Food for the famish'd rovers of the flood.
All zeal for a reform, that gives offence
peace and charity, is mere pretence :
A bold remark; but which, if well applied,
Would humble many a towering poet's pride.
Perhaps, the man was in a sportive fit,
And had no other play-place for his wit;
Perhaps, enchanted with the love of fame,
He fought the jewel in his neighbour's fhame;
Perhaps whatever end he might pursue,
The cause of virtue could not be his view.
At every stroke wit flashes in our eyes;
The turns are quick, the polish'd points surprise,
But shine with cruel and tremendous charms,
That, while they please, poffefs us with alarms;
So have I feen (and haften'd to the fight
On all the wings of holiday delight),
Where stands that monument of ancient power,
Named with emphatic dignity, the Tower,
Guns, halberts, swords, and piftols, great and small,
In starry forms difpofed upon the wall:
We wonder, as we gazing stand below,
That brass and fteel fhould make fo fine a show;
But though we praise the exact designer's skill,
Account them implements of mischief still.
No works fhall find acceptance in that day,
When all disguises fhall be rent away,
That square not truly with the Scripture plan,
Nor fpring from love to God, or love to man.
As he ordains things fordid in their birth
To be refolved into their parent earth;
And, though the foul fhall feek fuperior orbs,
Whate'er this world produces, it absorbs;
So felf starts nothing, but what tends apace
Home to the goal, where it began the race.
Such as our motive is our aim must be;
If this be fervile, that can ne'er be free:
If felf employ us, whatfoe'er is wrought,
We glorify that felf, not Him we ought;
Such virtues had need prove their own reward,
The Judge of all men owes them no regard.
True Charity, a plant divinely nursed,
Fed by the love from which it rose at first,
Thrives against hope, and, in the rudest scene,
Storms but enliven its unfading green;
Exuberant is the fhadow it fupplies,
Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies.
To look at Him, who form'd us and redeem'd,
So glorious now, though once fo disesteem'd;
To fee a God stretch forth his human hand,
To uphold the boundless scenes of his command;
To recollect that, in a form like ours,
He bruised beneath his feet the infernal
Captivity led captive, rofe to claim
The wreath he won fo dearly in our name;
That throned above all height he condefcends
To call the few that trust in him his friends;
That, in the heaven of heavens, that space he deems
Too fcanty for the exertion of his beams,
And shines, as if impatient to bestow
Life and a kingdom upon worms below;
That fight imparts a never dying flame,
Though feeble in degree, in kind the fame.
Like Him the foul, thus kindled from above,
Spreads wide her arms of universal love;
And, ftill enlarged as the receives the grace,
Includes creation in her close embrace.
Behold a Chriftian!-and without the fires
The founder of that name alone infpires,
Though all accomplishments, all knowledge meet,
To make the shining prodigy complete,
Whoever boasts that name-behold a cheat!
Were love, in these the world's last doting years,
As frequent as the want of it appears,
The churches warm'd, they would no longer hold
Such frozen figures, ftiff as they are cold;
Relenting forms would lose their power, or cease;
And e'en the dipp'd and sprinkled live in peace :
Each heart would quit its prifon in the breast,
And flow in free communion with the rest.
The statesman, skill'd in projects dark and deep,
Might burn his useless Machiavel, and fleep;
His budget, often fill'd, yet always poor,
Might swing at ease behind his study door,
No longer prey upon our annual rents,
Or fcare the nation with its big contents:
Disbanded legions freely might depart,
And flaying man would cease to be an art.
No learned difputants would take the field,
Sure not to conquer, and fure not to yield;
Both fides deceived, if rightly understood,
Pelting each other for the public good.
Did Charity prevail, the prefs would
A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love;
And I might spare myself the pains to show
What few can learn, and all suppose they know.
Thus have I fought to grace a serious lay With many a wild, indeed, but flowery spray, In hopes to gain, what elfe I must have loft, The attention pleasure has fo much engroff'd. But if unhappily deceived I dream,
And prove too weak for fo divine a theme,
Let Charity forgive me a mistake,
That zeal, not vanity, has chanced to make,
And spare the poet for his fubject's fake.
Nam neque me tantum venientis fibilus auftri,
Nec percuffa juvant fluctû tam litora, nec quæ
Saxofas inter decurrunt flumina valles.
HOUGH Nature weigh our talents, and
To every man his modicum of sense,
And Converfation in its better
May be esteem'd a gift, and not an art,
Yet much depends, as in the tiller's toil,
On culture, and the sowing of the soil.
Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse,
But talking is not always to converse;
Not more distinct from harmony divine,
The constant creaking of a country sign.
As alphabets in ivory employ
Hour after hour the yet unletter'd boy,
Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee
Those feeds of fcience call'd his A B C ;
So language in the mouths of the adult,
Witness its infignificant result,
Too often proves an implement of play,
A toy to sport with, and pass time away.
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