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But if, unblamable in word or thought,
A man arise, a man whom God has taught,
With all Elijah's dignity of tone,
And all the love of the beloved John,
To storm the citadels they build in air,
And smite the’untemper'd wall; 'tis death to spare.
To sweep away all refuges of lies
And place, instead of quirks themselves devise,
LAMA SABACTHANI before their eyes;
Το

prove that without Christ all gain is loss, All hope despair, that stands not on his cross; Except the few his God may have impress’d, A tenfold frenzy seizes all the rest.

Throughout mankind, the Christian kind atleast, There dwells a consciousness in every breast, That folly ends where genuine hope begins, And he that finds his Heaven must lose his sins. Nature opposes with her utmost force This riving stroke, this ultimate divorce; And, while religion seems to be her view, Hates with a deep sincerity the true: For this, of all that ever influenced man, Since Abel worship’d, or the world began, This only spares no lust, admits no plea, But makes him, if at all, completely free: Sounds forth the signal, as she mounts her car, Of an eternal, universal war; Rejects all treaty, penetrates all wiles, (smiles; Scorns with the same indifference frowns and Drives through the realms of Sin, where Riot reels, And grinds his crown beneath her burning wheels! Hence all that is in man, pride, passion, art, Powers of the mind, and feelings of the heart, Insensible of Truth's almighty charms, Starts at her first approach, and sounds to arms!

While Bigotry, with well dissembled fears,
His eyes shut fast, his fingers in his ears,
Mighty to parry and push by God's word
With senseless noise, his argument the sword,
Pretends a zeal for godliness and grace,
And spits abhorrence in the Christian's face.

Parent of Hope, immortal Truth! make known
Thy deathless wreaths, and triumphs all thine own:
The silent progress of thy power is such,
Thy means so feeble, and despised so much,
That few believe the wonders thou hast wrought,
And none can teach them but whom thou hast

taught. O, see me sworn to serve thee, and command A painter's skill into a poet's hand, That, while I trembling trace a work divine, Fancy may stand aloof from the design, And light, and shade, and

every

stroke be thine. If ever thou hast felt another's pain, If ever when he sigh’d, hast sigh'd again, If ever on thy eyelid stood the tear That pity had engender'd, drop one here. This man was happy—had the world's good word, And with it every joy it can afford; Friendship and love seem'd tenderly at strife, Which most should sweeten his untroubled life; Politely learn’d, and of a gentle race, Good breeding and good sense gave all a grace, And whether at the toilet of the fair He laugh’d and trifled, made him welcome there, Or if in masculine debate he shared, Ensured him mute attention and regard. Alas how changed! Expressive of his mind, His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head reclined;

Those awful syllables, Hell, death, and sin,
Though whisper'd plainly, tell what works within ;
That Conscience there performs her proper part,
And writes a doomsday sentence on his heart;
Forsaking, and forsaken of all friends,
He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends;
Hard task! for one who lately knew no care,
And harder still as learn'd beneath despair;
His hours no longer pass unmark'd away,
A dark importance saddens every day;
He hears the notice of the clock, perplex'd,
And cries, perhaps eternity strikes next;
Sweet music is no longer music here,
And laughter sounds like madness in his ear:
His grief the world of all her power disarms,
Wine has no taste, and beauty has no charms:
God's holy word, once trivial in his view,
Now by the voice of his experience true,
Seems as it is, the fountain whence alone
Must spring that hope he pants to make his own.

Now let the bright reverse be known abroad;
Say man's a worm, and power belongs to God.
As when a felon, whom his country's laws
Have justly doom'd for some atrocious cause,
Expects in darkness and heart-chilling fears,
The shameful close of all his mispent years;
If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne,
A tempest usher in the dreaded morn,
Upon his dungeon walls the lightning play,
The thunder seems to summon him away,
The warder at the door his key applies,
Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies:
If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost,
When hope, long lingering, at last yields the ghost

The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear,
He drops at once his fetters and his fear;
A transport glows in all he looks and speaks,
And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks;
Joy, far superior joy, that much outweighs
The comfort of a few poor added days,
Invades, possesses, and o’erwhelms the soul
Of him whom hope has with a touch made whole.
"Tis Heaven, all Heaven descending on the wings
Of the glad legions of the King of kings;
"Tis more _'tis God diffused through every part,
'Tis God himself triumphant in his heart.
O, welcome now the sun's once hated light,
His noonday beams were never half so bright.
Not kindred minds alone are callid to' employ
Their hours, their days, in listening to his joy;
Unconscious nature, all that he surveys,
Rocks, groves, and streams must join him in

his praise.
These are thy glorious works, eternal Truth,
The scoff of wither'd age and beardless youth;
These move the censure and illiberal grin
Of fools that hate thee and delight in sin:
But these shall last when night has quench'd the
And Heaven is all departed as a scroll. [pole,
And when, as Justice has long since decreed,
This earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed,
Then these thy glorious works, and they who share
That hope, which can alone exclude despair,
Shall live exempt from weakness and decay,
The brightest wonders of an endless day.

Happy the bard (if that fair name belong To him that blends no fable with his song), VOL. I.

м

Whose lines uniting, by an honest art,
The faithful monitor's and poet's part,
Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind,
And, while they captivate, inform the mind:
Still happier, if he till a thankful soil,
And fruit reward his honourable toil;
But happier far who comfort those that wait
To hear plain truth at Judah’s hallow'd gate:
Their language simple, as their manners meek,
No shining ornaments have they to seek;
Nor labour they, nor time nor talents waste,
In sorting flowers to suit a fickle taste;
But while they speak the wisdom of the skies,
Which art can only darken and disguise,
The abundant harvest, recompense divine,
Repays their work—the gleaning only mine.

CHARITY.

Quo nihil majus meliusve terris
Fata donavêre, bonique divi:
Nec dabunt, quamvis redeant in aurum
Tempora priscum. Hor. Lib. 4. Od. 2.

FAIREST and foremost of the train that wait On man's most dignified and happiest state, Whether we name thee Charity or Love, Chief grace below, and all in all above, Prosper (I press thee with a powerful plea) A task I venture on, impellid by thee:

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