The

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
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has-little understanding and no wit,
Receives no praise; but though her lot be such,
(Toilsome and indigent) she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;
And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

O happy peasant! O unhappy bard!
His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward;
He praised perhaps for ages yet to come,
She never heard of half a mile from home:
He lost in errors his vain heart prefers,
She safe in the simplicity of hers.

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,

and want,

That endless bliss (how strange soe'er it seem);
In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam.
'Tis open, and ye cannot enter—why?
Because ye will not, Conyers would reply-
And he says much, that many may dispute
And cavil at with ease, but none refute.
O bless'd effect of

penury
The seed sown there, how vigorous is the plant!
No soil like poverty for growth divine,
As leanest land supplies the richest wine.
Earth gives too little, giving only bread,
To nourish pride, or turn the weakest head;
To them the sounding jargon of the schools
Seems what it is -a cap and bells for fools;
The light they walk by, kindled from above,
Shows them the shortest way to life and love:
They, strangers to the controversial field,
Where deists, always foild, yet scorn to yield,
And never check’d by what impedes the wise,
Believe, rush forward, and possess the prize.

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,

her own,

Where, in his own oracular abode,
Dwelt visibly the light-creating God;
But made long since, like Babylon of old,
A den of mischiefs never to be told:
And she once mistress of the realms around,
Now scatter’d wide and no where to be found,
As soon shall rise and reascend the throne,
By native
power and

energy
As Nature at her own peculiar cost,
Restore to man the glories he has lost.
Go-bid the winter cease to chill the year,
Replace the wandering comet in his sphere,
Then boast (but wait for that unhoped for hour)
The self-restoring arm of human power.
But what is man in his own proud esteem ?
Hear him-himself the poet and the theme:
A monarch clothed with majesty and awe,
His mind his kingdom, and his will his law,
Grace in his mien, and glory in his eyes,
Supreme on Earth, and worthy of the skies,
Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod,
And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a god!

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,
And teach him notions splendid as themselves:
The Bible only stands neglected there,
Though that of all most worthy of his care;
And, like an infant troublesome awake,
Is left to sleep for peace and quiet sake.

What shall the man deserve of humankind,
Whose happy skill and industry combined
Shall prove (what argument could never yet)
The Bible an imposture and a cheat?
The praises of the libertine profess’d,
The worst of men, and curses of the best.
Where should the living, weeping o'er his woes,
The dying, trembling at the awful close,
Where the betray'd, forsaken, and oppress'd,
The thousands whom the world forbids to rest,
Where should they find (those comforts at an end
The Scripture yields), or hope to find, a friend?
Sorrow might muse herself to madness then,
And, seeking exile from the sight of men,
Bury herself in solitude profound,
Grow frantic with her pangs, and bite the ground.
Thus often Unbelief, growń sick of life,
Flies to the tempting pool, or felon knife.
The jury meet, the coroner is short,
And lunacy the verdict of the court;
Reverse the sentence, let the truth be known,
Such lunacy is ignorance alone:
They knew not, what some bishops may not know,
That Scripture is the only cure of woe:
That field of promise, how it flings abroad
Its odour o’er the Christian's thorny road!
The soul, reposing on assured relief,
Feels herself happy amidst all her grief,