University of Virginia Library

When all these paroxysms of Pride were o'er,
And Feasts—Routs—Concerts—Readings, rag'd no more,
To pristine state Economy return'd,
Weighing, and measuring all, ate—drunk—or burn'd—
While parsimonious management extends
To scraps—crusts—cinders—coaks—and candles-ends:
As when a raving fever intermits,
And freezing agues follow burning fits;
Or, when the surgey element subsides,
The lowest ebbs succeed the highest tides;
So, in full space, betwixt these frantic scenes,
Penurious apathy still intervenes.
Small messes, then, domestics must suffice
No more pound foolish, now, but—penny wise.
Prudence appointed, now each moderate meal,
That wicked miscreants might not waste, or steal—
That careless Cooks might dress but just enough,
Each article was told of household stuff—
On counted fingers calculations fram'd,
While males and females, all, were nicely, nam'd;
And when by this uncommon, clever, trick,
This new-discover'd, quaint, Arithmetic;
The names, and numbers, now, precisely known,
Each lot was laid one pound of flesh and bone.
Not to be guttled at one gross repast,
But, that reliques thro' the day might last—
The rumps of poultry—rabbits' heads, and wings,
And pyes—and puddings—superadded things.

Once in a while a Baronet of beef
Gave jaded appetite a small relief,
So small, that, oft, before the whole could dine
The sliver'd Chief expos'd his naked chine.
So seldom, in that place, those Knights appear'd,
The Maids much wonder'd, and the Footmen sneer'd;
And feigning to mistake both face and fame,
They call'd them Strangers, as a stigma'd name.

When mutton—veal—or pork—were somewhat stale,
The total, often, would exceed the tale—
Open'd and shut, in store, each stated hour,
Lest thief should filch, or myrmidon devour—
And thus the fusty fragments run the rounds,
Till only fit for hogs, or famish'd hounds.
Nor musty meat, alone, with every shred
Of mouldy pudding, and of mangl'd bread,
But all the refuse of the higher board,
Was kindly added to the common hoard,
When like corrupted Corpses, quite unfit
To set before her Friends—Wealth—Rank—and Wit.

This task to patient Crispin was assign'd,
That none might be embezzled, none purloin'd—
To lock, and unlock, this important trust,
And keep each corpse from ashes—earth—and dust;
Attentive watching each refection's close,
Lest squeamishness should scorn, or sport expose.

To cut off every criminal abuse,
He balanc'd butter for Cook's kitchen-use;
While, to avoid all waste, and private pique,
Each female had eight ounces once a Week.

Tho' food was chief, 'twas not his only charge;
Fires must be watch'd that none were made too large;
Still ordering out a strict proportion'd prey
To feed all needful fires throughout each day.
Must oft inspect the parlour—kitchen—hall—
And mark when half-burnt coals, and cinders fall;
That Scullions—Cooks—Maids—Footmen—were not slack
To throw all scatter'd coaks, and rubbish, back—
While strict Employer, with example, strove
To fix the practice by full proofs above.

When Winter's cold, keen, persecuting pow'rs
Had stretch'd Night's sombrous reign to sixteen hours,
Whole candles were each Servant's nightly claim,
And prompt compliance, then, incurr'd no blame;
But, when prevailing Suns, with shafts of light,
Kept longer back the shortening shades of Night;
The crabbed reckonings to such fractions rose,
Adjusting tallow to each Evening's close,
That Newton's pow'rs had met most puzzling pinch,
In measuring out each millionth of an inch;
And Martin's mathematic skill must fail
To graduate, and grave, so nice a scale.

New difficulties lay with waxen lights,
Profusely lit on fashionable Nights;
The numerous remnants circumspectly told,
And all in Memory's register enroll'd,
That each devoted shred might duly shine,
And spend each spark before its Owner's shrine;
That Grooms might never glean the scatter'd crop,
And pile the produce in some Chandler's shop.

'Twere curious to recount the witty ways
Art us'd to lengthen out their balmy blaze—
How many modicums together knit,
Whose first-fruits dazzled Fashion, Wealth, and Wit,
Like knotted canes grown long by joint increase,
Some evenings lighted, in one specious piece;
Call'd patent-candles, from their matchless makes,
Both for Inventor's and Consumer's sakes:
And, lest a line in length should e'er be left,
To help a perquisite, or prompt a theft,
Above their sockets half-inch scraps appear'd,
On pedestals, of pins, sublimely rear'd!
Till deep consumption seiz'd each staggering wick,
Then, dying, drench in tears their death-bed-candlestick!

Could Peasants in their Cells waxlights consume
And thus, at least expence, their Huts illume;
Pride—Pow'r—and Wealth, would then their use condemn,
That Boors and Bond-Slaves might not look like Them—
Yea, supercilious Pomp, in such sad case,
Would soon expel them from each servile place;
Ev'n tainted air from oil, or tallow, breathe,
To stand distinct from blackguard folks beneath:
And, lest such darling lust should be denied,
Still to support the pompous course of Pride,
Would buy the coarsest lights, with double coin,
Rather than let poor Louts, like Fashion shine.

Aristocratic Minds intensely strive
To keep Precedency, and Pow'r, alive.
Will grievous ills, and labours, undergo,
To keep their heads aloft, and others' low.
With Wealth imperious, and with Titles proud,
Continual spurn the pertinacious crowd;
Much like fermenting liquors, ne'er at rest,
Till full Superiority's confest—
Till all those loathsome dregs to bottom drop,
While their aspiring spirits foam at top.
Yet, when these fussy fermentations end,
And incongruities no more contend,
Finding all competition still, or fled,
They soon grow sour—insipid—flat—or dead!

How does each proud, perturbed, bosom swell,
To see some labouring Creature quit his Cell;
And rise by industry, or dint of Parts,
The Man of Science—Genius—Wit—or Arts—
Some Individual well-deserving fame,
Much more than thousands boasting blazon'd Name;
Whose conduct merits more than common praise;
Should such presume to mount ev'n One-horse-Chaise,
Tho' He decline a Chariot, Chaise, or Coach,
They vent their spleen by every vile reproach;
And prove by vengeful pray'r their envious hate,
That some disastrous fall may seal his fate.
They scorn all honour Diligence acquires,
Dreading a deluge of mechanic Squires—
But, tho' their Carriage thus creates alarms,
They pique themselves such Puppies have no Arms;
No boasting motto—coronet—or crest—
Nor tawdry Slaves in motley liveries drest—
Yet fear base Heralds, for the sake of bribes,
Should choose atchievements from their titl'd Tribes;
Then, they, like proud Compeers, might ape court airs,
And raise retinues blotch'd, and badg'd, like Their's!

How would Diogenes with wildness rave,
Did he behold each patch'd and powder'd Slave—
How must Democritus, in flippant fit,
Feel his tough sides with peals of laughter split—
Or Heraclitus weep, were he to view
Such prim Jack-puddings patch'd with every hue!
Their wrists all ruffled—bosoms frill'd all down—
Each like a Courtier, stiff like unlick'd Clown—
His heart must melt to see Man's dire disgrace
Among those Monkeys of the human Race!

'Twould puzzle any plain Plebeian's Nous
To mark the train of Tools throughout the House;
Yet might, without the least pretence to Wit
The actual circumstances often hit,
Conceiving, what is oft the real case,
The Servant fill'd the dup'd Employer's place.

But none in Lavaterian school well-read,
By silk or broad-cloth would be much misled;
For, tho' their impudence, and ignorance, might,
Encourag'd much, usurp their Patron's right;
Such measuring, weighing, Minds, by marks, without,
Would find the rest all forgery throughout—
For those that exercise the mimic Arts,
Without exception, over-act their parts;
And, while their pride puts on a lordly dress,
Expose more palpably their nakedness—
And should they copy the Sign-painter's plan,
And write, o'er all, “This is a Gentleman,”
Their vacant face, where few ideas play,
Affected pomp, and foolish speech would say,
Unmeaning mouth, and cold, cadaverous eye,
'Twas all pretence—a base—low—bare-fac'd Lie!
But such deceptions give no great offence;
They magnify their Master's consequence,
Who prove, by showing such preposterous Elves,
Some human Creature sillier than Themselves—
Some Lady's lap-dog, in their canine herd,
More snarling—snappish—sordid—and absurd!

