University of Virginia Library

What meritorious thought, or word, or deed,
At Christ's tribunal, can Thy Spirit plead,
That need no tinct of turpitude confess,
But lay some claim to heavenly happiness?
Canst thou look back on deed, or word, or thought,
Conceiv'd, pronounc'd, or acted, as it ought?
Exempt from spot, or wrinkle; fault, or flaw;
Exactly tallying with Heav'n's holy Law?
All perfectly complete, and just, and true,
Fit to confront that vengeful Judge's view?

Compare Thy works with Heav'n's unerring Word,
And note if nought be sinful, frail, absurd—
Whether its precepts, pure, in every part,
Have mov'd Thy Mind—have influenc'd Thy Heart.
From Reason's dawning, to the recent day,
Did ne'er conception, word, or action, stray?
But every pow'r, and faculty, of Soul,
In every waking moment keep the Whole?
Hast Thou, thro' all that long-protracted length,
Lov'd God with all Thy Heart—Mind—Soul—and Strength?
Hast Thou so manag'd Pow'r, dispos'd of Pelf,
As proves Thou lov'st Thy Neighbour as Thyself?
Ah! Thy proud Buildings publicly declare
What Thy Religion, Love, and Motives, are.
Thy Lawns, Thy Gardens, and Thy Groves, confess,
Thy splendid Furniture—Thy pompous Dress—
Thy crowded Table, and Thy Costly Treat—
Thy brilliant Side-board—and Thy lordly Suite—
Thy public Feastings, and proud Equipage—
All prove what graceless hopes Thy heart engage!
What sensual objects all Thy Soul absorb,
And bind Thy Spirit to this earthly Orb!
Each Passion stir, and stimulate each Lust,
To grasp at emptiness and grapple dust!
Urge on Thy Might, and agitate Thy Mind,
To pounce at shadows, and pursue the wind!
Inflame Affections—whip and spur Thy Will,
For things that ne'er can satisfy, or fill!
Which fetter judgment—rivet Reason's pow'rs,
To what Time terminates, or Death devours!
What Understanding's purest light pervert,
To grope in darkness—grovel in the dirt!
Draw down Ambition from substantial views,
To hunt for empty forms, and fading hues!
Solicit Fancy from celestial flights,
To wander o'er the World for frail delights
And crowd Imagination's rooms, immense,
With what relates alone to Time and Sense!
Faith, still deluded with lov'd Nature's Lies,
And Hope, still eying Earth's deceptive Toys;
Where Charity some cheating trifle spends,
While Folly frustrates Ostentation's ends!

These prove Thy Soul too proud—Thy views too vain,
To close with interests of the Christian Train;
Who humbly walk by Faith, and not by Sight,
And wish not what is rare, but what is right!
Not vanities which this vain World can give
But with eternal Truth, and Love, to live!
Convinc'd they've no continuing City here—
No during prospects, or possessions, dear—
But all below, that's meant for Man to use
Their Souls connect by nought but sliding noose;
Which, when their Lord and Saviour wills it so,
Ungrudging, loose the knot, and let them go!
They ask not worldly Favour, Wealth, or Fame
Which God forbids, or gracious Brethren blame.
Know well the World, tho' to the World unknown,
And give all glory to their Lord, alone!

Canst Thou Thy large Domains, on Earth, survey,
And feel as lowly, meek, and mild, as They?
Or, when at God's command, grim Death, shall call
With like tranquility relinquish all?
Canst Thou 'midst Pride and Pow'r to Heav'n appeal,
And sinful frailty, sighs, and sorrow, feel?
'Mid Wealth conceive Thyself supremely poor;
Still supplicate for doles at Mercy's door;
And while Heav'n's helps and bounties most abound,
Find humble gratitude grow more profound.
Canst thou around each Palace, pensive roam,
And find Thyself a Stranger, far from Home?
Canst Thou contemplate all Thy pompous Dress
Yet clearly see Thy carnal Nakedness?
Perceive Thy amply-portion'd, moral Mind,
Absurdly base, and ignorantly blind?
Still simply beg for more illumin'd Light?
For garments giv'n by Christ, more clean and white?
An Habitation built in Heav'n above?
And fuller Pow'rs of Faith, and Hope, and Love?

