. editions of Dr. Parnell's Poems published by Mr. Pope. They were first communicated to the public by the late ingenious Mr. JAMES ARBUCKLE, and publihed in his HIBERNICUS'S LETTERS, No 62.
Her raiment glist'ring seem'd a silver white,
Straight as I gaz'd, my fear and wonder grew,
• Where glorious manfions are prepar'd above, « The seats of music, and the seats of love, « Thence I descend, and PIETY my name,
To warm thy bosom with celestial Alame, • To teach thee praises mix'd with humble pray'rs,
And tune thy soul to sing seraphic airs. . Be thou my Bard.' A vial here she caught, (An Angel's hand the crystal vial brought) And as with awful found the word was said, She pour'd a sacred unction on my head ;