The larger multitude of motley troops
That Folly gathers, and that Fashion groups;
The matchless Beaux, which Observation meets,
That perch on Carriages, or stroll the streets;
That stand in lines, or straggle all alone,
To run on errands, or attend on Ton—
All, all display some deep-degrading notes,
On galligaskins, waistcoats, hats, and coats—
For Vanity contrives, by art and trick,
To make some sign on each exterior stick;
Pride still pursuing its illiberal end,
To prove what numbers on its wealth depend—
Not ev'n on sables is the farce forgot,
Black frocks, and jackets, show the shoulder-knot.
Democritus must burst did he stand by,
To mark their dress of each prismatic dye;
With multitudes of mingled hues beside,
Contriv'd by Vanity for pamp'ring Pride.
The strong-contrasted shades, and shapes, of stuffs,
Composing nether-garments, capes, and cuffs—
Like puppets, part of Punchinello race
Bedizen'd oe'r with work, or worsted lace.
Long tassels, dangling down, of many a tinge,
With flaps and butt'n-holes, edg'd with frogs, or fringe,
The miniature atchievements, link'd in teams,
With rough embroidery, brightening all the seams;
And, that no mark of majesty be lost,
The metal-buttons blaze with crests embost;
Discriminating Ranks, in curious shapes,
To make badg'd Brethren look like hordes of Apes.
Still the tame Slaves, in pitiable plight,
Admire those marks, with ideot's low delight;
And when distinguish'd with a Ducal crown,
On Dupes of Lords—Earls—Marquisses—look down!
Deem Boors—Mechanics—Tradesmen, much beneath—
That common Drudges scarce deserve to breathe—
Not feeling liberty enough to know
Such Slaves are still the lowest of the Low!
That Shoe-blacks—Dustmen—Sweeps—yea, Nightmen, free,
Stand higher than they—in undefined degree!
Much high'r than ev'n their mighty Masters stand,
Which bow before the Baals of ev'ry Land!
Who think one monosyllable enough
To licence lies, and sanction silliest stuff;
And that the solemn, sacred, name of King,
Confers all merit on the meanest Thing!
In them, what Dolts in common Men despise,
Is good! and great! and wonderfully wise!
Such ne'er in treacherous estimations own
A Fool, or Villain, ever fill'd a Throne!
Compute the value of a Prince's smiles,
O'er pays all servile skill, and courtly toils;
And put a price on miscreant Monarch's nod
Beyond all favours of a Father-God!

What nouns and adjectives those Pimps support!
Rash, lying language current round a Court!
While, ignorant Herds, to puzzle, and appal,
The Servant, by the name of Sovereign, call,
And each Fool-Country feels a cruel curse,
Which plans, and practices, such vile reverse!
Yet each ought stoop to Law's, and Truth's, controul,
In Him who represents, and rules the Whole.

Which is the Servant, which the Master—say,
The Man who gets or he who gives the pay?
When Farmers', or Mechanics', needs engage
Some worthless Fellows for their fixed wage,
To fill some Offices, themselves appoint,
Do they those Creatures as their Kings anoint?

Do Lords, and Commons, with a certain dow'r,
Invest their Stewards with superior Pow'r,
And, though allotting each prescriptive Law,
Approach those Persons with an holy awe?
Or, when amidst their supple circles met,
Adore, and worship, each appointed Pet,
Profoundly trembling with devoted fear,
And bend and bow, as tho' a God was there?
Would they, for duties, which they might demand,
Kneel humbly at his feet, to kiss his hand;
Submitting, tamely, to each worthless whim,
And feel full nothingness, compar'd with Him?

Such Idols, oft, are works of wiley Knaves,
To serve themselves, and make all subjects Slaves.
Then place their Lama in a Temple, proud,
Far from the eyes, prophane, of common Crowd;
To taste like pleasures both at bed and board,
Which needy Dupes' finances ne'er afford—
Who feel, when favoured with such rapturing sight,
Tumultuous motions of intense delight;
With sounds, and attitudes, like frantic Fools,
Or Tyros, just escap'd from prisoning Schools:
Their mad demeanor seen, and uproar heard,
As tho' some wonderous Deity appear'd.

But they who so deceive those ignorant Elves,
Contrive the plan to profit but Themselves—
Make their grand Monarch but a Treasury-box,
While they keep all the keys who fram'd the locks;
And with a poor pretence of common good
Force from each Labourer half his livelihood.

Did once the Poor perceive the various tricks
That Despots practice in their politics,
They'd not long study, toil, and starve, so tame,
For tyrant Masters, with so slight a claim.
But, with firm fortitude, and courage warm,
Determine to obtain a full Reform.

If all Men clearly saw the Christian scheme,
Such solar light would dissipate this dream;
They'd mark their Master's speech and plainly see
His love allow'd no difference in degree—
For, when two proud Apostles held debate,
About that blessed Master's future State;
And with a bold ambition, sought to soar
Above their Brethren, of the sacred Corps,
What was His answer? “Gentile nations may
Acknowledge Lords, and suffer tyrant sway,
But, guided still by maxims just and true,
It never can, nor shall, be so with You!”

But 'tis not Ignorance, in the Crowd, alone,
That thrills, or trembles, at a Tyrant's Throne;
Nor is it simply want of larger wealth
That makes the Million stoop to Art, and Stealth,
By tamely yielding up their little store
To make their livings less, their Master's more,
But bands of soldiers, bayonets, and swords,
That strip their bodies bare, and starve their boards.

All tyrant Natures push some private scheme
To climb the pinnacle of Pow'r, supreme;
Or, with perpetual application, plan
Their plots, to come as near it as they can.
Indulge each Vice, or every Virtue feign,
The summit of their selfish views to gain—
Their Protean figures varying every hour,
To hit the humour of some Dupe in pow'r—
Bear each rebuff—and countenance each crime—
Fawn to stark Fools—o'er former Friendships climb—
Draw o'er an envious heart the veil of Love,
And hold the stirrup for each Tool above;
But like true Popes present the scornful toe,
To spurn each prostrate Devotee below.
The calls of Nature—Conscience—Heav'n—disclaim,
To raise their Honour—Fortune—Influence—Fame—
Nor e'er once deviates from this general rule,
The greatest Tyrant is the greatest Tool!

'Mid Scenes of nonsense, flattery, and fuss,
In every shape of social compacts, thus
The groveling little, and dependent Great,
Thro' all departments of both Church, and State;
Thro' Camps, and Cloisters; Palaces, and Plains;
In all Societies, and Ranks, and Reigns,
In Clubs, and Families, from foot to head,
'Mong Clowns, and Scholars; brutish, or well-bred;
With mutual guilt, the wicked, and the weak,
In all they think—and look—and act—and speak—
Idolatry, and Despotism, still tends,
Tow'rds proud Supremacy, from Man's fag-ends.
The Rich and Pow'rful tow'rds the Throne aspire;
Strain hard for ampler Posts, or Honours high'r—
To seize some shooting Stars, or shining Strings;
With noisey Nicknames, retail'd round by Kings;
Or dirty drudgery, long, in Life, endure,
With anxious cares, for some snug Sinecure.
The next, beneath, all rivals in the race,
Squeeze—wriggle—run—to gain superior place—
The same desires endeavouring, thro' the Whole,
To thread the wicket, or to gain the goal.
By cunning scheme—chicane—or apt address,
Hunt filmy bubbles of false blessedness;
Which, when pursu'd, oft burst before they're caught,
Or, grasp'd too eager, vanish into nought.
The last and least of all the cringing Crowd,
As vain—as venal—politic—and proud—
By sordid meanness, or manœuvering, strive
To rise by roguery, or by theft to thrive;
For gold put off base brass, or plated coin
To purchase claims in rising ranks to shine.
All but the Beggar, free from toil and care,
Feeds on what Fools, or Parishes will spare.

The wealthier Class, with canvas all unfurl'd,
Thro' carnal commerce aim to win the World!
Round rocks, and sands, and desperate whirlpools, sail,
To court, and catch, frail Fortune's gusty gale.
Thro' rugged roads, bye-paths, or quagmires trudge,
Grieve not at labour—no hard study grudge—
But care and trouble brave, both night and day,
For higher honours, or superior pay.
Each wing'd, both head and feet, a Mercury flies,
With store of tattle, and large forge for lies.
All trying fawning trick, and flattering strain,
Make each proud mansion a foul pagan fane—
With priestly pride round every idol dance,
To gain fresh glory, or frail pow'r advance.

But high Ambition, which would claim a Crown,
Will drudge as hard to keep inferiors down;
And once of pow'r, and privilege, possest,
Will tyrannize, and tread down all the rest.
Combin'd with weakness, in a female form,
Will wink at treachery—at each trifle storm—
But, when a female menial comes in view
With cloak, or bonnet of forbidden hue,
Like lean cameleon, sickens at the sight,
Watching their colour, crimson, blue, or white;
While kind construction, charitably, thinks
No Maid is modest dress'd in pales, or pinks.
Long bows of ribbon—lappets edg'd with lace—
Are certain signs of robbery, or disgrace;
And each low Creature's but a common hack,
Whose head, and shoulders shine in ought but black—
Yet ne'er is known fastidiously nice,
O'er one, who, hearkening to her kind advice,
Will treat her hungry ears with petty tale,
Of each Yoke-fellow, idle—false—or frail—
Thievish, or thoughtless—boisterous, or bold—
Squeamish or queer—sly—slattern—cormorant—scold—
Or tells low tales of Hall, or Kitchen, chat,
May wear white cloak—or any colour'd hat—
May gain more favours—fix her firm regard—
Augmented wages from her first reward—
May seize supreme prerogative, and pow'r—
Then rest on promises of prouder dow'r—
While kept a check on every other Elf,
May boast full-licens'd liberty Herself—
May win male Slaves with wanton air and mien,
And pour low language, impious and obscene.