Thou art too fond of Pomp, too proud of State,
Meekly to kneel, and knock, at Mercy's gate!
Too fix'd in Prejudice—too full of Pride,
To make the Word, and Will, of God, Thy guide!
Too fond of Fashion, proud of Praise and Fame,
To pay due rev'rence to His wond'rous Name!
Nor are such Sins, alone, Thy separate case,
Now grown so gross in Faith, so fall'n from Grace;
But all become the deep, the desperate, crimes,
Of all Thy proud Compeers, these impious Times!

How can mistaken Minds, like Thine, believe,
Who empty honours, each from each receive?
Or practice precepts, holy—just—and good
While neither passion—Pride—or Lust's withstood?
Yet, midst important Pomp, and wanton Waste,
Vast Vanity, and ostentatious Taste;
Projects of Fashion, and pursuits for Fame,
To christian Goodness fain would'st ground Thy claim,
And spread before Mankind a fair pretence
To Piety, and pure Beneficence!
Canst Thou expect to please a Judge divine,
With selfish sacrifices, such as Thine?
Or hope to make some heav'nly lot secure,
By dead devotions—Prayers, and Praise, impure?
Didst Thou rich Domes to His great glory raise,
While Thou prepar'dst the Pomp to reap the praise?
Are Thy proud Tables to His honour spread,
While Thou sitt'st worshipp'd as the sovereign Head?
When to the Poor Thou portion'st scanty store,
Dost Thou, with Them, His Providence adore?
Or when Thou highly treat'st the richer Ranks,
Dost Thou—do They—return the Author thanks?
Or, doth not, rather, each gross heart agree
To gratify itself while flattering Thee?

Alas! no Heart will waft one wish from Earth,
Till Christ produce new bent by second birth;
Nor turn attention to pure bliss above
Till wak'd, and warm'd, by Heav'n's blest breath of Love!
No Soul to sacred happiness aspires,
Till kindled by the Spirit's fervid fires;
Till feeling every vile offence forgiv'n,
The love of Sin subdued, and Satan driv'n!

Can well-wrought iron, or highly-polish'd steel
From native strength magnetic influence feel,
Till natural Gravity new force controuls
And turns its constant pointings tow'rds the Poles?
So can Man's Mind break no habitual ties,
Till heavenly Virtue turns it tow'rds the Skies.
As well might Matter from Earth's centre start,
As Heav'n attract the stoney human Heart—
As well the Fire might freeze, the Water burn,
As carnal Souls Christ's heavenly lessons learn—
As soon might senseless Trees affection feel
As hearts, deprav'd, experience holy zeal:
As soon the Dead might rise, and Devils rest
As graceless Hearts love God with lasting zest!
Conception's cold—Imagination shy—
Till Faith's clear light illumes the mental eye—
Each Passion's froward—each Affection chill—
Till Hope views Heav'n, and sways the wayward Will—
Each right Wish weak, and childish every Choice,
Till heavenly Love listens the Saviour's Voice!

Ah! how can Pride attend His humbling call!
How Riot hear His voice, so still, so small!
How Ostentation, midst parading rounds,
Or Vanity, attend such sacred sounds!
They only touch the hearkening Christian's ear,
With striking emphases, conceptions clear—
More sweet than Poesy's most melting tone,
And all rich harmonies thro' Nature known—
Filling a purer, and a fuller, part
In every blest Believer's faithful heart
Than all the temporary, trifling, things,
By Courtiers promis'd, or bestow'd by King's!
They warn the Soul of Man's immortal worth;
Help Hope to heave her Anchor off the Earth,
And drop it in a calm, unchanging clime,
Secure from storms and currents, tides and time;
Within the vail of Heav'n securely cast,
Where Faith furls all her sails whilst Love makes fast!

But how can grovelling Spirits long to go,
And leave their Hearts and treasures here below!
Such Souls would deem they purchas'd Heav'n too dear
Leaving all lov'd delights, and honours, here!
They ne'er, thro' choice, would wish so great a change,
For Customs, and Companions, all so strange!
Such novel Rules—Acts—Habits—and Pursuits—
Unfit for Fashion's Broods—who wish to die like Brutes!

