And fights again; but finds his best effay
A prefage ominous, portending ftill
Its own dishonour by a worse relapse.
Till nature, unavailing nature, foil'd
So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt,
Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now
Takes part with appetite, and pleads the caufe,
Perversely, which of late fhe fo condemn'd;
With fhallow fhifts and old devices, worn
And tatter'd in the fervice of debauch,
Cov'ring his fhame from his offended fight.
"Hath God indeed giv'n appetites to man, "And stor❜d the earth so plenteously with means "To gratify the hunger of his wish;
"And doth he reprobate, and will he damn, "The use of his own bounty? making first "So frail a kind, and then enacting laws "So ftrict, that lefs than perfect must despair? "Falfehood! which whoso but suspects of truth "Dishonours God, and makes a flave of man. "Do they themselves, who undertake for hire "The teacher's office, and difpenfe at large "Their weekly dole of edifying strains, "Attend to their own mufic? have they faith "In what with such folemnity of tone
"And gefture they propound to our belief? "Nay-conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice "Is but an instrument, on which the priest "May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, "The unequivocal authentic deed,
"We find found argument, we read the heart."
Such reas'nings (if that name muft needs belong
T'excufes in which reafon has no part)
Serve to compose a spirit well inclin'd
To live on terms of amity with vice,
And fin without difturbance. Often urg'd,
(As often as libidinous difcourfe
Exhausted, he resorts to folemn themes
Of theological and grave import)
They gain at laft his unreferv'd affent;
Till, harden'd his heart's temper in the forge
Of luft, and on the anvil of defpair,
He flights the ftrokes of conscience. Nothing moves,
Or nothing much, his conftancy in ill;
Vain tamp'ring has but fofter'd his disease ;
'Tis defp'rate, and he fleeps the fleep of death!
Hafte now, philosopher, and fet him free.
Charm the deaf ferpent wifely. Make him hear
Of rectitude and fitnefs, moral truth
How lovely, and the moral fenfe how fure,
Confulted and obey'd, to guide his fteps
Directly to the FIRST AND ONLY FAIR.
Spare not in fuch a caufe. Spend all the pow'rs
Of rant and rhapfody in virtue's praise :
Be moft fublimely good, verbofely grand,
And with poetic trappings grace thy profe,
Till it out-mantle all the pride of verse.—
Ah, tinkling cimbal, and high-founding brafs,
Smitten in vain! fuch mufic cannot charm
Th' eclipfe that intercepts truth's heavenly beam,
And chills and darkens a wide-wand'ring foul.
The STILL SMALL VOICE is wanted. He must speak,
Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect;
Who calls for things that are not, and they come.
Grace makes the flave a freeman. 'Tis a change
That turns to ridicule the turgid fpeech
And ftately tone of moralifts, who boast,
As if, like him of fabulous renown,
They had indeed ability to fmooth
The fhag of favage nature, and were each
An Orpheus, and omnipotent in fong:
But transformation of apoftate man
From fool to wife, from earthly to divine,
Is work for Him that made him. He alone,
And he by means in philofophic eyes
Trivial and worthy of difdain, atchieves
The wonder; humanizing what is brute
In the loft kind, extracting from the lips
Of afps their venom, overpow'ring ftrength.
By weakness, and hoftility by love.
Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's caufe Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deferve, Receive proud recompenfe. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. Th' hiftoric mufe, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest times; and sculpture, in her turn, Gives bond in stone and ever-during brafs To guard them, and t' immortalize her trust: But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, To thofe who, posted at the shrine of Truth, Have fall'n in her defence. A patriot's blood, Well spent in fuch a ftrife, may earn indeed, And for a time infure, to his lov'd land The fweets of liberty and equal laws; But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, And win it with more pain. Their blood is fhed In confirmation of the nobleft claimOur claim to feed upon immortal Truth, To walk with God, to be divinely free, Te foar, and to anticipate the skies!
Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown
Till perfecution dragg'd them into fame,
And chas'd them up to heav'n. Their afhes flew
-No marble tells us whither. With their names
No bard embalms and fanctifies his fong:
And hiftory, fo warm on meaner themes,
Is cold on this. She execrates indeed
The tyranny
that doom'd them to the fire,
But gives the glorious suff'rers little praise
He is the freeman whom the truth makes free,
And all are flaves befide. There's not a chain
That hellish foes, confed'rate for his harm,
Can wind around him, but he cafts it off
With as much eafe as Samfon his green wyths.
He looks abroad into the varied field
Of nature, and, though poor perhaps compar'd
With those whofe manfions glitter in his fight,
Calls the delighful fcenery all his own.
His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And the refplendent rivers. His t' enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel,
But who, with filial confidence infpir'd,
Can lift to heav'n an unprefumptuous eye,
And fmiling fay-" My Father made them all!"
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