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With all Elijah's dignity of tone,
630 To prove, that without Christ all gain is loss, All hope despair, that stands not on his cross ; Except the few his God may have impress'd, A tenfold frenzy seizes all the rest.
Throughout mankind, the Christian kind at least, There dwells a consciousness in ev'ry breast,
636 That folly ends where genuine hope begins, And he that finds his Heav'n must lose his sins. Nature opposes with her utınost force This riving stroke, this ultimate divorce ;
640 And, while religion seems to be her view, Hates with a deep sincerity the true : For this, of all that ever influenc'd man, Since Abel worshipp'd, or the world began, This only spares no lust, admits no plea,
645 But makes him, if at all, completely free ; Sounds forth the signal, as she mounts her car, Of an eternal, universal war ; Rejects all treaty, penetrates all wiles,
649 Scorns with the same indiff'rence frowns and smiles ; Drives through the realms of Sin, where Riot reels, And grinds his crown beneath her burning wheels! Hence all that is in man, pride, passion, art, Pow'rs of the mind, and feelings of the heart, Insensible of Truth's almighty charms,
655 Starts at her first approach, and sounds to arms! While Bigotry, with well-dissembled fears, His eyes shut fast, his fingers in his ears, Mighty to parry and push by God's word With senseless noise, his argument the sword,
Pretends a zeal for godliness and grace,
Parent of Hope, immortal Truth ! make known
605 Thy means so foeble, and despis’d so much, That few believe the wonders thou hast wrought, And none can teach them, but whom thou hast taught. O see me sworn to serve thee, and command A painter's skill into a poet's hand.
If ever thou hast felt another's pain :
His hours no longer pass unmark'd away,
710 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 some atrocious cause, Expects in darkness and heart chilling fears, The shameful close of all his mispent years ;
715 If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne, A tempest usher in the dreaded morn, Upon his dungeon walls the lightnings play, The thunder seems to summon him away, The warder at the door his key applies,
720 Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost, When hope, long ling'ring, at last yields the ghost, The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear, He drops at once his fetters and his fear;
725 A transport glows in all he looks and speaks, And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks. Joy, far superiour joy, that much outweighs The comfort of a few poor added days, Invades, possesses, and o’erwhelms the soul 730 Of him, whom Hope has with a touch made whole. 'Tis Heav'n, all Heav'n descending on the wings Of the glad legions of the King of kirg's ; "Tis more-'tis God diffus'd through ev'ry part, Tis God himself triumphant in his heart
O welcome now the Sun's once hated light
740 Kocks, gruves, and streams, must join him in his
praise. These are thy glorious works, eternal Truth, The scoff of wither'd age and beardless youth ; These move the censure and illib'ral grin Of fools that hate thee and delight in sin : 745 But these shall last when night has quench'd the
pole, And Heav'n is all departed as a scroll. And when, as Justice has long since decreed, This earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed, Then these thy glorious works, and they who share That hope, which can alone exclude despair, 751 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 song,) 755 Whose lines uniting, by an honest art, The faithful monitor's, and poet's part, Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind, And while they captivate, inform the mind : Still happier, if he till a thankful soil,
760 And fruit reward his honourable toil : But happier far, who comfort those that wait To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow'd gate : Their language simple, as their manners ineek ; No shining ornaments have they to seek ; 765 Nor labour they, nor time, nor talents waste, In sorting flow'rs to suit a fickle" taste; But while they speak the wisdom of the skies, Which art can only darken and disguise, Th’ abundant harvest, recompense divine,
770 Repays their work--the gleaning only mine.
Quo nihil majus meliusve terris
Hor. lib. iv. Od. 2
FAIREST and foremost of the train, that wait
God, working ever on a social plan, By various tics attaches man to man: He made at first, though free and unconfin'd, One man the common father of the kind; That ev'ry tribe, though plac'd as he sees best, Whero seas or deserts part them from the rest, 20