The multitudes that there compose the Crowd
Are not the Rich—the Pow'rful—Vain—or Proud!
Not Mobs made up of King, Prince, Peer, and Priest,
But Millions of the meanest—lowest—least!
The friendless—poor—forlorn—compose the Throng,
From every Kindred—Nation—People—Tongue—
Prophets—Apostles—and the Martyr-train,
For Spurning Sin despis'd—condemn'd, and slain!
With myriads more, whose pious Spirits strove
'Gainst Sin and Satan, thro' Faith—Hope—and Love—
Yet claim'd no merit, when clear morals shone,
But sought Salvation thro' God's Love, alone!
All by Christ's blood forgiv'n—prepar'd by Grace,
For Heav'n's most perfect—holy—happy, place!
All other Characters will Christ reject,
Who spurn His gospel, or His laws neglect—
Who, from His face, for ever, wish to fly,
With Spirits unprepar'd for genuine joy!

There all are equal! not one Soul would claim
Superior place, or favour—pow'r, or fame—
Nor would one christian heart, while kept sincere,
Expect pre-eminence, for Merits, here.
Merit's no word, with God, in sense, or sound
In faithful nomenclator never found.
True Christians know God gave them all they have—
That Faith must justify—and Grace must save.
The sole distinction seen, by Heav'n's high King,
From holier Love and purer Virtue spring;
Not from imperial Blood, or princely Birth—
Pride—Pomp—Lusts—Vanities—that vex the Earth—
Yet Wealth—Wit—Pow'r—oft spoil'd by base abuse,
Were all bestow'd by God, for gracious use!

In Heav'n none asks a Place, or Office, high'r
Than simple Songster in the sacred Choir.
Pow'r—Pomp—and Titles, all set far aside;
No more they light up Lust, or pamper Pride—
Servant and Master—Sovereign Lord and Slave—
Confounded, or forgot, all glut the Grave!
Nor with Man's new-form'd Frames will e'er arise
To claim such dead distinctions in the skies.
No symptoms of subordination's known,
But deep prostrations at their Father's Throne!
No bow, or bended knee, or plausive speech,
But to the Lamb who loved—bled—died—for each!
No servile Slave throughout the happy Host,
Yet all obedient to the Holy Ghost!

No Luxuries, there, to Sin their Souls allure,
But rich perennial fruits, and fountains pure!
No varied Robes to Vanity excite,
But all array'd in simple, spotless white!
On every head a Crown, which, glorious, glows,
That Christians ne'er can earn, but Christ bestows!
Still deem'd, by each, as ornaments unmeet,
And, humble bow'd, before their Saviour's feet!
While all, to God, their grateful voices raise,
Whose Wisdom, Love, and Pow'r, is past all praise!
Singing to Him, enthron'd—the great I AM,
And Christ, sin-slaughter'd, ever-living LAMB!!

Could Thy proud heart experience genuine joy
In such a levelling, and pure, Employ?
Or Thy unhumbled bosom bound with bliss
In such a mean Community as this?
Could'st Thou, companionize the christian Poor?
Salute the Beggar, and embrace the Boor?
With Harlots—Jailors—Publicans, unite,
And feel a social, and sincere, delight?
With those once Rebels, Murd'rers, Cheats—and Thieves;
And each base Culprit, that, in Christ, believes?
With Fishermen, and mean Mechanics join,
And deem a quondam Carpenter divine?

Could'st Thou Thy Sensuality surmount,
To feed on fruits and drink the crystal fount?
The fruits of Truth, and fount of endless Love?
Found, part, below, but only pure, above!
Implicitly, put off Thy vestments proud,
And wear a Livery like the common Crowd?
A Livery from the Saviour's wardrobe brought
Wash'd by His blood? by His obedience bought?
Feel all Thy selfish Faculties rejoic'd,
O'er crown, gratuitous, conferr'd by Christ;
Or, self-abased, from Thy fond temples tear,
Return'd to Him, who, only, ought to wear—
While mix'd in concert with celestial throngs
To sing Messiah's praise in heavenly songs!

Still difficulties, toils—and dangers, stand,
Betwixt this Egypt and that promis'd Land!
Temptations every step—on every side,
From Lusts, and Passions; Prejudice, and Pride—
Habit's strong barriers; Customs, Fashions, rise
Betwixt the Pilgrim and his perfect Joys!
Fulness, and Famine—Transport, and Distress—
Thro' all the wild, waste, howling, Wilderness!
Each moment threaten'd with avenging wrath,
If wandering devious from the destin'd path!
Now right and left, by unclimb'd rocks confin'd;
Deep Seas before—fierce hostile Hosts behind!
Now, quaffing, in cool shades, pure, plenteous, streams!
Now burning in full blaze of solar beams!
Now dancing round an Idol, with delight!
Then frantic with a fiery Serpent's bite!
Awhile to wanton, and anon to weep,
Obliged by Laws no sinful Soul can keep!
Plenty, sometimes, and a temporary Curse—
And, sometimes starving, Need a tender Nurse!
Sometimes corrections, when with quails full-fed;
And sometimes blessings with a want of bread!
Strong hostile Neighbours, watching all the Way,
To hinder—harrass—baffle—or betray;
While frighted Foes, on carnal Prophet call
To execrate, or scheme some fatal fall—
And, when past Jordan's blest baptismal flood,
Oft bound to seal Sincerity with blood!

