Far other paintings grace the chamber now,
Where late we saw the mimic landscape glow:
The busy heralds hang the sable scene

With mournful 'scutcheons, and dim lamps between;
Proclaim their titles to the crowd around,

But they that wore them move not at the sound:
The coronet, placed idly at their head,

Adds nothing now to the degraded dead;
And e'en the star, that glitters on the bier,
Can only say-Nobility lies here.

Peace to all such-'twere pity to offend,
By useless censure, whom we cannot mend;
Life without hope can close but in despair,

'Twas there we found them, and must leave them there, As, when two pilgrims in a forest stray,

Both may be lost, yet each in his own way;
So fares it with the multitudes beguiled

In vain Opinion's waste and dangerous wild;
Ten thousand rove the brakes and thorns among,
Some eastward, and some westward, and all wrong.
But here, alas! the fatal difference lies,

Each man's belief is right in his own eyes;

And he that blames what they have blindly chose
Incurs resentment for the love he shews.

Say, botanist, within whose province fall
The cedar and the hyssop on the wall,

Of all that deck the lanes, the fields, the bowers,
What parts the kindred tribes of weeds and flowers?
Sweet scent, or lovely form, or both combined,

Distinguish every cultivated kind:

The want of both denotes a meaner breed,

And Chloe from her garland picks the weed.
Thus hopes of every sort, whatever sect
Fsteem them, sow them, rear them, and protect,
If wild in nature, and not duly found,
Gethsemane in thy dear hallow'd ground,
That cannot bear the blaze of Scripture light,
Nor cheer the spirit, nor refresh the sight,
Nor animate the soul to Christian deeds,
(Oh, cast them from thee!) are weeds, arrar
Ethelred's house, the centre of six ways,
Diverging each from each, like equal rays,

Himself as bountiful as April rains,

Lord paramount of the surrounding plains,
Would give relief of bed and board to none
But guests that sought it in the appointed One,
And they might enter at his open door,

E'en till his spacious hall would hold no more.
He sent a servant forth by every road,

To sound his horn, and publish it abroad,

That all might mark-knight, menial, high, and low.
An ordinance it concern'd them much to know.

If, after all, some headstrong hardy lout
Would disobey, though sure to be shut out,
Could he with reason murmur at his case,
Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
No! the decree was just and without flaw;
And he, that made, had right to make the law;
His sovereign power and pleasure unrestrained,
The wrong was his who wrongfully complain'd.
Yét half mankind maintain a churlish strife
With Him, the Donor of eternal life,
Because the deed by which his love confirms
The largess he bestows, prescribes the terms.
Compliance with his will your lot ensures,
Accept it only, and the boon is yours.
And sure it is as kind to smile and give,
As with a frown to say, Do this, and live.
Love is not pedlar's trumpery bought and sold
He will give freely, or he will withhold;
His soul abhors a mercenary thought,
And him as deeply who abhors it not;
He stipulates, indeed, but merely this,
That man will freely take an unbought bliss,
Will trust him for a faithful generous part,
Nor set a price upon a willing heart.
Of all the ways that seem to promise fair,
To place you where his saints his presence share.
This only can; for this plain cause, express'd
In terms as plain, Himself has shut the rest.
But oh the strife, the bickering, and debate,
The tidings of unpurchased Heaven create!
The flirted fan, the bridle and the toss,
All speakers, yet all language at a loss.

From stuc toed walls smart arguments rebound;
And beaus, adept in every thing profound,
Die of disdain, or whistle off the sound.

Such is the clamour of rooks, daws, and kites,
The explosion of the levell'd tube excites,
Where mouldering abbey-walls o'erhang the glade,
And oaks coeval spread a mournful shade;
The screaming nations, hovering in mid air,
Loudly resent the stranger's freedom there,
And seem to warn him never to repeat
His bold intrusion on their dark retreat.
Adieu, Vinosa cries, ere yet he sips
The purple bumper, trembling at his lips,
Adieu to all morality! if grace

Make works a vain ingredient in the case.
The Christian hope is-Waiter, draw the cork-
If I mistake not-Blockhead! with a fork!
Without good works, whatever some may boast,
Mere folly and delusion-Sir, your toast.
My firm persuasion is, at least sometimes,

