And aims them at the fhield of truth again.
The veil is rent, rent too by prieftly hands,
That hides divinity from mortal eyes;
And all the myfteries to faith propos'd,
Infulted and traduc'd, are caft aside,
As useless, to the moles and to the bats.
They now are deem'd the faithful, and are prais'd,
Who, conftant only in rejecting thee,
Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal,
And quit their office for their error's fake.
Blind, and in love with darknefs! yet ev❜n these
Worthy, compar'd with fycophants, who knee
Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man!
So fares thy church. But how thy church may
The world takes little thought. Who will may preach
And what they will. All paftors are alike
To wand'ring sheep, refolv'd to follow none.
Two gods divide them all-Pleasure and Gain;
For thefe they live, they facrifice to thefe,
And in their fervice wage perpetual war
With confcience and with thee. Luft in their heart
And mifchief in their hands, they roam the earth
To prey upon each other; ftubborn, fierce,
High-minded, foaming out their own difgrace.
Thy prophets speak of fuch; and, noting dows
The features of the last degen'rate times,
Exhibit ev'ry lineament of these.
Come then, and, added to thy many crowns,
Receive yet one, as radiant as the rest,
Due to thy last and most effectual work,
Thy word fulfill'd, the conquest of a world !
He is the happy man, whose life ev'n now
Shows fomewhat of that happier life to come;
Who, doom'd to an obfcure but tranquil state,
Is pleas'd with it, and, were he free to choose,
Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit '
Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith,
Prepare for happinefs; befpeak him one
Content indeed to fojourn while he must
Below the fkies, but having there his home.
The world o'erlooks him in her busy fearch
Of objects, more illuftrious in her view;
And, occupied as earnestly as she,
Though more fublimely, he o'erlooks the world.
She scorns his pleasures, for fhe knows them not;
He seeks not her's, fór hé has prov'd them vain.
He cannot skim the ground like fummer birds
Pursuing gilded flies; and fuch he deems
Her honours, her emoluments, her joys.
Therefore in contemplation is his blifs,
Whose pow'r is fuch, that whom the lifts from earth
She makes familiar with a heav'n unseen,
And shows him glories yet to be reveal'd.
Not flothful he, though feeming unemploy'd,
And cenfur'd oft as useless. Stilleft ftreams
Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird
That flutters leaft is longeft on the wing.
Afk him, indeed, what trophies he has rais'd,
Or what achievements of immortal fame
He purposes, and he fhall anfwer-None.
His warfare is within. There unfatigu'd
His fervant fpirit labours. There he fights,
And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself,
And never with'ring wreaths, compar'd with which
The laurels that a Cæfar reaps are weeds.
Perhaps the felf-approving haughty world,
That as fhe fweeps him with her whistling filks
Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if the fee,
Deems him a cypher in the works of God,
Receives advantage from his noiseless hours,
Of which the little dreams. Perhaps the owes
Her funshine and her rain, her blooming fpring
And plenteous harvest, to the pray'r he makes,
When, Ifaac like, the folitary faint
Walks forth to meditate at even-tide,
And think on her, who thinks not for herself.
Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concerns
Of little worth, an idler in the best,
If, author of no mifchief and fome good,
He feek his proper happiness by means
That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine.
Nor, though he tread the fecret path of life,
Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease,
Account him an incumbrance on the state,
Receiving benefits, and rend'ring none.
His sphere though humble, if that humble Sphere
Shine with his fair example, and though fmall
His influence, if that influence all be spent
In foothing forrow and in quenching strife,
In aiding helpless indigence, in works
From which at least a grateful few derive
Some taste of comfort in a world of wo,
Then let the fupercilious great confefs
He ferves his country, recompenfes well
The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine
He fits fecure, and in the fcale of life
Holds no ignoble, though a flighted, place.
The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen,
Must drop indeed the hope of public praise ;
But he may boast what few that win it can
That, if his country ftand not by his skill,
At least his follies have not wrought her fall.
Polite refinement offers him in vain
Her golden tube, through which a fenfual world Draws grofs impurity, and likes it well,
The neat conveyance hiding all th' offence.
Not that he peevishly rejects a mode
Because that world adopts it.
The stamp and clear impreffion of good fenfe,
And be not coftly more than of true worth,
He puts it on, and, for decorum fake,
Can wear it e'en as gracefully as fhe.
She judges of refinement by the eye,
He by the teft of conscience, and a heart
Not foon deceiv'd; aware that what is base
No polish can make fterling; and that vice,
Though well perfum'd and elegantly drefs'd
Like an unburied carcafe trick'd with flow'rs,
Is but a garnish'd nuifance, fitter far
For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.
So life glides fmoothly and by stealth away,
More golden than that age of fabled gold
Renown'd in ancient song; not vex'd with care
Or ftain'd with guilt, beneficent, approv'd
Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.
So glide my life away! and fo at last,
My share of duties decently fulfill'd,
May some disease, not tardy to perform
Its deftin'd office, yet with gentle stroke
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