Strait is the gate, and narrow is the road,
That leads to endless bliss in Heav'n's abode;
Nor can frail Mortals' feet proceed one pace
But mov'd by Mercy—goaded on by Grace!
Fair Faith encourages, while Fear alarms;
Hope chears the way, whilst Love unveils its charms!
So strait's the gate, that not a single sin,
Allow'd, or lov'd, can ever enter in!
Not the weak Dupes who boast their noble Birth,
Vain works of merit, or mere moral worth—
Not Ostentation, with her crowding crew,
Nor vaunting Vanity, can struggle through;
Not worldly Wealth, or Honour's courtly class,
Nor Pomp—Fame—Pride—or false Ambition, pass!

Can Pomp's proud equipage with boasting worn,
Announc'd by Arrogance, and led by Scorn;
Vassals, and Sycophants, in front, and rear,
Huge aggregate of Grandeur! enter there?

Can Fame with wreaths of airy bubbles crown'd—
Rais'd on balloons with full-blown bladders round;
Heralds before, and clamorous crowds behind,
Force their way through with feeble puffs of wind?

Can supercilious Pride, with his vast Suite
Of Passions—Prejudices—Self-conceit—
And bluff Ambition, of Goliah's Race,
Compress themselves enough to pass that Place?

Can courtly Honour, with her head erect,
Rich stars and garters, crowns, and 'scutcheons, deckt;
On tilted stilts, with coroneted crest,
Rais'd far beyond Religion's genuine test
With lengthen'd train—stiff necks, and loins, and knees,
E'er hope to enter with lov'd things, like these?

Can graceless Wealth, so dredg'd with golden dirt,
With mortgages, and deeds, and bonds, begirt,
And loads of luggage, should he stoop to try,
Expect to pass this narrow needle's eye?

Can puffing Vanity, with high-plum'd head,
By Emulation follow'd—Fashion led—
Lift up, aloft, her turban, burnish'd bright
So much beyond pure scripture-precept's height—
Fancy, to form, and fit, her tawdry trim,
With whiffling handmaids twain, Caprice, and Whim,
Her garments gay with glittering trinkets hung,
To catch each eye and actuate every tongue—
Will she these trinkets, toys, and tools dismiss
And strive to enter with a loss like this?

Will Ostentation quit all court-parade,
In endless forms, for self-applause, display'd—
Her public charities, and festive troops,
In large assemblies, and gregarious groups—
Her strutting myrmidons, and mobs of State,
With hopes to pass that narrow, guarded, gate;
And there with pray'r and penitence attend
Thro' Faith and Grace for making God her Friend?

Alas! the lofty—bigotted—and blind—
Rich—fam'd—and formal, ne'er free entrance find—

Pride's lofty Spirit haughtily, disdains
To count the costs, or profits, joys, or pains—
But, proud, like Satan, spurn celestial post—
And scorn to stoop like Jesu's humble host,

The boasting Bigot ne'er revokes his vow,
Nor makes his pride, and prejudices, bow;
But, obstinately blind, will, stumbling, stray,
Nor feel to find the gate, nor grope the way.

The purblind Rich, no narrow track behold,
So dazzled with their Wealth's dear Gods of gold!

The titled deem it needless to attempt,
The fam'd must always feel themselves exempt—
And courtly Hyprocrites, pert—puff'd—and proud,
Would meet the curse to miss the common crowd.

