« הקודםהמשך »
poor are near at hand, the charge is small, A slight gratuity atones for all. For though the pope has lost his interest here, And pardons are not sold as once they were, No papist-more desirous to compound, Than some grave sinners upon English ground. That plea refuted, other quirks they seekMercy is infinite, and man is weak; The future shall obliterate the past, And Heaven no doubt shall be their home at last.
Come then-a still small wbisper in your earHe has no hope, who never had a fear; And he that never doubted of his state, He may perhapsperhaps he may—too late. The path to bliss abounds with many a snare; Learning is one, and wit, however rare. The Frenchman, first in literary fame, (Mention him if you please. Voltaire !—The same.) With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied, Lived long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and died; The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew; An infidel in health, but what when sick? 0-then a text would touch him at the quick; View him at Paris in his last career, Surrounding throngs the demigod revere; Exalted on his pedestal of pride, And fumed with frankincense on every side, He begs their flattery with his latest breath, And, smother'd in't at last, is praised to death.
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, Pillow and bobbins all her little store; Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay, Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
O happy peasant! O unhappy bard!
Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound In science, win one inch of heavenly ground. And is it not a mortifying thought, The poor should gain it, and the rich should not? No-the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget One pleasure lost, lose Heaven without regret; Regret would rouse them, and give birth to prayer, Prayer would add faith, and faith would fix them Not that the Former of us all in this, [there. Or aught he does, is govern’d by caprice: The supposition is replete with sin, And bears the brand of blasphemy burn’d in. Not so—the silver trumpet's heavenly call Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all: Kings are invited, and would kings obey, No slaves on earth more welcome were than they: But royalty, nobility, and state Are such a dead preponderating weight,
That endless bliss (how strange soe'er it seem);
Envy, ye great, the dull unletter'd small: Ye have much cause for envy—but not all. We boastsome rich ones, whom the Gospel sways, And one who wears a coronet and prays; Like gleanings of an olive tree they show Here and there one upon the topmost bough.
How readily, upon the Gospel plan, That question has its answer -What is man? Sinful and weak, in every sense a wretch: An instrument, whose chords upon the stretch, And strain’d to the last screw that he can bear, Yield only discord in his Maker's ear: Once the bless'd residence of truth divine, Glorious as Solyma's interior shrine,
Where, in his own oracular abode,
So sings he,charm’d with his own mind and form, The song magnificent—the theme a worm! Himself so much the source of his delight, His Maker has no beauty in his sight. See where he sits comtemplative and fix’d, Pleasure and wonder in his features mix'd: His passions tamed and all at his control, How perfect the composure of his soul! Complacency has breathed a gentle gale O’er all his thoughts, and swell’d his easy
sail : His books well trimm’d and in the gayest style, Like regimented coxcombs rank and file,
Adorn his intellects as well as shelves,
What shall the man deserve of humankind,