That while I trembling trace a work divine,
Fancy may ftand aloof from the design,
And light and shade and ev'ry stroke be thine.
If ever thou haft felt another's pain,
If ever when he figh'd, haft figh'd again,
If ever on thine eye-lid ftood the tear
That pity had engender'd, drop one here.
This man was happy-had the world's good word,
And with it ev'ry joy it can afford;
Friendship and love feem'd tenderly at ftrife,
Which most should fweeten his untroubl'd life;
Politely learn'd, and of a gentle race,
Good-breeding and good fenfe gave all a grace,
And whether at the toilette of the fair
He laugh'd and trifled, made him welcome there;
Or, if in mafculine debate he fhar'd,
Infur'd him mute attention and regard.
Alas how chang'd! expreffive of his mind,
His
eyes are funk, arms folded, head reclin'd,
Those awful fyllables, hell, death, and fin, Though whisper'd, plainly tell what works within,
That conscience there performs her proper part,
And writes a doomsday sentence on his heart;
Forfaking, and forfaken of all friends,
He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends,
Hard tafk! for one who lately knew no care,
And harder still as learnt beneath despair:
His hours no longer pass unmark'd away,
A dark importance faddens every day,
He hears the notice of the clock, perplex'd,
And cries, perhaps eternity ftrikes next:
Sweet mufic is no longer mufic here,
And laughter founds like madness in his ear,
His grief the world of all her pow'r difarms,
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 pow'r belongs to God.
As when a felon whom his country's laws
Have justly doom'd for fome atrocious caufe,
Expects in dark nefs and heart-chilling fears,
The shameful clofe of all his mif-fpent years,
If chance, on heavy pinions flowly borne,
A tempeft ufher in the dreaded morn,
Upon his dungeon walls the lightnings play,
The thunder feems to fummon 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 loft,
When Hope, long ling'ring, at laft yields the ghoft,
The found of pardon pierce his ftartled 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 fuperior joy, that much outweighs
The comfort of a few poor added days,
Invades, poffeffes, and o'erwhelms the foul
Of him whom hope has with a touch made whole:
'Tis heav'n, all heav'n defcending on the wings Of the glad legions of the King of Kings;
'Tis more 'tis God diffus'd through ev'ry part,
'Tis God himself triumphant in his heart.
Oh welcome now, the fun's once hated light,
His noon-day beams were never half fo bright,
Not kindred minds alone are call'd t' employ
Their hours, their days in lift'ning to his joy,
Unconscious nature, all that he furveys,
Rocks, groves and ftreams muft join him in his praise.
These are thy glorious works, eternal truth,
The fcoff of wither'd age and beardless youth,
These move the cenfure and illib'ral grin
Of fools that hate thee and delight in fin:
But thefe fhall laft when night has quench'd the pole,
And heav'n is all departed as a scroll:
And when, as juftice has long fince decreed,
This earth fhall blaze, and a new world fucceed,
Then these thy glorious works, and they that share That Hope which can alone exclude defpair,
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 fong)
Whofe lines uniting, by an honeft art,
The faithful monitors and poets part,
Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind,
And while they captivate, inform the mind.
Still happier, if he till a thankful foil,
And fruit reward his honourable toil:
But happier far who comfort thofe that wait
To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow'd gate;
Their language fimple as their manners meek,
No fhining ornaments have they to seek,
Nor labour they, nor time nor talents wafte
In forting flowers to fuit a fickle taste;
But while they fpeak the wifdom of the skies,
Which art can only darken and difguife,
Th' abundant harveft, recompence divine,
Repays their work-the gleaning only, mine.
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