Perufes closely the true Chriftian's face,
And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace,
Ufurps God's office, lays his bofom bare,
And finds hypocrisy close lurking there,

And ferving God herself through mere conftraint
Concludes his unfeigned love of him, a feint.
And yet, God knows, look human nature through,
(And in due time the world shall know it too)
That fince the flowers of Eden felt the blaft,
That after man's defection laid all waste,
Sincerity towards the heart-searching God
Has made the new-born creature her abode,
Nor fhall be found in unregenerate fouls,
Till the laft fire burn all between the poles.
Sincerity! why 'tis his only pride,
Weak and imperfect in all grace befide,
He knows that God demands his heart entire,
And gives him all his juft demands require.
Without it his pretenfions were as vain,
As having it he deems the world's difdain;
That great defect would coft him not alone
Man's favourable judgment, but his own;
His birthright shaken, and no longer clear,
Than while his conduct proves his heart fincere.
Retort the charge, and let the world be told
She boasts a confidence she does not hold;

That, confcious of her crimes, fhe feels inftead
A cold mifgiving, and a killing dread;

That while in health the ground of her support
Is madly to forget that life is short;

That fick fhe trembles knowing she muft die,
Her hope prefumption, and her faith a lie;

That while fhe dotes, and dreams that she believes,
She mocks her Maker, and herself deceives,

Her utmost reach, hiftorical affent,

The doctrines warpt to what they never meant;
That truth itself is in her head as dull,

And useless, as a candle in a fcull,

And all her love of God a groundless claim,
A trick upon the canvass, painted flame.
Tell her again, the fneer upon her face,
And all her cenfures of the work of grace,
Are infincere, meant only to conceal

A dread the would not, yet is forced to feel;
That in her heart the Chriftian fhe reveres,
And while she seems to feorn him, only fears.
A poet does not work by square or line,
As fmiths and joiners perfect a defign;
At least we moderns, our attention lefs,
Beyond the example of our fires digrefs,
And claim a right to fcamper and run wide,
Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide.

The world and I fortuitously met;

I owed a trifle, and have paid the debt;

She did me wrong, I recompenfed the deed,
And having ftruck the balance, now proceed.
Perhaps however as fome years have paffed,
Since the and I converfed together laft,
And I have lived reclufe in rural shades,
Which feldom a diftinct report pervades,
Great changes and new manners have occurred,
And bleft reforms, that I have never heard,
And she may now be as difcreet and wife,
As once abfurd in all difcerning eyes.
Sobriety perhaps may now be found,
Where once intoxication preffed the ground;
The fubtle and injurious may be juft,

And he grown chafte that was the flave of luft;
Arts once esteemed may be with shame difmiffed;
Charity may relax the mifer's fift;

The gamefter may have cast his cards away,
Forgot to curfe, and only kneel to pray.

It has indeed been told me (with what weight,
How credibly, 'tis hard for me to ftate)

That fables old, that feemed for ever mute,
Revived are haftening into fresh repute,
And gods and goddeffes difcarded long
Like useless lumber, or a ftroller's fong,

Are bringing into vogue their heathen train,
And Jupiter bids fair to rule again;

That certain feafts are inftituted now,

Where Venus hears the lover's tender vow;
That all Olympus through the country roves,
To confecrate our few remaining groves,
And echo learns politely to repeat

The praise of names for ages obfolete;

That having proved the weakness, it should seem,
Of revelation's ineffectual beam,

To bring the paffions under fober sway,
And give the moral springs their proper play,
They mean to try what may at last be done,
By ftout fubftantial gods of wood and ftone,
And whether Roman rites may not produce
The virtues of old Rome for English use.
May fuch fuccefs attend the pious plan,
May Mercury once more embellish man,
Grace him again with long forgotten arts,
Reclaim his tafte, and brighten up his parts,
Make him athletic as in days of old,
Learned at the bar, in the palæftra bold,
Diveft the rougher sex of female airs,

And teach the fofter not to copy their's:
The change thall please, nor fhall it matter aught

Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought,

'Tis time, however, if the cafe ftands thus, For us plain folks, and all who fide with us, To build our altar, confident and bold,

And say as ftern Elijah faid of old,

The ftrife now ftands upon a fair award,
If Ifrael's Lord be God, then ferve the Lord:
If he be filent, faith is all a whim,

Then Baal is the God, and worship him.
Digreffion is fo much in modern use,
Thought is fo rare, and fancy fo profuse,
Sonie never seem so wide of their intent,
As when returning to the theme they meant ;
As mendicants, whose business is to roam,
Make every parish but their own their home.
Though fuch continual zigzags in a book,
Such drunken reelings have an awkward look,
And I had rather creep to what is true,
Than rove and ftagger with no mark in view;
Yet to confult a little, feemed no crime,
The freakish humour of the present time:
But now to gather up what seems dispersed,
And touch the fubject I defigned at first,
May prove, though much befide the rules of art,
Beft for the public, and my wifeft part.

And first, let no man charge me that I mean.
To close in fable every social scene,