Be loudest in their praise who do no more.
Yet what can fatire, whether grave or gay?
It may correct a foible, may chastise
The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress,
Retrench a fword-blade, or difplace a patch;
But where are its fublimer trophies found?
What vice has it fubdu'd? whofe heart reclaim'd
By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform?
Alas! Leviathan is not fo tam'd:

Laugh'd at, he laughs again; and, ftricken hard,
Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales,

That fear no difcipline of human hands.

The pulpit, therefore (and I name it fill'd With folemn awe, that bids me well beware With what intent I touch that holy thing)— The pulpit (when the fat'rift has at laft, Strutting and vap'ring in an empty fchool, Spent all his force and made no profelyte)I fay the pulpit (in the fober ufe

Of its legitimate, peculiar pow'rs)

Muft ftand acknowledg'd, while the world fhall ftand,

The most important and effectual guard,

Support, and ornament, of virtue's caufe.

There ftands the meffenger of truth: there stands
The legate of the skies!-His theme divine,

His office facred, his credentials clear.
By him the violated law fpeaks out

Its thunders; and by him, in ftrains as sweet
As angels use, the gospel whispers peace.
He stablishes the strong, reftores the weak,
Reclaims the wand'rer, binds the broken heart,
And, arm'd himself in panoply complete
Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms,
Bright as his own, and trains by ev'ry rule
Of holy discipline, to glorious war,

The facramental host of God's elect!

Are all fuch teachers?-would to heav'n all were!
But hark—the doctor's voice!--faft wedg'd between
Two empirics he stands, and with fwoln cheeks
Infpires the news, his trumpet. Keener far
Than all invective is his bold harangue,
While through that public organ of report
He hails the clergy; and, defying fhame,
Announces to the world his own and theirs!
He teaches thofe to read, whom schools dismiss'd,
And colleges, untaught; fells accent, tone,
And emphafis in fcore, and gives to pray'r
Th' adagio and andante it demands.

He grinds divinity of other days

Down into modern ufe; transforms old print
To zig-zag manufcript, and cheats the eyes

Of gall'ry critics by a thousand arts.

Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware?

Oh, name it not in Gath!-it cannot be,

That grave and learned clerks fhould need fuch aid.
He doubtlefs is in fport, and does but droll,
Affuming thus a rank unknown before-
Grand catarer and dry-nurse of the church!

I venerate the man whofe heart is warm, Whofe hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof

That he is honeft in the facred caufe.

To fuch I render more than mere refpect,
Whofe actions fay that they refpect themselves.
But, loofe in morals, and in manners vain,
In converfation frivolous, in dress

Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse;
Frequent in park with lady at his fide,
Ambling and prattling fcandal as he goes;
But rare at home, and never at his books,
Or with his pen, fave when he fcrawls a card;
Conftant at routs, familiar with a round
Of ladyfhips-a ftranger to the poor;
Ambitious of preferment for its gold,
And well prepar'd by ignorance and floth,
By infidelity and love of world,

To make God's work a finecure; a flave
To his own pleasures and his patron's pride:
From fuch apostles, oh, ye mitred heads,
Preferve the church! and lay not careless hands
On fculls that cannot teach, and will not learn.

Would I defcribe a preacher, such as Paul, Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and ownPaul fhould himself direct me, I would trace His mafter-strokes, and draw from his defign. I would exprefs him fimple, grave, fincere; In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, And plain in manner; decent, folemn, chaste, And natural in gefture; much imprefs'd Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too; affectionate in look,

And tender in address, as well becomes

A meffenger of grace to guilty men.

Behold the picture !—Is it like ?—Like whom?
The things that mount the roftrum with a skip,
And then skip down again; pronounce a text;
Cry-hem; and, reading what they never wrote,
Juft fifteen minutes, huddle up their work,
And with a well-bred whifper close the scene!

In man or woman, but far moft in man,
And most of all in man that minifters
And ferves the altar, in my foul I loath

All affectation. "Tis my perfect scorn;
Object of my implacable difguft.

What!—will a man play tricks, will he indulge
A filly fond conceit of his fair form,
And juft proportion, fashionable mien,
And pretty face, in presence of his God?
Or will he feek to dazzle me with tropes,
As with the di'mond on his lily hand,
And play his brilliant parts before my eyes,
When I am hungry for the bread of life?
He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and fhames
His noble office, and, instead of truth,
Difplaying his own beauty, starves his flock!
Therefore avaunt all attitude, and stare,
And fart theatric, practis'd at the glafs!
I feek divine fimplicity in him

Who handles things divine; and all befide,
Though learn'd with labour, and though much admir'd
By curious eyes and judgments ill-inform'd,
To me is odious as the nafal twang
Heard at conventicle, where worthy men,
Misled by custom, ftrain celestial themes
Through the preft noftril, fpectacle-bestrid.