None ever ask—or seek—or knock—or strive,
But whom Christ's Spirit makes, and keeps, alive,
The Dead ne'er doubt—the stupid never stir—
Sluggards will sleep, and Debauchees demur;
None but the troubled undertake the task,
With earnestness, to strive, knock, seek, or ask.
None but the ignorant humbly ask their way—
None but the needy, or opprest, will pray—
None but the broken-hearted—contrite—meek—
For peace, or pardon, will, sincerely, seek—
None lowly knock, or Mercy's door assail,
But those that feel their Spirits poor and frail—
That narrow entrance none e'er strive to gain
But those whose wounded bosoms throb with pain;
Or gain admittance thro' that gracious gate
Who loathe not Lust, and dread Pride's desperate State.
None seek Heav'n's Pearl who prize their terrene stuff,
Nor dig for treasure who can claim enough.
None seek for buildings in a brighter Sphere,
So proud of pompous edifices here;
Nor strive to trace the precious Corner-stone,
Who fondly lay foundations of their own.
None ask, as plants in Paradise, to grow,
Who glory more in garden-grounds below.
Ne'er beg to be good grafts in Heaven's Vine.
While satisfied with Nature's acid wine;
Or seek for sap from rich celestial root,
So charmed with barren foliage more than fruit.

Will Creatures, form'd defenceless, e'er confess
They know they're ignorant, weak, or weaponless?
Will such e'er think their Souls a Shepherd need,
To watch, to water, fold, defend, and feed,
Who view, transported, their vile pasture ground,
Where grossest grass, and muddiest brooks abound;
Nor note how Winter soon such treats destroys,
How soon such streamlets, droughty Summer dries,
Who boast their high inclosures built so strong,
They sleep secure from rapine, craft, and wrong;
Tho' wandering wild, 'mid gambols, sport, and play.
They fear no forest—dread no wildering way—
Ne'er apprehend, while danger's out of sight,
Dire Beasts of prey, or deadly Serpent's bite;
But swell'd with Self-conceit, and puffing Pride,
Judge graceless Learning an unerring guide.
Deem natural Freedom, and full Force, innate,
Can form their fortune, and can fix their fate—
Thro' their pure foresight, fortitude, and pow'r,
No Serpent can deceive; no Beast of prey devour!

Will any ask a skill'd Physician's aid,
Not weak, nor worn? of Death nor Fate, afraid?
Or seek medicaments to heal, or ease,
Who fears no dangers, nor e'er feels disease?
None will suppose the Body sore, or sick,
Whose parts are all alert, and spirits quick;
Nor e'er imagine malady of Soul,
While Fancy reigns, nor Conscience feels controul—
None will e'er find they're feeble—lame—or halt,
Who judge each joint, and muscle, free from fault;
Nor think they labour under loss of sight,
While natural objects look both clear and bright.
None can suspect a paralytic stroke,
Whose limbs are lightsom, and their strength unbroke—
Suppose no plague, or leprosy, their lot,
Who spies no sympton, and perceives no spot—
None putrifying sores, or ulcers, dread
Who deems all's firm, and fair, from heel to head;
Nor fancies fatal bruise or bleeding wound,
Who feels flesh—tendon—nerve—and vessel, sound:
So will no Soul suspect the head, or heart,
Which feels no sorrow, and forebodes no smart;
Or care and labour to obtain full cures,
Who dreads no perils, and no pains endures.
The blind in Spirit never will believe,
Such things exist as Christian Souls conceive;
Or can discover, in the least degree,
The vast advantages of Souls that see.
The deaf, and dumb, can never comprehend
How much on hearing, and on speech, depend;
Nor all the other Senses well discern
What Minds from modulated tones may learn—
Ne'er will one reason in such Souls arise,
For listening to the words of One that's wise;
For worldly Wisdom, ignorantly, deems
All genuine Christian doctrines idle dreams.

How then canst Thou, by Lust, and Passions, led,
While Pride, and Prejudice, rule heart, and head;
And fed with Flattery, from Thy earliest Youth,
In Age taste—relish—seek for, sacred Truth!
Canst Thou, while scales of Custom seal Thy sight,
Perceive one single ray of heavenly light?
While Habit's bit and bridle stay Thy tongue,
Avouch what's right, and vilify what's wrong?
Thy ears by fashionable Folly seal'd
Attend the truths a Saviour's Love reveal'd?
Or, in the midst of Dissipation's din
Hear calm reproof? or feel remorse, within?
Canst Thou comply with such a painful task
As tearing off Thy pharisaic mask?
The caustic plaster—cleansing salve, apply,
To kill Thy Lusts, and clear Thy carnal eye?
Purge off Thy Pride to deaden base desire,
And still to purer holiness aspire?
Thy Soul unload itself of earthly clay,
To run more lightly all Thy heav'nward way?
Of Ostentation strip Thy morbid Mind,
And leave Thy Pomps and Vanities behind?
The love of glory, and gross flattery, quit,
False fame—taste—knowledge—learning—wealth—and wit?
Thro' all the paths of duty daily plod,
Whilst Love—Truth—Purity—grow more like God?
Pluck out right eye? right hand, or foot, cut off,
While Libertines upbraid, and Courtiers scoff?
Spurn all the gay—the profligate—the proud—
That constitute the World's unwitting crowd;
And still Thy heavenly race with patience run,
Like fair Fitzgerald, and fond Huntingdon?
Thy Friends defy? each Fool, and Flatterer, shock?
Still, at the gospel-gate, more earnest knock
As tho' possess'd of nothing, ask and strive,
For daily crumbs, to keep Thy Soul alive?

