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And still it spreads. See Germany send forth
Her sons

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 show reversed the villas on their side; No

groves have ye; no cheerful sound of bird, Or voice of turtle, in your land is heard; Nor grateful eglantine regales the smell Of those that walk at evening where ye

dwell: But Winter, arm’d with terrors here unknown, Sits absolute on his unshaken throne; Piles

up

his stores amidst the frozen waste, And bids the mountains he has built stand fast; Beckons the legions of his storms away From happier scenes, to make your land a prey; Proclaims the soil a conquest he has won, And scorns to share it with the distant Sun.

Yet Truth is yours, remote unenvied isle! And Peace, the genuine offspring of her smile; The Pride of letter'd Ignorance, that binds In chains of error our accomplish'd minds, That decks, with all the splendour of the true, A false religion, is unknown to you. Nature indeed vouchsafes for our delight The sweet vicissitudes of day and night; Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer Field, fruit, and flower, and every creature here;

i The Moravian missionaries in Greenland. See Krantz.

But brighter beams than his who fires the skies, Have risen at length on your admiring eyes, That shoot into

your

darkest caves the day, From which our nicer optics turn away.

Here see the’encouragementGrace gives to vice, The dire effect of mercy without price! What were they? what some fools are made by art They were by nature, atheists, head and heart. The gross idolatry blind heathens teach Was too refined for them, beyond their reach. Not e'en the glorious Sun, though men revere The monarch most that seldom will appear, And though his beams, that quicken where they

shine, May claim some right to be esteem'd divine, Not e'en the Sun, desirable as rare, Could bend one knee, engage one votary there; They were, what base credulity believes True Christians are, dissemblers, drunkards,

thieves. The full-gorged savage, at bis nauseous feast Spent half the darkness, and snored out the rest, Was one whom justice, on an equal plan Denouncing death upon the sins of man, Might almost have indulged with an escape, Chargeable only with a human shape:

What are they now!--Morality may spare Her grave concern, her kind suspicions there: The wretch, who once sang wildly, danced and

laugh'd, And suck'd in dizzy madness with his draught, Has wept a silent flood, reversed his ways, Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays,

Feeds sparingly, communicates his store,
Abhors the craft he boasted of before,
And he that stole has learn’d to steal no more.
Well spake the prophet, Let the desert sing,
Where sprang the thorn the spiry fir shall spring,
And where unsightly and rank thistles grew
Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew.

Go now, and with important tone demand
On what foundation virtue is to stand,
If self-exalting claims be turn'd adrift,
And grace be grace indeed, and life a gift:
The poor reclaim'd inhabitant, his eyes
Glistening at once with pity and surprise,
Amazed that shadows should obscure the sight
Of one, whose birth was in a land of light,
Shall answer, Hope, sweet Hope has set me free,
And made all pleasures else mere dross to me.

These, amidst scenes as waste as if denied
The common care that waits on all beside,
Wild as if Nature there, void of all good,
Play'd only gambols in a frantic mood
(Yet charge not heavenly skill with having plann'd
A plaything world, unworthy of his hand);
Can see his love, though secret evil lurks
In all we touch, stamp'd plainly on his works;
Deem life a blessing with its numerous woes,
Nor

spurn away a gift a God bestows.
Hard task indeed o'er arctic seas to roam!
Is hope exotic? grows it not at home?
Yes, but an object, bright as orient morn,
May press the eye too closely to be borne;
A distant virtue we can all confess,
It hurts our pride, and moves our envy,

less,

Leuconomus (beneath well sounding Greek I slur a name a poet must not speak) Stood pilloried on infamy's high stage, And bore the pelting scorn of half an age; The

very butt of slander, and the blot For every

dart that malice ever shot. The man that mention'd him at once dismiss'd All mercy from his lips, and sneer'd and hiss'd; His crimes were such as Sodom never knew, And Perjury stood up to swear all true; His aim was mischief, and his zeal pretence, His speech rebellion against common sense; A knave, when tried on honesty's plain rule, And when by that of reason, a mere fool; The world's best comfort was, his doom was pass’d; Die when he might, he must be damn’d at last.

Now, Truth, perform thine office; waft aside The curtain drawn by Prejudice and Pride, Reveal (the man is dead) to wondering eyes This more than monster in his proper guise.

He loved the world that hated him: the tear That dropp'd upon his Bible was sincere: Assail'd by scandal and the tongue of strife, His only answer was a blameless life; And hé that forged, and he that threw the dart, Had each a brother's interest in his heart. Paul's love of Christ, and steadiness unbribed, Were copied close in him, and well transcribed. He follow'd Paul; his zeal a kindred flame, His apostolic charity the same. Like him, cross'd cheerfully tempestuous seas, Forsaking country, kindred, friends, and ease; Like him, he labour’d, and like him content To bear it, suffer'd shame where'er he went.

Blush, Calumny; and write upon his tomb,
If honest Eulogy can spare thee room,
Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies,
Which, aim'd at him, have pierced the offended

skies;
And say, Blot out my sin, confess’d, deplored,
Against thine image in thy saint, O Lord!
No blinder bigot, I maintain it still,
Than he who must have pleasure, come what will:
He laughs, whatever weapon Truth may draw,
And deems her sharp artillery mere straw.
Scripture indeed is plain; but God and he
On Scripture ground are sure to disagree;
Some wiser rule must teach him how to live
Than this his Maker has seen fit to give;
Supple and flexible as Indian cane,
To take the bend his appetites ordain;
Contrived to suit frail nature's crazy case,
And reconcile his lusts with saving grace,
By this, with nice precision of design,
He draws upon life's map a zigzag line,
That shows how far 'tis safe to follow sin,
And where his danger and God's wrath begin.
By this he forms, as pleased he sports along,
His well poised estimate of right and wrong;
And finds the modish manners of the day,
Though loose, as harmless as an infant's play.

Build by whatever plan caprice decrees, With what materials, on what ground you please; Your hope shall stand unblamed, perhaps admired, If not that hope the Scripture has required, The strange conceits, vain projects, and wild With which hypocrisy for ever teems (dreams, (Though other follies strike the public eye, And raise a laugh), pass unmolested by;

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