Thus Dupes, in pow'r, cajoling Dupes in pay,
Dispense ephemeron hopes from day to day;
Who some few sunshine hours may flaunt, and flirt;
Then drop, at eve, and perish in the dirt.
And thus the Great still trample on the small,
While each would wish to grasp, and govern, all—
These branding those, who boast not noble birth,
As foul off-scouring and vile scum, of Earth.
Tho' this, mayhap, some weak, but wealthy, Cit,
Devoid of knowledge—learning—taste—or Wit;
Or buoyant Court-balloon, a hollow mass,
Compos'd of silk, and varnish; gilt, and gas—
Some impious Prelate, or immoral Priest,
Much less, among true Christians, than the least—
Some haughty Statesman, or imperious Peer,
Whom poor Folk ne'er affect, nor wise Folk fear—
Compounds of pride, of insolence, and lust;
Reason's disgrace—Philosophy's disgust—
Kings' titled spawn of Children, sprung by chance—
They manage matters, now, far worse in France—
When manag'd better, Blockheads would not learn,
But to vile vomit Gallias' dogs return.
Few exercise their Common sense, to scan,
By Tory-twilight, the just Rights of Man;
Nor look across the eastern waves, to see,
These Fools now worse enslav'd, which once were free!
Still feodal darkness dims Men's mental eyes,
While purblind Prejudice scarce half descries,
Thro' Habits' medium, what to all belongs,
While domineering Despots rule the Throngs.

So long low Broods have Tyrant-Riders borne,
They note not Courtier's curb, nor Patriot's scorn.
Let legal Grooms pull tight each saddle-girt,
Nor seem to see disgrace, nor grutch at hurt.
Fresh saddles fitted neither kick, nor flinch,
Nor know their bits and bridles rein and pinch.
So long have suffer'd galling whip, and spur,
They now ask no deliverance—no demur;
But wales, and wounds, still silently sustain,
Like Trees, or Plants, insensible to pain;
But more like Brutes, in every other sense,
They seem to feel, yet suffer no offence—
Like Asses, crouch beneath each crushing load—
Still trudge, and toil, thro' Life's rough, wearying, road;
And while the weight's laid on by Lords and Knights,
They boast, like Bigots, all's their Sovereign's rights;
And when their King confirms each monstrous tax,
The burden's light, and all restraints but lax—
While, tho' they feel the snaffle—rowel—thong—
Think Ministers, like Monarchs, can't do wrong.
By Rulers, base, in blinds and muzzles led,
With Rehoboams' blustering at their head;
To beggary submits each abject Fool,
Halter'd, and harrass'd, like the Horse or Mule—
In mean mechanic occupations plods,
Or tamely cultivates the teeming clods.
In drudgery spend their talents, time, and strength,
With daily labour eighteen hours in length;
Or ply, with plastic skill and dexterous parts,
Their heavy lot of Life, in various Arts;
All clad in filth, and fed with coarsest food,
Still toiling on to breed a starving Brood;
While greedy Potentates, and Fools, in pow'r,
The fruits of half their industry devour.

Would steward Kings, and Counsellors, be just,
And manage, Christian-like, their Country's trust—
As Deputies maintain an upright plan,
True representatives of God and Man!
Would they the body politic controul,
As grosser Organs by the godlike Soul—
With Christian Justice—charity—and zeal,
Watch—guard—and guide, for good, the Commonweal—
With honest warrants, witness'd by the heart,
Compel each Member to perform its part—
Urge every Limb to help in social Life,
Confining fraud, and cruelty, and strife—
Let true Religion find their first regard,
And moral Worth experience prompt reward—
All Virtue's Patrons—Vice's full reverse—
Their Country's Conservators—not its curse—
Bless'd in themselves—endeavouring all to bless—
Still widening spheres of human happiness,
Then might they merit permanence with pow'r,
Enlarg'd authority, with ampler dow'r—
Find every Individual's firm defence,
Good Men's caresses—wise Men's confidence.
But should Supremacy, wrapt up in Self,
Grasp at all pow'r—accumulate all pelf—
O'er Slavery smile—on patriot firmness frown—
And deem all Rights concenter'd in a Crown—
Conceive all Traytors, or inveterate Foes,
Who e'er o'er-stretch'd Prerogative oppose;
Still looking forward for more selfish ends,
Relax all Justice to indulge its Friends;
Who, in return still buttress up the Throne,
Knowing its interest involves their own.
Should it, profuse, proud lordly titles pour,
Not in refreshing drops, but drowning show'r;
That cringing Peers may kingly Pow'r support,
And swell Corruption's currents round a Court;
Till a full deluge, running o'er the Realms,
All natural Rights, and Liberties, o'erwhelms.
Bestows no pow'r, or Wealth, on pious Worth,
But each licentious Sovereign's bastard Birth;
Its highest Honours—most productive Posts,
In preference to its own created Hosts;
Confirming, to their spurious Pedigree,
Each guilty Favour, and each groveling Fee;
Squeez'd from the sweat of Artist, or of Hind,
Yea all the honest Members of Mankind.
For flattery should confer each proud employ
On cringing Sycophant, or Culprit, sly;
Those Creatures taught at Court to smile and smirk,
And ready to adopt all dirty work—
Tools form'd to bow, or bully; grin, or growl;
Leap o'er God's Laws, nor dread to damn the Soul.
Should forge new Offices, split each old Place,
To multiply the parasitic Race.
Should waste a Nation's wealth in abject bribes;
Corrupting Towns—suborning country Tribes,
To huckster all their legislative Rights,
To Treacherous Burgesses, and bribing Knights;
Whose perjur'd hearts, in hope of paltrey prey,
Would send Truth—Justice—Freedom—far away—
Leave Wisdom—Virtue—Learning, in the lurch,
To starve in poorest pastures of the Church,
That every Lubber, of a lordly Breed,
From well-corn'd mangers, and full racks may feed;
And all the sacred constitution wrench,
To seat Time-servers on the Bishop's bench.
Preferring most abominable Brutes,
To strengthen bloody deeds, and base disputes,
Involving millions in a mass of debt
By usurpation, or mad, mulish pet;
Fond of such frolics, with sinister view,
To lay, on Slaves, vast loads of levies, new—
To keep their passions, with their purses, down,
Lest they should offer force, or dare to frown.
Enlarging bags of gold, by borrowed loan,
To gratify fresh Friends, and prop the Throne—
Who, to secure their interest in the State,
Condemn their Fellow-men to cruel fate—
Doom'd to the plough, the anvil, mill, or mine,
That Fops in ease, and affluence, may shine.
And should the Monarch, 'mid the slaughtering Trade,
Which Demons' malice can no more degrade;
Still those transactions of a Monarch's mind,
Should show most perfect patterns to Mankind.
Should Kings, in that most curst of Trades, betray,
And rob the Warrior of his blood-earn'd pay—
Should they, with all the cant of courtly Art,
Perform the Tyrant's and the Traytor's part—
Each martial and maritime office fill
With Striplings, void of courage—strength—and skill—
Mere drivelling Tyros—totally denied
All warlike qualities, but, pomp and pride—
Whose pert hauteur, and insolence, would tread
On Veteran's vaunted scars, and hoary head;
Thus damping ardour in each hostile host,
The hopes of Honour, and the pride of Post—
Snatch praise and profit from true martial Men;
And make their wounds all smart and bleed agen.
With Penury's pence, in wanton spendings, sport,
To please the listless Loiterers round his Court,
On Armies gathering mean, inglorious, wreaths,
On bloodless Commons, Hills, and blasted Heaths,
Where Drones and Dastards with high courage glow,
To meet, in mimic fight, with friendly Foe—
Or Beaux, or Bantlings, on the watery way
With eagerness engage in fearless fray;
While playful pulses beat, in bosoms brave,
Encountering phantoms on the foamy wave.
Such Potentates are found but Nature's Fools;
Arch Wits' amusements, and Court-Intrigue's Tools;
For fall'n Man's faults and reformation rais'd,
By Christians, pitied—none but Pandars prais'd!

