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Doubtless it is.-To which, of my own store,
I superadd a few essentials more;
But these, excuse the liberty I take,
I wave just now, for conversation's sake.
Spoke like an oracle, they all exclaim,
And add Right Rev'rend to Smug's honour'd name.

And yet our lot is gir'n us in a land,
Where busy arts are never at a stand;
Where Science points her telescopic eye,
Familiar with the wonders of the sky;
Where bold Inquiry, diving out of sight,
Brings many a precious pearl of truth to light;
Where nought eludes the persevering quest,
That fashion, taste, or luxury, suggest.

But above all in her own light array'd,
See Mercy's grand apocalypse display'd!
The sacred book no longer suffers wrong,
Bound in the fetters of an unknown 'tongue;
But speaks with plainness, art could never mend,
What simplest minds can soonest comprehend.
God gives the word, the preachers throng around,
Live from his lips, and spread the glorious sound:
That sound bespeaks Salvation on her way,
The trumpet of a life-restoring day;

* to pour

'Tis heard where England's eastern glory shines,
And in the gulfs of her Cornubian mines.
And still it spreads. See Germany send forth
Her sons

it on the farthest north:
Fir'd with a zeal peculiar, they defy
The rage and rigour of a polar sky,
And plant successfully sweet Sharon's rose
On icy plains, and in eternal snows.

O blest within th' enclosure of your rocks,
Not herds have ye to boast, nor bleating flocks;
No fertilizing streams your fields divide,
That show revers'd the villas on their side;
No
groves

have ye; no cheerful sound of bird, Or voice of turtle, in your land is heard; Nor grateful eglantine regales the smell Of those, that walk at ev'ning where ye dwell: But Winter, arm’d with terrours here unknown, Sits absolute on his unshaken throne; Piles

up his stores amidst the frozen waste, And bids the mountains he has built stand fast; Beckons the legions of his storms away From happier scenes, to make your

land a prey;

The Moravian Missionaries in Greenland. See Krantz.

Proclaims the soil a conquest be has won,
And scorns to share it with the distant Sun.

- Yet Truth is yours, remote, unenvied isle!
And Peace, the genuine offspring of her smile;
The pride of letter'd Ignorance, that binds
In chains of errour our accomplish'd minds,
That decks, with all the splendour of the true,
A false religion, is unknown to you.
Nature indeed vouchsafes for our delight
The sweet vicissitudes of day and night;
Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer
Field, fruit, and flow'r, and ev'ry creature here;
But brighter beams, than his who fires the skies,
Have ris'n at length on your admiring eyes,
That shoot into your darkest caves the day,
From which our nicer optics turn away.

Here see th' encouragement Grace gives to vice, The dire effect of mercy without price! What were they? what some fools are made by art, They were by nature, atheists, head and heart. The gross idolatry blind heathens teach Was too refin'd for them, beyond their reach. Not ev'n the glorious Sun, though men revere The monarch most, that seldom will appear,

And though his beams, that quicken where they

shine, May claim some right to be esteem'd divine, Not ev'n the Sun, desirable as rare, Could bend one knee, engage one votary there; They were, what base Credulity believes True Christians are, dissemblers, drunkards, thieves. The full-gorg'd savage, at his nauseous feast Spent half the darkness, and snor'd out the rest, Was one, whom Justice, on an equal plan Denouncing death upon the sins of man, Might almost have indulg'd with an escape, Chargeable only with a human shape.

What are they now?-Morality may spare Her grave concern, her kind suspicions there: The wretch, who once sang wildly, danc'd and

laugh'd, And suck'd in dizzy madness with his draught, Has wept a silent flood, revers'd his ways, Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays, Feeds sparingly, communicates his store, Abhors the craft he boasted of before, And he that stole has learn’d to steal no more. Well spake the prophet, Let the desert sing, Where sprang the thorn, the spiry fir shall spring,

And where unsightly and rank thistles grew,
Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew.

Go now, and with important tone demand
On what foundation virtue is to stand,
If self-exalting claims be turn'd adrift,
And grace be grace indeed, and life a gift;
The poor reclaim'd inhabitant, his eyes
Glist'ning at once with pity and surprise,
Amaz'd that shadows should obscure the sight
Of one, whose birth was in a land of light,
Shall answer, Hope, sweet hope, has set me free,
And made all pleasures else mere dross to me.

These, amidst scenes as waste as if denied The common care that waits on all beside, Wild as if Nature there, void of all good, Play'd only gambols in a frantic mood, (Yet charge not heav'nly skill with having plann'd A plaything world, unworthy of his hand;) Can see his love, though secret evil lurks In all we touch, stamp'd plainly on his works; Deem life a blessing with it's num'rous woes, Nor spurn away a gift a God bestows. Hard task indeed o'er arctic seas to roam! Is hope exotic? grows it not at home?

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