That Heaven will weigh man's virtues and his crimes
With nice attention, in a righteous scale,
And save or damn as these or those prevail.
I plant my foot upon this ground of trust,
And silence every fear with-God is just.
But if perchance on some dull drizzling day
A thought intrude, that says, or seems to say,
If thus the important cause is to be tried,
Suppose the beam should dip on the wrong side;
I soon recover from these needless frights,
And-God is merciful-sets all to rights.
Thus between justice, as my prime support,
And mercy, fled to as the last resort,

I glide and steal along with heaven in view,
And,-pardon me, the bottle stands with you.
I never will believe, the Colonel cries,
The sanguinary schemes that some devise,
Who make the good Creator on their plan
A being of less equity than man.

If appetite, or what divines call lust,

Which men comply with, e'en because they must,

Be punish'd with perdition, who is pure?
Then theirs, no doubt, as well as mine is sure.
If sentence of eternal pain belong

To every sudden slip and transient wrong,
Then Heaven enjoins the fallible and frail
A hopeless task, and damns them if they fail.
My creed (whatever some creed-makers mean
By Athanasian nonsense, or Nicene)—
My creed is, he is safe that does his best,
And death's a doom sufficient for the rest.
Right, says an Ensign; and, for aught I see,
Your faith and mine substantially agree;
The best of every man's performance here
Is to discharge the duties of his sphere.
A lawyer's dealings should be just and fair,
Honesty shines with great advantage there.
Fasting and prayer sit well upon a priest,
A decent caution and reserve at least.
A soldier's best is courage in the field,
With nothing here that wants to be conceal'd.
Manly deportment, gallant, easy, gay!
A hand as liberal as the light of day.
The soldier thus endow'd, who never shrinks,
Nor closets up his thoughts, whate'er he thinks,
Who scorns to do an injury by stealth,
Must go to heaven-and I must drink his health.
Sir Smug, he cries (for lowest at the board,
Just made fifth chaplain of his patron lord,
His shoulders witnessing, by many a shrug,
How much his feelings suffer'd, sat Sir Smug),
Your office is to winnow false from true;
Come, prophet, drink, and tell us what think you?
Sighing and smiling as he takes his glass,
Which they that woo preferment rarely pass,
Fallible man, the church-bred youth replies,
Is still found fallible, however wise;

And differing judgments serve but to declare,
That truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where.
Of all it ever was my lot to read,

Of critics now alive, or long since dead,"

The book of all the world that charm'd me most Was,-well-a-day, the title-page was lost;

The writer well remarks, a heart that knows
To take with gratitude what Heaven bestows,
With prudence always ready at our call,
To guide our use of it, is all in all.

Doubtless it is.-To which, of my own store,
I superadd a few essentials more;
But these, excuse the liberty I take,

I wave just now, for conversation's sake.-
Spoke like an oracle, they all exclaim,

And add Right Reverend to Smug's honour'd name.
And yet our lot is given us in a land,
Where busy arts are never at a stand;
Where Science points her telescopic eye,
Familiar with the wonders of the sky;
Where bold Inquiry diving out of sight,
Brings many a precious pearl of truth to light;
Where nought eludes the persevering quest
That fashion, taste, or luxury suggest.
But, above all, in her own light array'd.
See Mercy's grand Apocalypse display'd!
The sacred book no longer suffers wrong,
Bound in the fetters of an unknown tongue;
But speaks with plainness, art could never mend,
What simplest minds can soonest comprehend.
God gives the word, the preachers throng around,
Live from his lips, and spread the glorious sound
That sound bespeaks Salvation on her way,
The trumpet of a life-restoring day;

'Tis heard where England's Eastern glory shines,
And in the gulfs of her Cornubian mines.
And still it spreads. See Germany send forth
Her sons to pour it on the farthest north:
Fired with a zeal peculiar, they defy
The rage and rigour of a polar sky,
And plant successfully sweet Sharon's rose
On icy plains, and in eternal snows.

O bless'd within the enclosure of your rocks,
Nor herds have ye to boast, nor bleating flocks;
No fertilizing streams your fields divide,

That shew reversed the villas on their side;

* The Moravian Missionaries in Greenland.-See Krantz.