In Hist'ry's records, thro' the Countries round,
Such frail unkingly characters are found;
And, in this Realm should such mean Monarch rise,
Whose Mind was pleas'd with paltry tricks and toys;
While such transactions, and expensive sights,
Were all the Court's desires, and King's delights,
Then would such Sovereign look for Things like these,
Such Courtiers cringe, for Luxury and Ease,
Whose morbid Minds suspect no lack of health,
While wasting time, and squandering Country's wealth—
With wild Insanity's tumultuous change,
From place to place, thro' mad Amusements range—
With hungry eyes, and ears, insatiate, seek,
Such trifles as would tinge ev'n Children's cheek.
While Courts, with stupid rapture, hear, and gaze,
O'er loud explosions, and expensive blaze;
The Christian's pain'd, while Candour weighs their worth,
Their baneful tendency, and demon birth;
Reason unrav'lling all the complex clues
Of martial discipline, and mock reviews.
Sees, retrospective, and prospective harms,
Arise from butchering Bands, with hostile Arms;
And fears, lest Lust and Pride should find a plea
For venting vengeance on the troubled Sea;
While scenes of slaughtering strife with woe, and pain,
Convulse and ravage groaning Earth again.

How can the Soul suppress a painful thought,
Ev'n o'er sham fires, and conflicts, idly fought—
O'er cruel Troops and Tyrants in command,
Who spread Hell's ensigns o'er both Sea and Land!
The Sons of Pillage, and the Sons of Pride,
By Fiends, prophane, and Profligates, employ'd!
All meditating Minds must feel offence,
Contemplating both Vice, and vast expence!
The pompous trappings—steeds—and rich array—
The costly arms—accoutrements—and pay
The wicked spendings, and the wanton spoil,
Drawn from tax'd Slaves, in Trade, and Slaves of Toil!

What clogging Taxes are sustain'd by Trade
To fill the Park, and furnish the Parade!
What vast privations Farmers undergo,
For such proud finery, such superfluous show!
What countless comforts Artizans resign
To make the echoing shores of Hampshire shine!
What levies from Mechanics' labours rise,
For sport, in each Spring-morning's exercise!
More aggravated rates poor Hinds must yield,
To spend in Farce, when Princes take the Field;
And numerous fruits of toil, in fumes must fly
To charm weak Chief with foolish feu-de-joye!
But famish'd Families must labour Years,
Midst wants and troubles, weariness and tears,
To yield proud Potentate one Day's delight,
Mere sound—smoke—fire—in mimic naval fight!!

What is the bent of all these hostile Bands,
Incumbering this and all the neighb'ring Lands?
Which all on industry of others thrive,
And bring no wax, nor honey to the hive;
But by their dress, their forage, and their fees,
Destroy much produce of the labouring Bees.
These, thro' their time, continue constant Slaves,
Till sunk, untimely, to their sordid graves;
While those that rule them, Candour must confess,
To arbitrary Laws are Slaves no less—
Slaves, by firm oaths, for waste, and murder, made,
Whose crimson coverings indicate their trade—
Fattening Earth's sinful climes with sanguine flood,
Bred up in riot—rapine—spoil—and blood!

Such Tools, 'tis true, are, now, a needful Ill,
While Crime, and Folly, every Country fill;
But what advantage to the Poor proceeds
Whose industry accoutres—clothes—and feeds?
They need no Warriors for their Wealth's defence;
The Poor, to Property, have no pretence—
Their only property, their only wealth,
Is time and sense, and, sometimes, strength and health.
And these must all be spent for proud support,
Of cruel Guardians, and a graceless Court;
And when, with toil, sense, health, or strength decay,
Their time, to misery soon becomes a prey!
They no protection for their Freedom ask;
That's but an empty Name—a constant Task—
Their only Liberty, thought—care—and toil—
To slave with tools, or till an alien soil—
And what's the hope to which endeavours tend?
To study—labour—starve—till Life's full end!
While that Life lasts on tiresome terms, like these,
They find no Friend—respect—nor hope—nor ease—
No object worthy of fond Love, or Fear,
Whose poor protection must be bought so dear—
Nought but their pure, imperishable Soul,
Far, far beyond all Tyranny's controul!
Their Lives Earth's Lords will anxiously protect,
Self-love would suffer by their gross neglect.
They want those Arts the worthy Poor possess,
To furnish fire, with dwellings, food, and dress.
Deep conduits that receive their toil and care,
With all the pence Necessity can spare—
Small tubes returning mites, for Misery's meed,
Whence Want's frail, filter'd, dribbling drops proceed.
But still, whilst Life, so miserably, lasts,
Wrapt in coarse rags, and fed on scant repasts,
Subjects of scorn, and objects of disgust,
Whose labours pamper their proud Pomp, and Lust!
And while for them these Negroes work, and weep,
Their Folly digs out channels, wide and deep,
In which Wealth pours, spontaneous, ample streams,
To feed all Fancy craves, or Fashion schemes—
Or, thro' capacious pipes gross Riches glide,
To feast, and fatten, Appetites and Pride!

But chief, in vapours, Penury drizzles down,
To thrifty Courtiers, and still thirsty Crown;
Whose Treasury, like the Sea, receives all rills
Which drip from woods, or ooze from fields and hills—
Which courtly Cunning's distillation drains
From reeking vallies, and from weeping plains;
From reservoirs, in mines, which skill can draw
With forcing-pumps, and engines, fram'd by Law—
Or what State-chemistry extracts, in drops,
From furnaces and forges; sheds and shops—
From sweat of toiling Man, or labouring Beast,
The mighty mass grows, constantly increas'd;
From every melting eye, and moisten'd hand,
Till every source seems dry, thro' all the Land—
But scarce a single particle returns,
To feed those Fountains, or to fill those Urns—
To make more fresh and fair each rude retreat,
Each Plain more pleasant, each Recess more sweet;
All only pouring from its plenteous stores,
A showery deluge on dependent shores;
Or arrogantly swells Ambition's tides,
Flooding rank pastures, on proud river-sides—
Replenishing each pouch before too rich,
And mounting Pride to more mischievous pitch.

Yet operative Heav'n, in ways unknown,
Supports the Cottage, and controuls the Throne—
Empow'rs the Sun's evaporating beams
To lick the surface of such Lakes and Streams,
Transporting treasure thro' the ambient air,
That Need the nurturing drops, and dews, may share;
To distant tracts of barren regions borne,
To mounds that wither, and to wilds that mourn!
Still to refresh Man's feeble, fainting Train,
Then thro' Taxations rills return again.

What feeling Mortal but must flame or freeze,
While marking mad enormities like these!
Must feel his sympathetic bosom bleed,
Noting the pomp of Wealth, and press of Need!
While, fix'd in thought, on such afflicting themes,
He views mass'd Man's extravagant extremes!
Beholds what's wrong but cannot make it right,
While passions wrestle, and affections fight!
How Toil, in tatters, o'er poor scraps repines,
While Indolence in fat, and frippery shines;
Till Want, which all proud Luxury supplies,
In wretchedness despairs—and droops—and dies!

Not thus, in secular concerns, alone,
Despotic Pow'r subjects their Souls to groan,
But makes Religion, which, by Heav'n, was meant
A fount of joy, a cause of Discontent!
Meant to restore lost Paradise agen,
And bring down banish'd Peace to dwell with Men;
While they, by Grace, to Happiness might grow,
With angel tempers, in this Life, below!
Some precious tastes, and glorious glimpses, prove,
Like what Saints fully find in Bliss above!

But, trembling still, the Saints on Earth rejoice,
Midst fears, and doubts, in this fair Paradise;
For still among fair trees foul Serpents hide,
To venom all with perfidy and pride,
And cunningly infuse thro' mortal clods,
Hell's old deception—“Ye shall be as Gods!”
Still Heav'n's dread Sovereignty, and Pow'r, defy,
And give God's Truths the colour of a Lie.
Still in the Church's haunts such reptiles hid,
The blessed fruits of Knowledge now forbid;
And Life's fair Tree, but little hope affords,
While strongly guarded still with flaming Swords.
Still Pow'r despotic, round the Garden, draws
A magic Circle, of levitic Laws;
That not a Soul can o'er the boundary climb,
But Men of Might—high Hope—or Faith, sublime.
With Might enough, inflam'd with selfish zeal
To challenge Heav'n by most profane appeal—
Hope, bright enough to dissipate the gloom
That hangs o'er hours of Death, and Judgment's doom—
And Faith sufficient to invoke, and vow,
What Common-sense, and Conscience, ne'er allow.
But Kings and Convocations pounce for prey,
Tho' neither Priest, nor Potentate, obey—
Or humbler Hypocrites, who bow their knees,
And basely kiss the Book, to claim the Fees.

