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And in that charter reads with fparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

Oh happy peasant! Oh unhappy bard!
His the mere tinfel, her's the rich reward;
He prais'd perhaps for ages yet to come,
She never heard of half a mile from home;
He loft in errors his vain heart prefers,
She fafe in the fimplicity of hers.

Not many wife, rich, noble, or profound
In fcience, win one inch of heav'nly ground:
And is it not a mortifying thought

The poor fhould gain it, and the rich fhould not? No-the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget

One pleasure loft, lose heav'n without regret; Regret would roufe them and give birth to pray'r,

Pray'r would add faith, and faith would fix them there.

Not that the Former of us all in this, Or aught he does, is govern'd by caprice, The fuppofition is replete with fin,

And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in.

Not

Not fo the filver trumpet's heav'nly call,
Sounds for the poor, but founds alike for all;
Kings are invited, and would kings obey,

No flaves on earth more welcome were than they:
But royalty, nobility, and ftate,

Are fuch a dead preponderating weight,
That endless blifs (how ftrange foe'er it seem)
In counterpoife, flies up and kicks the beam.
'Tis open and ye cannot enter-why?
Because ye will not, Conyers would reply-
And he fays much that many may dispute
And cavil at with ease, but none refute.
Oh blefs'd effect of penury and want,

The feed fown there, how vigorous is the plant!
No foil like poverty for growth divine,

As leaneft land fupplies the richest wine.
Earth gives too little, giving only bread,
To nourish pride or turn the weakest head:
To them, the founding jargon of the schools,
Seems what it is, a cap and bells for fools:

The

The light they walk by, kindled from above,
Shows them the fhortest way to life and love:
They, ftrangers to the controversial field,
Where deifts always foil'd, yet fcorn to yield,
And never check'd by what impedes the wife,
Believe, rush forward, and poffefs the prize.

Envy ye great the dull unletter'd small,
Ye have much cause for envy-but not all;
We boast fome rich ones whom the gospel fways,
And one that 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 anfwer-what is man?
Sinful and weak, in ev'ry sense a wretch,
An inftrument whofe chords upon the ftretch
And ftrain'd to the laft fcrew that he can bear,
Yield only difcord in his maker's ear:
Once the bleft refidence of truth divine,
Glorious as Solyma's interior fhrine,

r

Where

Where in his own oracular abode,
Dwelt visibly the light-creating God;
But made long fince like Babylon of old,
A den of mischiefs never to be told:

And she, once mistress of the realms around,
Now fcatter'd wide and no where to be found,
As foon fhall rife and re-afcend the throne,
By native pow'r and energy her own,
As nature at her own peculiar coft,
Restore to man the glories he has loft.
Go bid the winter cease to chill the year,
Replace the wand'ring comet in his sphere,
Then boaft (but wait for that unhop'd-for hour)
The self-reftoring arm of human pow'r.
But what is man in his own proud esteem?
Hear him, himself the poet and the theme;
A monarch cloath'd with majefty 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

Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod,
And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God.

So fings he, charm'd with his own mind and

form,

The fong magnificent, the theme a worm:
Himself so much the fource of his delight,
His maker has no beauty in his fight:

See where he fits contemplative and fixt,
Pleasure and wonder in his features mixt,
His paffions tam'd and all at his controul,
How perfect the compofure of his foul!
Complacency has 'breath'd a gentle gale
O'er all his thoughts, and fwell'd his eafy fail :
His books well trimm'd and in the gayeft ftile,
Like regimented coxcombs rank and file,
Adorn his intellects as well as fhelves,

And teach him notions fplendid as themselves:
The bible only ftands neglected there,
Though that of all most worthy of his care,
And like an infant, troublesome awake,
Is left to fleep for peace and quiet fake.

What

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