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More nourish pride, that condescending vice,
Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice;
"It thrives in mis’ry, and abundant grows :
In mis’ry fools upon themselves impose.

But why before us protestants produce
An Indian mystic, or a French recluse ?
Their sin is plain; but what have we to fear,
Reform’d and well instructed? You shall hear.

Yon ancient prude, whose wither'd features show
She might be young some forty years ago,
Her elbows pinion'd close upon her lips,
Her head erect, her fan upon her lips,
Her eye-brows arch'd, her eyes both gone astray,
To watch yon am'rous couple in their play,
With bony and unkerchief'd neck defies
The rude inclemency of wintry skies,
And sails with lappet-head and mincing airs
Duly at chink of bell to morning pray’rs.
To thrift and parsimony much inclin'd,
She yet allows herself that boy behind;
The shiv'ring urchin, bending as he goes,
With slipshod heels, and dewdrop at his nose;
Ilis predecessor's coat advanc'd to wear,
Which future pages yet are doom'd to share,
Carries her Bible tuck'd beneath his arm,
And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm.

She, half an angel in her own account, Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount, Though not a grace appears on strickest search, But that she fasts, and item, goes to church. Conscious of age she recollects her youth, And tells, not always with an eye to truth, Who spann'd her waist, and who, where'er he came, Scrawld upon glass Miss Bridget's lovely name ;

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Who stole her slipper, fill'd it with tokay,
And drank the little bumper ev'ry day.
Of temper as envenom'd as an asp,
Censorious, and her ev'ry word a wasp ;
In faithful mem'ry she records the crimes
Or real, or fictitious, of the times;
Laughs at the reputation she has torn,
And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn.

Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride,
Of malice fed while flesh is mortified :
Take, madam, the reward of all your pray’rs,
Where hermits and where bramins meet with theirs;
Your portion is with them.-Nay, never frown,
But, if you please, some fathoms lower down.

Artist attend-your brushes and your paint-
Produce them-take a chair-now draw a saint.
Oh sorrowful and sad! the streaming tears
Channel her cheeks- a Niobe appears !
Is this a saint? Throw tints and all away-
True Piety is cheerful as the day,
Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan
For others' woes, but smiles upon her own.

What purpose has the King of saints in view ?
Why falls the Gospel like a gracious dew?
'To call up plenty from the teeming earth,
Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth?
Is it that Adam's offspring may be sav'd
From servile fear, or be the more enslav'd ?
To loose the links, that gall’d mankind before,
Or bind them faster on, and add still more?
The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove,
Or, if a chain, the golden one of love :
No fear attends to quench his glowing fires,
What fear he feels his gratitude inspires.

Shall he, for such deliv'rance freely wrought,
Recompense ill? He trembles at the thought,
His master's int'rest and his own combin'd
Prompt ev'ry movement of his heart and mind,
Thought, word and deed, bis liberty evince,
His freedom is the freedom of a prince.

Man's obligations infinite, of course
His life should prove that he perceives their force ;
His utmost he can render is but small-
The principle and motive all in all.
You have two servants--Tom, an arch, sly rogue,
From top to toe the Geta now in vogue,
Genteel in figure, easy in address,
Moves without noise, and swift as an express,
Reports a message with a pleasing grace,
Expert in all the duties of his place ;
Say, on what hinge does bis obedience move?
Has he a world of gratitude and love?
No, not a spark--'tis all mere sharper's play ;
He likes your house, your housemaid, and your pay:
Reduce his wages, or get rid of her,
Tom quits you, with Your most obedient, Sir.

The dinner serv'd, Charles takes his usual stand, Watches your eye, anticipates command ; Sighs if perhaps your appetite should fail ; And if he but suspects a frown, turns pale ; Consults all day your int’rest and your ease, Richly rewarded if he can but please ; And, proud to make his firm attachment know, To save your life would nobly risk his own.

Now which stands highest in your serious thought? Charles, without doubt, say you--and so he ought; One act, that from a thankful heart proceeds, Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds,

Thus Heav'n approves as honest a:-? sincere 'The work of gen'rous love and filial fear ; But with averted eyes the' omniscient Judge Scorns the base hireling, and the slavish drudge. Where dwell these matchless saints ?-old Curio Ev’n at your side, Sir, and before your eyes (cries. The favour'd few-the' enthusiasts you despise. And pleas'd at heart because on holy ground Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found, Reproach a people with his single fall, And cast his filthy raiment at them all. Attend !-an apt similitude shall show Whence springs the conduct that offends you som

See where it smokes along the sounding plains Blown all aslant, a driving, dashing rain, Peal upon peal redoubling all around, Shakes it again and faster to the ground; Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play, Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away. Ere yet it came the travöller urg'd his steed, And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed ; Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his case; He drops the rein, and leaves him to bis pace. Suppose, unlook'd for in a scene so rude, Long hid by interposing hill or wood, Some mansion neat and elegantly dress'd, By some kind hospitable heart possess'd, Offer him warmth, security, and rest ; Think with what pleasure, safe and at his ease, He hears the tempest howling in the trees ; What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ, While slanger past is turn'd to present joy. So fares it with the sinner, when he feels A growing dread of vengeance at bis heets:

His consciens, like a glassy lake before,
Lash'd into foaming waves begins to roar ;
The law grown clamorous, though silent long,
Arraigns him-charges him with ev'ry wrong
Asserts the rights of bis offended Lord,
And death or restitution is the word :
The last impossible, he fears the first,
And, having well deserv’d, expects the worst.
Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home;
Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come!
Crush me ye rocks; ye falling mountains hideg
Or bury me in ocean's angry tide.
The scrutiny of those all-seeing eyes
I dare not-And you need not, God replies ;
The remedy you want I freely give :
The book shall teach you-read, believe, and live!
'T'is done--the raging storm is heard no more,
Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore :
And Justice, guardian of the dread command,
Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand.
A soul redeem'd demands a life of praise ;
Hence the complexion of his future days,
Hence a demeanour holy and unspeck’d,
And the world's hatred, as its sure effect.

Some lead a life unblamable and just,
Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust.
They never sin-or if (as all offend)
Some trivial slips their daily walk attend,
The poor are near at hand, the charge is small,
A slight gratuity atones for all.
For though the pope has lost his int’rest here,
And pardons are not sold as once they were,
No papist more desirous to compound,
Than some grave sinners upon English ground

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