Such is the form each Candidate confines,
Plain Laics, Priests, or Prelates, styl'd Divines.
Such are the pliant passports which admit
To every various office, Fool, or Wit—
Within the Church the Scholar, or the Clown;
And, in the State confirm the regal Crown,
With all the manifold, and motley Hosts,
That occupy the countless legal Posts,
Which form the carnal rabble round a Court,
And kingly Consequence, and Pow'r, support;
Not for the love of those that Scepters sway,
But various Benefits their Crowns convey.
By sacramental tests must all be bound,
The Minister that's mitred—King that's crown'd—
All, all, alike, most solemnly must swear,
Whate'er their principles, or practice, are.
Alike the Prince—the Placeman—and the Priest—
The wise—the weak—the lordliest, and the least;
Both idol Courts, and Christians that believe,
Must swear the same, and sacraments receive.
Doubt is the sad unpardonable Sin
That keeps poor pious Souls from entering in.
Each Child of Adam who feels fear, or doubt,
Must kill Conviction, or still stay without.
The squeamish Clown whose ticklish Conscience loaths
To swallow dread accommodating Oaths;
And christian Courtier, if such Being be,
Can get no priestly, or profane, Degree—
Or, while one conscientious scruple's held,
Must, blushingly, give up, or pine, expell'd—
With loaves and fishes never can be cramm'd,
But be for follies driven, and doubtings damn'd—
All deeply sentenc'd to eternal death,
Who stammer out, or lisp their Shibboleth.
The Church enjoining rules for word and thought,
Clear Conscience ne'er attests, nor Christ e'er taught.
But Law and Gospel both set quite aside,
To check prelatic pow'r—and kingly pride.
That Clowns, like Bigots, might a Bible read,
Not find a Pope in each preposterous Creed;
To strengthen and confirm Christ's faithful Code,
That Ignorance never might mistake the Road;
But superstition, prejudic'd, and blind,
Long floundering on might drop all doubts behind,
And, not devoid of Grace, and Reason's ray,
With dog-and-bell might safely feel its Way.

Thus, tho' the Church Rome's papal Chief disclaims,
'Tis but a bare dispute about mere Names—
Plain Popery still, tho' shown with novel shape,
With linen or prunella, silk or crape—
Whether in lawn, snow-white, or sable, sleeves,
It dogmatizes still, and still deceives.
Whether in mitred guise, or ragged gown,
All strongly lies intrench'd behind the Crown—
Tho' not a triple Crown 'tis much the same,
All earth and Heav'n still come within its claim,
As vast its views—as dangerous its design,
To drag in all things, human, and divine.
Whether in Surplice clad, or hooded Cowl,
Some Mystery's muffled up to trick the Soul.
And whether Pope, despotic, reigns, alone,
Bellowing his thunders from belligerent Throne.
With legions, arm'd, governs, like pagan God,
Innumerous Monks, and Friars, beneath his Nod
With troops of Jesuits, who, continual, wait,
In each trickt Country to betray the State—
By each curs'd stratagem, and cunning Art,
To act each traiterous Politician's part—
Or, arbitrary, kingly Tyrant reigns,
And, with proud Myrmidons, like pow'r maintains,
While full ten thousand Priests ply unfair Trade,
To soothe, or supple—puzzle, or persuade;
All cordially combin'd, with state intrigue,
To shut Schismatics out from holy League;
Decreeing, jointly, all they judge most fit,
To make ten millions to their Sense submit.
All self-selected from the supple throng,
Become sole arbiters of right and wrong—
Truth resting on their Sense, and learned skill,
Infallibility, continuing, still.

Hath Heav'n, exclusively, such Sense consign'd
To Men in Schools and Colleges confin'd?
Is heavenly Wisdom never well discern'd,
By Guides, but those, in Greek and Latin learn'd?
Or can the heart produce no perfect fruits
But where the head abounds in Hebrew roots?
Can classic Sophs, alone, completely spy
Where Revelation's difficulties lie,
And with clear argument, and close remark,
Convince the doubtful, and illume the dark?
Are all religious mysteries rightly known,
In learned Universities alone;
Each Understanding still increas'd in strength
As erudite research extends its length?
Are Scholars all from contradictions free,
When each attains his Bachelor's degree?
Doth Reason, or doth Judgment, never trip,
When reach'd the altitude of Mastership?
Or is the Truth with Error never mix'd,
When Doctors' dignity is fully fix'd?
All difficult, disputed, Doctrines clear,
When once arriv'd at such superior sphere?
Are heads made perfect, hearts become divine
When their grave Synods give such hallow'd sign?
Can all true holiness, and honour, claim,
When talismanic Symbol ekes the Name?
Is spiritual discernment always found,
Join'd with each cabalistic sign, and sound;
Or do they ne'er possess that purer light
Till hoisted up to full prelatic height?
When thus exalted to superior Place;
And all proclaim—Your Lordship—or—Your Grace—
Do those in these high'st Order set aside
Low Lusts—mean Passions—Vanity—and Pride?
Then become humble—simple—meek—and mild—
And wear their honours like a little Child?
Like true Apostles do they daily plod,
To raise the glory of their Saviour God?
Now, so exalted to prelatic Stall,
Forego each honour and still give Him all?
Ne'er let impure desire possess their breast
Or wish for something by a friend possest?
Can they impart, from their superior post,
Converting Grace? or give the Holy Ghost?
From their transforming touch, and solemn charge,
Make Deacons feel their faculties enlarge;
Or note illumination much increas'd,
When each becomes a consecrated Priest?
Can they a portion of pure Spirit spare,
When mounted up as Chiefs in Moses' chair?
Can they by laying on their holy Hand
Make Weakness wise, or Dullness understand?
With elevated eye and look devout,
Draw help from Heav'n to turn the strong Man out?
Their topic and their speech so well contrive
Their quick'ning heart shall make dead Men alive;
And emphasis and accent so arrange,
That Nature, fall'n, shall find a christian change?

Still Crispin meant not Learning to impugn,
Nor judg'd true Science, or pure Arts, jejune—
Ne'er wish'd instinctive Parts, or innate Pride,
Should set the learned Languages aside—
He only deem'd no Knowledge so acquir'd,
Should spurn at purer Truths by Heav'n inspir'd.
Such dull Advantages should ne'er dispense
With genuine Genius, or true native Sense.
Or Earth's poor Education e'er explode
The nobler gifts of Grace, by Heav'n bestow'd.
He never strove by cunning, or chicane,
To state one useful Ordination vain—
Subordination, or blest Order, spurn'd,
Or wish'd one virtuous Statute overturn'd—
Ne'er hop'd wild Chaos would return agen,
Yet loath'd those Laws that injur'd meaner Men—
Despis'd not needful Policy, nor Pow'r,
But hated all which dared the Poor devour—
Would, gladly, grievous Tyranny controul
Abominating Despots—Heart and Soul;
But most in Priests o'er-bearing Pride abhorr'd,
Pretending to be like their lowly Lord.

The first Disciples our Redeemer chose
In pure pursuits resembled none of those.
They were not call'd from courtly troops of State,
Or polish'd circles of the Rich and Great.
They, School—and College—learning ne'er could boast,
Or occupation of superior Post.
The simple Minds of that selected few,
No soul-sophisticating Science knew;
Nor proudly aim'd to shew their shining Parts
In false Philosophy, or useless Arts.
By hypocritic tricks ne'er strove to rise,
Or mark'd out moral turnpikes, to the Skies.
With metaphysic wings ne'er meant their flight
Should soar beyond the reach of human sight.
On logic-ladders never aim'd to climb
Beyond the bounds of simple and sublime;
Or strove to fathom Truths immense, profound,
By syllogistic steps from round to round;
But with their Master's maxims quite content,
And treading in His track where'er He went.
Ne'er blinded Reason, or bewilder'd Sense,
With Rhetoric's flow'rs, or philt'ring Eloquence;
Nor taught by technic terms, or frantic fits,
Scribes—Lawyers—Pharisees—and Hypocrites.
In temporal Architecture quite unskill'd,
No earthly mansions ever meant to build;
Or raise Ambition's battlements and tow'rs,
With clay and slime, by puny mortal pow'rs,
To subjugate all Nature—Death—and Hell,
And take, by storm, Heav'n's holy Citadel.
They were content, in calm inferior sphere,
With any human habitations here—
Content with Wealth of Christ's atoning Worth,
And boundless comforts from their second Birth—
Thus, while they travell'd on their temporal road,
Still daily conning Heav'n's eternal Code—
Instructing learn'd and unlearn'd; Age and Youth,
From Inspiration's apophthegms of Truth;
Ascending still, tow'rds blissful Seats, above,
On scaffolds rais'd by Faith, and Hope, and Love!