Canst Thou, amidst Thy parasitic train,
So supercilious—volatile—and vain!
Each Idol spurn, of ev'ry shape, and shade,
By Unbelief—Pride—Lust—and Passion, made?
Perceive and spurn, all Earth's nets, traps, and gins,
And shun all snares of shrewd, and shining Sins?
Fly lures of every signature, and stamp,
Which lull Thy Reason, and rouz'd Conscience cramp?
Scorn hypocritic, base, and impious, Imps,
And lame endeavours where devotion limps;
Thy spurious pray'rs, which, neither morn, or night,
Implore new pow'rs, nor ask for added light?

Could such disguis'd attempts admission gain,
Would'st Thou the painful pilgrimage maintain?
Alas! not long Thy patience would pursue
The narrow path where Fashion sees so few?
That few despis'd—in looks and Spirits poor
Who've daily pass'd the Heav'n-appointed door!
To pace with toil that steep and weary way,
So far from all the Great! the Grand! the Gay!
Contemn'd, and stigmatiz'd by Old and Young
Known in the wider Way's enormous Throng!

Could all these obstacles be once o'er-past,
And Thou hadst learnt the genuine Way at last,
How could'st Thou travel in that scanty track
With all Thy Wealth, and buildings on Thy back?
Or tread one step, a rough, or mirey road,
With countless Idols added to the load?
And, tho' this path Thy painful feet had found,
With all Thy fortune, and Thy finery, round,
The pious Wights that thro' the portal went,
Would ne'er console Thee with one compliment;
But stare contempt at all Thy gaudy geer.
Each wond'ring why, and how, thou enter'dst there.
Meantime the wanton Wild blaspheming Band,
That join'd large Juntos, on sinister hand,
Would, as Thou wanderedst wearily along
Make Thee the subject of satyric burlesque Song.
Nor would those poor Companions calm Thy Mind
By humble bends, or flattery refin'd—
Would ne'er ascribe to Thee the praise of Parts,
Of Sense, of Science, Taste, or curious Arts—
Thy Greatness, or Thy Goodness, once express—
Thy skill in diction, or polite address:
Ne'er speak how popular applause increas'd
From courtly table or from clam'rous feast;
Those charitable treats, by mobs miscall'd,
Where Sunday-schools beneath cool coverts bawl'd;
Or Climbing-boys, in brilliant costume seen,
With brush and shovel gambol'd on the green;
They'd take from Thee each particle of Fame,
And give all glory to another Name!

They'd try to strip Thee of Self-love, and Lust
And lay Thy Pride all prostrate in the dust!
All worldly treasures, and all earthly toys,
Which moth and rust corrupt, or Time destroys!
Each thing, each thought, that fascinates, or fouls,
All cast, as idols, to blind bats, and owls!

They'd never greet Thee for Thy great desert—
Or count how clever—wise—and good—Thou wert—
How carnal Knowledge, Learning, Taste, and Wit,
Would win Thy way to Heav'n, or make Thee fit;
But, to be form'd, and fitted, for that Place,
Thy walk must first begin with deep disgrace.
Must all Thy Pride, and Passions, mortify,
And lay Thy boundless Lusts, and Luxuries, by,
Of all Thy deep hypocrisies repent—
Each impious practice, and perverse intent—
Immoral motive, and unthankful thought;
As well as vilest view, and foulest fault,
By Grace renew'd, begin religious Life,
With harlot, Magdalen, or David's Wife.
Should some one wiser Poet pass that Way,
He'd ne'er salute Thee with one flattering Lay—
Ne'er praise Thee for Thy Person—Wealth—or Worth—
Or ought, beside, that appertains to Earth.
Ne'er prostitute to Thee the charms of Song,
Or give Thee honours which to Heav'n belong;
But tell Thee every stanza—every strain—
Like rays of sunshine—dews—and drops of rain—
Derived from Heaven should go to Heav'n again.

