And liberty, and oft-times honour too, To peculators of the public gold; That thieves at home muft hang; but he that puts The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. And knees and haffocks are well-nigh divorced. God made the country, and man made the town. What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts, That can alone make sweet the bitter draught, That life holds out to all, fhould most abound And leaft be threatened in the fields and groves? Poffefs ye therefore, ye who, borne about In chariots and fedans, know no fatigue But that of idlenefs, and tafte no scenes But fuch as art contrives, poffefs ye ftill Your element; there only can ye shine; There only minds like yours can do no harm. It plagues your country. Folly fuch as your's, Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan, Has made, what enemies could never have done, Our arch of empire, ftedfaft but for you, A mutilated structure, foon to fall. Reflections suggested by the conclusion of the former book.-Peace among the nations recommended on the ground of their common fellowship in sorrow.— Prodigies enumerated-Sicilian earthquakes.-Man rendered obnoxious to these calamities by sin.—God the agent in them.-The philosophy that stops at secondary causes reproved.-Our own late miscarriages accounted for.-Satirical notice taken of our trips to Fontainbleau.-But the pulpit, not satire, the proper engine of reformation.-The Reverend Advertiser of engraved sermons.—Petit-maitre parson.-The good preacher.—Pictures of a theatrical clerical coxcomb.-Story-tellers and jesters in the pulpit reproved.-Apostrophe to popular applause. -Retailers of ancient philosophy expostulated with. -Sum of the whole matter.-Effects of sacerdotal mismanagement on the laity―Their folly and extravagance.—The mischiefs of profusión.—Profusion itself, with all its consequent evils, ascribed, as to its principal cause, to the want of discipline in the universities. THE TASK. BOOK II. THE TIME-PIECE. OH for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of fhade, Might never reach me more. My ear is pained, Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is filled. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is fevered as the flax, That falls afunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not coloured like his own; and having power |