Tho' all the antient apostolic Bands,
Like modern Prelates laid on special Hands;
And o'er each head, like them pronounc'd their Pray'rs,
They knew no efficacy could be Their's—
Ne'er tried to make their heavenly Mission known
By delegating Pow'r to Priests alone,
But all Believers in each faithful Host
Receiv'd the influence of the Holy Ghost.
No speech is now inspir'd, nor wonderous works,
Are e'er conferr'd, on crafty, selfish, Clerks—
No cloven tongues of fire; nay scarce a spark
Appears, to lead their pupils thro' the dark—
No Holy Ghost's in modern Bishop's gift,
Tho' they their Friends to fattening Livings lift—
No living coal from Altars can convey,
To touch their lips, and teach to preach and pray.
No understanding on their Minds bestow,
Or make their Souls with sacred ardour glow—
Their hearts with Faith, or Hope, or Love, supply,
With genuine Happiness, or heavenly Joy.
Ne'er make one Head celestial Knowledge learn,
And gracious Truth, from gross Mistake discern;
To guide their Flocks in faithful Gospel Path,
And save their Spirits from perpetual Wrath—
No! only He who form'd the Heav'ns, and Earth,
And gave Man first, can give him second, Birth!
That Spirit, who, o'er Chaos mov'd, at first,
And adamantine bars of Darkness burst,
Alone can dissipate dark Nature's Night,
And say to human Souls—“Let there be Light.”
He, only, who with fulgence fill'd the Skies
Can make the Sun of Righteousness arise.
Who fashion'd Matter to Man's moving Form,
And will'd the circulating juices warm,
Alone can renovating pow'r impart
And fill with Light, and Love, the Head, and Heart.
Thus, as the Father fill'd up Nature's plan
The operative Spirit acts on Man—
On every faculty of Mind and Soul,
All subject to His infinite controul—
Moving, at first, like weak, or mighty, wind,
O'er the wild Chaos of his gloomy Mind;
Then forms a feeble Light, by whose faint ray,
His Soul perceives a glimmering dawn of Day.
Then, in his Heart the Heav'n from Earth divides,
And acts on Passion's fluctuating tides;
While on the face of all the naked ground,
The first-fruits of his faith, and Hope, are found.
Next greater Lights his kindling Soul illume,
And scatter more remains of graceless gloom;
When, with alternate change of gracious gleams,
Now Day's bright blaze prevails; now Night's pale beams;
Or, tho' no clouds o'er-cast his Hemisphere,
Sometimes but twinkling Stars faint sparks appear:
The Sunshine's like the Saviour's glorious Grace—
The Moon, like Reason, fills the second Place—
The Stars, like Teachers, for instruction given,
Or Truth's thick-scatter'd thro' the Book of Heav'n.
There Man, with pow'rful Faculties, may trace
The great Creator's Providence and Grace.
The noblest proofs of boundless Love and Pow'r,
And types of Life's ascent, and setting hour;
Or use, as Pilots, to point out the Way
To far more blest delights, and brighter Day!

When these resplendent Lights had thus display'd
The shapes and hues of all in Nature made;
The Fish were form'd, depicting Appetites,
And Fowls that soar aloft like Fancy's flights;
Beasts—useful Cattle—Insects—creeping Things—
Which tread the soil, or soar on wavering wings—
That beautify this fair terrestial Ball,
Or, o'er its face, offensive, creep, or crawl;
Resemblances of Man, when form'd at first,
And since his Faculties are fall'n, and curs'd—
When with his pow'rs complete, by God's decree,
Made last, the Sovereign both of Land and Sea.
Made in the image of His blessed Son,
When infant Time, at first, his rounds begun;
Till Hell's dire Murd'rer, and base Liar, beguil'd,
Man's menial Pow'rs, and Body's beauty spoil'd—
His Body doom'd to Pain, and Death at length
While Sin destroy'd his intellectual Strength.
This, deep deprav'd by Vanity and Lust;
That doom'd to perish in its parent Dust—
Yet Man, so ruin'd now, is offer'd, still,
Fresh Pow'rs to execute Heav'n's holy Will—
May be, by humbly asking, still supplied
With heavenly helps, to govern, and to guide;
Not suffering worldly Lust—Pride—Passion—Whim—
Or Sin, or Satan, still to govern him.
Each sinful Habit, daily, to subdue,
By Motives—Pow'rs—and Inclinations, new.
Bless'd benefits! which every Soul may share,
All free, for all, as Water—Light, or Air;
Except perverse with Pride, or dead thro' Doubt,
Men close each avenue to keep them out.
A Spirit, pure! each open'd breast may breathe,
Infus'd, like airy Atmosphere beneath.
A boundless Light! for each Believer free,
Whose intellectual eye's inclin'd to see.
A Fountain, ever full! where, all, that will,
May wash all foulness off, or drink their fill.
Not like the broken Cisterns Man has made,
Where all who seek pure beverage, sigh, betray'd—
Not like the Lamps which Man must feed and trim,
That burn but dull, and soon expire, like Him—
Or filthy fumes of His corrupted breath,
Drench'd with Disease, and fill'd with forms of Death;
But like the breezes breath'd in Eden's bow'rs,
Suffus'd with sweets from spicey fruits, and flow'rs,
With pure Afflatus, offer'd praying Souls,
Which Lust—Pride—Passion—Sickness—Death—controuls.
Like splendour flowing from the new-born Sun,
That o'er those unpolluted regions run;
Which, whether human eye-lids wake, or close,
With heav'nly warmth, and glorious radiance, glows—
Which drew no show'ry cloud from hill, or dell,
Before Earth's rebel Occupiers fell;
But only made a daily mist arise,
To cool the ground, yet not obscure the skies:
Or that fair Fount, with current clear and strong,
That thro' the Garden roll'd its stream along.
And, issuing thence, diffused its fourfold tide,
The Earth to chear and comfort, but divide—
A pure Afflatus ever free for those,
Who ne'er, with wilful crime their nostrils close—
A Light which Heav'n no human Soul denies,
Who shut not, wilfully, their mental eyes—
A Fountain ever flowing o'er its brink,
Where none but Demons are forbid to drink;
None but whose impious obstinacy turns
To drink foul draughts from Nature's earthly Urns.
An heavenly Fount! where each faint Soul, that will,
May surely find, and sweetly drink its fill—
Which feels how feebly Earth's Man's strength maintain,
While striving, still, the Gospel Door to gain,
And dreading death, from Heav'n's impending wrath,
Should he mistake the left for right-hand Path,
Which leads to Salem's pure and peaceful streams,
Man's noblest beverage! Angels' happiest themes!

This Way, tho' narrow, and the entrance strait,
No threatening Cherub, now, obstructs the Gate.
No papal Cerberus barks beside the Door,
To fawn on Plenty, but forbid the Poor.
Here Heav'n's, and Earth's, Proprietor unlocks
To every simple, humble, Soul, that knocks;
And persevering Patience, entering in,
May wash all Guilt away, and purge all Sin.
No ignorant Wretch need fear to find the Road,
For Heav'n unclasps its everlasting Code—
Unfolds the Maps which perfect Wisdom plann'd,
With full instructions Fools may understand—
To teach all Travellers the wisest Way,
Lest purblind Pilots lead their steps astray—
While here, and there, along the pathway sides,
Kind Providence has plac'd some gracious Guides,
To stir the slumbering—stimulate the slack—
Refresh the faint—and bring the wandering back;
That none the slightly trodden track may miss,
Which leads thro' bounteous Grace to glorious Bliss!
But, chief, God's Spirit prompts Man's inward part
To exercise the Head, and urge the Heart,
Whose holy operations first begin
By waking Conscience to a sense of Sin.
Then prompts Repentance—breaks the bosom-stone,
And makes the Saviour of lost Sinners known,
With secret influence, like a still, small, voice,
To charm base Rebels to a nobler Choice—
To shun the portal and the turnpike wide—
To wipe off Prejudice—and banish Pride—
To rule each Passion—rein in Appetite—
And make the Law of God their great delight.
To quit the carnal World's wild, thoughtless, throng,
And let calm Conscience tell what's right and wrong;
Instructed by the holy Book of Heav'n,
And Reason, freed from every earthly leav'n—
Thus bless'd with better theologic Rules,
Than impious Colleges, and pliant Schools.

Could modern Prelates, like Apostles, pray,
And this pure Spirit with a touch convey—
The Souls of Priests with sanctity t'inspire,
That scarce would move a modern Clerk's desire;
Unless, like Simon Magus, each, by stealth,
Could sell it, retail, to enlarge his wealth;
And, with new Impositions never miss
Communicating more fat Benefice—
At each Gamaliel's feet then troops would fall,
And vouch vile schemes like unconverted Saul.
Be Pharisees and Persecutors both,
While swallowing, unconcern'd, each sacred Oath—
With close attention watching Chieftain's nod,
Nor care one fig for Conscience—or, for God!

Alas! I fear that lucre-loving Tribe,
Should High-priests tempt them with a bounteous bribe,
Would Judas join, in covetous accord,
And sell for larger sum their sovereign Lord—
Or should some evident advantage plead
Compliance with a Pope, and popish Creed;
With every superstitious trick comply
And eagerly subscribe each Bigot's lie—
To suck their Parents' paps like Tools return,
And better Christians persecute, and burn.

Who, that reflects can doubt such base desires
To cram foul dungeons—kindle Smithfield's fires
For filthy pelf would perpetrate such facts,
Who hears their sermons, and who sees their acts?
Who fears not for their Cellars—Larders—Stores—
Who every day's proceedings well explores—
Feels not a dread for Servants—Daughters—Wives—
Who knows their fleshly Lusts, and frantic Lives—
And marks how devious views, in Age, and Youth,
Fly from all paths of Purity and Truth.