There Thou'd'st be taught, each step a Christian treads
He finds fresh conflicts—temptings—doubts, and dreads!
Trials without—and treachery within—
From a false World—from Satan—Self—and Sin!
The World with endless wiles, and witchcrafts, round—
Baseness to baffle—cunning to confound;
With all those various, all those vicious, charms,
Which wake up Lusts, and lull the Soul's alarms!
Replete with whirlpools—pits—and traps and toils—
Vain, or vexatious, when it frowns, or smiles!
Still spreading dangerous, or delusive snare,
In Wealth—in Want—in Transport—in Despair!
Dangers, disguis'd, beneath each apt pretence,
In all it offers to each sanguine Sense!
Its leaves, and flow'rs, but, barely, hopes, and fears!
Its choicest fruits all fed with watering tears!
Its oaths but perjuries—promises but lies—
Its prospects fraught with groans, and sobs, and sighs!

Satan, still press'd with perfidy and spleen,
Contrives temptations, subtle, and unseen!
Plans constant plots, to trouble, or destroy
The present comfort, or the future joy!
Thro' every scene his labours never cease
To spread confusion, or to frustrate peace!
Frowns a terrific Fiend, or, aptly, apes
The simple Child's, or smiling Cherub's, shapes!
Whether the Soul's seraphic fervour blaze,
Celestial zest increase, or zeal decays—
Whether the Spirit full Assurance feels,
Or faith dissolves in Doubt, and Reason reels—
Whether, without a cloud, Hope clearly shines,
Love soars to Heav'n, or down to Earth declines,
His cunning still endeavours to deceive,
To puzzle, or perplex—misguide, or grieve—
Still falsely bringing some foul cheating charge,
Of Faith—Hope—Love—too little, or too large—
That Faith's a fond enthusiastic theme—
That Hope indulges many an idle dream—
And Love's a loose deception of the Soul,
Eluding Law's, and Conscience's, controul.
He lurks in every choice, and change, of Life;
To introduce false doubts, and fears, and strife—
Still promptly represents the heavenly road,
With unsurmountable obstructions strew'd—
How pains and sorrows swell each tiresome steep,
No wisdom can elude, or strength o'er-leap—
Troubles, or trials, all the woeful way,
With nought, at last, the labour to repay!
He'll give to sanguine Guilt a deeper dye,
And shows revealed Truth a shameless lie;
To crush all comfort with oppressive care,
And sink the Soul in darkness, and despair!
Will fix to every fear an added fang;
Or hook to every hope a doubtful pang—
Load each unwieldy cross with crushing weight,
Or turn to ridicule a future State;
Then, if this fails the Conscience to convince,
Degrades the glory, while he spurns its Prince!
Makes earthly objects blaze with golden gloss,
But promis'd crowns appear deceptive dross—
Presents enrapturing scenes on every side,
As baits for Passions, Appetites, or Pride.
Some deep delusion starts at every turn,
Bewildering Reason, while base wishes burn,
Till the fool'd Spirit future hopes decries,
And christian prospects of the peopled Skies.
With churlish difficulties tries to chill,
Or make earth's magic charms the bosom thrill—
Frames sharp misfortune's terror to inspire,
Or fair enchantments to inflame desire—
Starts threat'ning dangers to amaze the Mind,
Or firing Lust by fancied bliss behind—
Shapes disappointments to enrage with wrath,
Or dainty pastimes to desert the path—
Shows fairer tracks bestrew'd with shining flow'rs
And Beauty, beckoning to sweet-scented bow'rs;
With each fond witchery that frail Souls excite
To sensual pleasure and impure delight.
Persuades rash Reason to restrain her trust,
And live at rest beneath loved rule of Lust.
Tells Conscience she may trifling claims confide,
To better conduct, in the courts of Pride;
While urging Judgment boldly to bestow
His verdict, fix'd, for present bliss below;
Still striving Understanding to decoy
With moonshine happiness, and meteor joy!
Betrays the Fancy fondly to behold
Earth's glorious treasures, gems—and pearls—and gold!
What boundless blessings Wealth can always claim—
From solid—satisfying, fruits of Fame—
With all the boundless honour which belongs
To bowing multitudes, and buzzing throngs!