Do Priests, in public Lectures Christ declare
The Son of God—the only good and fair?
One with the Father; and like Him in all
True Christians infinite Perfections call?
With all their talents, and Acquirements, strive
To keep His Honour, with His Name, alive?
Do they, with all their strength, attempt to show,
What brought Him down to Rebel Men, below;
From boundless Bliss, and hymning Hosts, above,
To Men, who mock'd His Pow'r, and spurn'd His Love?
Why He among such desperate Miscreants dwelt,
And felt what never Man, or Angel, felt,
Such sorrow—Persecution—Scorn—and Pain,
As Men and Angels, all, could ne'er sustain;
By Life, and Death, to purchase—woo—and win,
Lost Lives, from Satan—and fall'n Souls from Sin!

Do they enforce His precepts—urge advice?
Show Him the peerless Pearl of countless price?
The heavenly Treasure, hid in earthly field,
And tell their Hearers where, and why, conceal'd?
Why Wisemen part with pomps, and pleasures, here,
For that which Worlds can never buy too dear?
Their temporal profits readily resign,
To purchase that inestimable Mine?
Their Pride relinquish, and their Lusts deny,
That pure, invaluable Pearl to buy?
Adopt the simple treat, and humble trim,
And live a Life of usefulness like Him?
Controul each Passion—curb each Appetite—
Love Him, and Heaven's Law, with pure delight?
Ne'er spurn His Government, or Spirit grieve;
But prove, by practice, that their hearts believe?

Alas! how oft in thought, and word, and deed,
They make both Character and Conscience bleed;
Till Character declines, no more to rise,
And persecuted Conscience pines, and dies!
Vile Ingrates! how with crimes of harshest hue
They pierce the blessed Saviour thro' and thro'!
Not only take new nails, like Roman Bands,
And fix Him to the Cross by feet and hands;
Insult Him, with their taunts, and mockery, there,
But from the spiteful Caitiff catch the spear,
And, tho' past human pow'r, and human pain,
Try every trick to gore His heart again!
His, who first gave their wonderous being birth,
And made them habitants of beauteous Earth!
Furnish'd their temporal frames with mental pow'r
And fed and fenc'd them from their earliest hour;
Who, when their Sins had sunk all hopes of bliss
Came down from Heav'n to such sad World as this!
And, to redeem them from eternal death,
With agonizing cries resign'd His breath,
To purchase pardon for each foul offence,
And ceaseless happiness when summon'd hence!
His providence appointing each his place,
To tell the tidings of His gospel grace;
And, built on that foundation, find, on high,
An habitation, fill'd with Love and Joy!

He, by His Angels, first proclaim'd His plan
“Glory to God, on Earth, and Peace to Man!”
He offers heavenly Light to shine within,
And show the foul deformity of Sin!
The dreadful danger of each cursed crime
Against a God and Saviour so sublime!
The gross ingratitude! Rebellion base!
Against such Mercy—Goodness—Love—and Grace!
He sends the Spirit forth to turn their hearts;
To purge and purify their mental parts;
Impress'd on every Soul that simply asks,
To strengthen and instruct for holy tasks—
To make the reasoning close, the judgment clear,
And fix effects on all that humbly hear;
While heav'nly Love constrains the kindling Soul,
To form resolves for Pride's, and Lust's, controul.

Men might as well harangue rude herds and flocks,
Birds—insects—reptiles—fish—woods—hardest rocks;
Impetuous whirlwinds, boisterous billowy waves,
Or bleach'd, disjointed, bones disgorg'd from graves,
As wake Affection or confine the Will,
By clearest logic and rhetoric skill,
Except that Spirit gives His gracious aid,
To make the Conscience feel—the Heart afraid—
To make Man's pow'rs—pursuits—and objects—new,
And teach him to distinguish false from true.
For, as the viewless Wind, unbidden, blows,
And none knows whence it comes, or, whither, goes;
So is each Spirit of that Spirit born,
While every Soul beside is left forlorn,
Thro' Earth's great howling Wilderness to grope,
Without one brightening beam of heavenly Hope,
To help his footsteps on from post to post,
And land him safe on Canaan's happy coast!

Let Deists, after many a mark'd retreat,
By conflict fresh provoke a fresh defeat—
Cast their base Coin, worn out, in novel mould,
And boast their Brass transmuted into Gold—
Suppose their fanciful opinions right,
And they, alone, possess'd of genuine sight—
Call the bless'd Christian scheme both vague and vain,
The busy dream of a distemper'd brain;
But theirs much more than visionary view,
And each strong argument and statement true,
Imagine Man, by Nature's feeble beams
Can read, and construe Heav'n's most secret schemes.
Think Reason's filmy sight can fully scan
The whole of Heav'n's deep, complicated, plan.
Banish the Book of God from all their shelves,
And proudly excommunicate Themselves.

Can reasoning Infidels' proud systems prove
How human Passions inbred Spirits move;
Each rocky heart, by threaten'd wrath, to break,
And show Men's weaken'd Souls each mad mistake?
Show them by Love, and Faith, and Life refin'd
The errors resting in each murkey Mind?
Earth's cheating charms, that led their steps astray,
Thro' barren wilds from Heav'n's more blissful Way?
Show how the World, that wicked mass of Man,
So wanders devious from a perfect plan.
Why such Disorder, and sad Misery, reign,
Thro' all Creation, o'er Earth's wide Domain?
How, in all human hearts each bane begins
Those gulphs of peace! those filthy sinks of sins!

They, from themselves, might arguments deduce,
Of Reason's blindness, and its rude abuse—
How it can only claim a feeble spark,
Far insufficient for a Scene so dark.
How Pain and Age, produce still darker Night,
Till Death, at last, puts out the glimm'ring light—
How each pulsation towards that period tends,
Nor can She prove but there Existence ends—
Tho' of that Fate afraid—of Life so fond—
Her optics cannot peep one point beyond.
Search all the records of each learned Clime,
Left by Contingency, and spared by Time;
All facts and reasonings, of each classic Age,
By specious Poet—Orator—or Sage—
And draw fair inference from these specious Men,
To prove dead Mortals must revive agen.
Then let not Reason try to supersede
Her Donor's doctrines—her kind Master's Creed;
But, clad in armour of celestial Truth,
Encounter still such sentiments uncouth;
All proud opinions Nature would prefer
To Truths, and Facts, confirm'd by Heav'n, and Her.
With weapons drawn from Deity's own Word,
To vanquish rivals, vicious, or absurd.
On that strong Basis let firm Logic stand,
And wield those weapons with a dext'rous hand;
Skill'd how to push, to parry every blow,
From Friends deceitful, and each desperate Foe.

To prove dependent truths, let Reason plod,
Not clearly stated in the Word of God.
Take up Her Heav'n-lit Lamp, nor, hopeless, pry
In Earth's deep caverns, dark, with heedful eye,
And trace materials, with that Word's accord,
To deck the living Temple of Her Lord.
Full many a truth her feeble torch may find,
To benefit herself, and bless Mankind;
In close recesses of the human Soul
For practical instruction, or controul;
All useful, when reduce'd to proper plan,
To ease the Ills, or check the Crimes, of Man.
But first Her lessons learn in Christian school,
To prove God wise, but every Man a Fool—
His heavenly Kingdom, and His Christ, to seek,
With simple Spirit, humble, mild, and meek;
And when well-taught His Righteousness to know,
Then endless blessings from His Love will flow.
Attack His Foes in every hostile field,
Till all are vanquish'd, or, repentant, yield.
Prove, from that Book, He left pure Bliss above,
And came to Earth full-fraught with heav'nly Love.
Prove His blest plan, was, Rebels to redeem,
From Satan—Sin—and Misery's worst extreme!
How all His Words, and Actions, show'd the Friend!
How He accomplish'd Heav'n's mysterious End!
How both His Body, and His Soul, sublime,
Became a sacrifice for every Crime,
That Man by motive, word, or act, had wrought,
When he, repentant, such atonement sought—
For how can impious Blasphemy, and Pride,
Produce one proof He bled for ought beside?
Could God, the Father, such a deed have done
As doom to cruel Death a sinless Son?
Could He appoint Him baleful place below,
Exposed to ignominy—pain—and woe?
Could He, in Justice, on His awful Throne,
Condemn Him for transgressions, not His own?
Could He so deep have suffer'd Sinners' dread
Such sanguine sweat, or tears of sorrow, shed!
Or on a Cross complain'd, and bled, and died,
But for some Others' Passions, Lusts, and Pride!
Nor, as mere Man, could He one Merit claim
For sharpest punishments of pain and shame!
Impartial Justice ne'er could punish One
Whom Vice ne'er sham'd, but every Virtue shone;
Or, as a Creature, could one Creature win
A recompence from Heav'n, tho' free from Sin;
Much less presume with Deity to plead
Full pardon for Another's damning Deed;
Nor dare to think His dying Blood had bought
Remission for one sinful Word or Thought!
Yet He the crimes of all the World discards,
And claims, for faithful Friends, Heav'n's high Rewards!
Not cold Rewards, like what Earth's Kings bestow,
Wealth—Honours—Titles—Toys—but blanks, below!
That just inflate the heart with fickle Joy,
Which Chance oft checks, and Death will soon destroy!
Depending on weak Man's capricious Will,
Whose whims oft frustrate—Heav'n oft yields to Ill—
But Honours heap'd upon the least, and low'st,
All, all, attended by the heavenly Host!
Titles, to graceless Nobles never given,
Each chosen Child of God, and Heir of Heav'n!
Riches in Huts, thron'd Monarchs rarely find,
Faith—Hope—and Love—rich Treasures of the Mind!
Imparted Pow'r which conquers Pride, and Lust;
And plants Content instead, and rapturous Trust!
All bliss bestow'd from God's unbounded store
By Heav'n's rich Prince, on earth so mean and poor!
Nor these, alone, but, lest Mankind should miss
Earth's present Pleasures, and Heav'n's future Bliss,
The gracious Saviour gives a sacred Guide,
Who may o'er actions, words, and thoughts, preside—
And move them by His Wisdom, Love, and Might,
To prove what's wrong, and prosecute what's right—
To please their Father and redeeming Friend
Thro' Life's wild walk to Time's remotest End;
And, loos'd from temporal prisons, dull and dim,
Sit crown'd, like Kings, on Thrones, in Heav'n, with Him!!

On Themes like these be Reason's pow'rs employ'd
To fill, from Revelation, Nature's void;
For by Her native strength She ne'er could reach
The wond'rous truths which Heav'n's Historians teach.
Her pow'rs of thought produce no novel store,
But work on what the Senses brought before;
Or testimonial truths, affording facts
On which Her syllogistic arguing acts.
'Twere, else, like cloudy fabrics built on Air,
Which, to the eyes of Fancy seem so fair;
But while Her beams, about them, fondly play,
The visionary structures melt away—
Or Archimedes' wonderful machine,
So plain by prompt Imagination seen;
Which, wanting firm foundation where to stand,
Was found as weak as crafty Conjurer's wand:
Thus when Her systems reach no solid rest,
They sink absurd, nor stand one trying test—
Bring forth but frail Opinion's puny fry,
That just appear—behold the light—and die;
Or if their lives endure a longer date,
With equals fight and meet their mutual fate.

She never knew the frames of mortal Men
Deserted by the Spirit, rise agen;
Nor e'er, from innate notions could unfold
How Bodies, broke, resume their former mould—
How short-liv'd Man may heavenly shape assume,
For ever blest with Angels' youthful bloom.
This baffled every philosophic Sage
That Athens boasted in her brightest Age—
Confounded all those intellectual trades,
That bred such strife in Academic shades—
All Areopagus' puzzled Masters sought,
When dauntless Paul that novel doctrine taught:
With all that's hid by Nature's cloudy skreen,
In Revelation's light's distinctly seen,

Our modern Deists Miracles decry
Because they never met their mortal eye;
And from like prejudice, and inbred pride,
Attempt to set Christ's Doctrines all aside;
Tho' pious Witnesses, with ardour, plead,
To fix each Truth, and testify each Deed—
Attesting each blest Fact, with final breath,
And sign'd and seal'd the Doctrines by their Death.

Ev'n modern Priests those Benefits abuse,
And Doctrines, founded on those Facts, refuse;
Labouring by joyless, but ingenious, Arts
To hold the Whole while disbelieving Parts.

Here, Reason, prompt to exercise her pow'r,
Should show Herself Man's Heav'n-descended dow'r—
Should still demonstrate Her true heav'nly light,
Tho' ever-varying, like the Moon's, by Night—
Still prove by this faint, reflex, borrow'd ray,
All's drawn from Heav'n's o'erflowing Fount of Day—
Should ne'er deny that Fount, nor blurr those Beams,
Pronouncing both but Dupes, or Madmen's, dreams—
By body dense, and dark, the Sun exclude,
Then boast Herself with full-orb'd light endued;
Nor strive to shut Heav'n's written radiance out,
By showing she could better shine without.
No—rather let Her ask for heavenly aid,
To shine thro' shrowded Nature's darken'd shade.
Let her, to Infidels, her task requir'd,
Prove Heav'n's blest book was penn'd from Books inspir'd.
By reasonings, bold, testimonies built,
Of Scribes, devoid of guile, and freed from guilt—
While, like the Sun, its light shines, clearly shown,
To Christians' eyes, by brilliance, all its own!

They, in those narratives of Truth, may trace
The birth of Time, with Man's once upright Race!
Mark how the Spirit, pure, by boundless Might,
Form'd embryo Earth, and spoke forth pristine Light!
The firmament of Air, o'er all to flow,
Dividing floods, above, from floods below!
Scoop'd cavern'd beds to form the watery bounds,
And o'er the waves rais'd high Earth's mighty mounds;
While grass and herbage sprang to glad the Soil,
Shrubs, trees, flow'rs, fruits, diffus'd one general smile!
How His command call'd up the splendid Sun;
The Moon, opaque, round honour'd Earth to run;
And Stars which travel o'er the azure plain,
Light's fount encircling with their wandering train!
Next wond'rous Whales, with all the finny fry,
And feather'd Fowls, that skim the liquid Sky;
Then Cattle, Beasts, and Reptiles, brought to birth,
With all those living Things that throng the Earth:
Last, godlike Man! the matchless Lord of all!
To reign, and rule this huge terraqueous Ball.

There learn how He, pure Paragon! was plac'd
In Scenes, by God, with every Beauty grac'd,
And every Good, with Will completely free
To feeed on every Herb, and fruitful Tree;
One, only one, withheld; a sovereign test
Of due obedience Heav'n's high behest.
But—sad to tell! alas! that Will complied
With strong enticement of his beauteous Bride,
First tempted by the Fiend let loose from Hell,
Who, thro' their Creature-frailty weakly fell;
Both forfeiting that pure, inspiring breath,
By Heav'n's unerring Justice doom'd to Death—
By that one Act involv'd the human Race,
In Pain and Sickness, Sorrow, and Disgrace.
Hence open'd all the mischiefs Man has borne,
In after-times, by countless miseries torn;
The sins, and griefs, and guilt, his Soul enslave,
And sink his burden'd Body to the Grave!

But stop not here, nor let gross Reason grope,
And stumble on, without one beam of hope,
But let Her pray, and read with patient eyes,
The striking truths each after-page supplies.
There will She soon perceive a promis'd Seed
Would rise, to rectify the damning Deed;
Nor only privileges, lost, restore,
But offering bliss more bounteous than before!

Here is a task, ye Priests! well worth your toil,
To cultivate with care this sacred Soil.
Nor plough, with shallow share, the turf, alone,
Or ask a Crop from heavenly seed, when sown,
Just to supply a simple, slight, repast
Of mental nutriment, not long to last;
But harrow well, and keep off birds of prey—
Base briars, thorns, and thistles, weed away—
Securing crops, for purely mental meat,
To yield the Spirit an eternal treat!
Thus while the gracious Crop securely grows,
And, ere your harvest-day Death's sickle close;
Dig deeply in its pure prolific Mine,
For Gold and Gems to make your Spirit shine;
While seeking goodly Pearls in every page,
To ornament your Youth, and grace your Age—
Seek Faith, to fence, on Earth, against each storm,
And ardent Hope to keep the Spirit warm;
With every other Grace combin'd in Love,
Pure Source of Joy below, and perfect bliss above!

Ye Christian Champions, suffer not Heav'n's Foes,
To mock the maxims whence all Wisdom flows—
Watch well the outworks of Christ's commonweal,
And combat boldly with heroic zeal!
Contend like those that love their Master's Cause,
Embrace His interest, and obey His laws.
His faithful Followers, and His truths protect,
Nor let them suffer from your foul neglect.
Ye fight, with warmth, for offerings, and for tythe,
Produc'd by spade, and plough, and hook, and scythe;
Why not for him with equal fervour burn,
And make your living Tools a like return?
Ye speak with boldness of that blessed Book,
But seldom o'er its sacred folios look.
You make its interests, and importance, known,
Just with a selfish view to serve your own.
The themes that occupy its inner space,
Your Lives, and lack of diligence, disgrace;
For every Soul that looks may clearly see
How practice and profession disagree—
You stickle well for orthodox decrees,
To fence your Livings, and enlarge your Fees;
Yet care but little for your labouring Friends,
Whether to Heav'n, or Hell, their practice tends.
To 'scape Your censure, and Heav'n's awful scourge,
On Dupes all diligence in business urge,
That You may largely of their labour share,
Their pure economy, and patient care—
May, in your store-house grain and fruitage stow,
Who neither plant, or prune, or plough, or sow—
Mark every crop, but neither mow nor reap—
Tythe herds and flocks, but never shear one sheep—
From gardens, and from orchards, claim some Stock,
And share the fleece, but badly feed the Flock.
With trifling labour feeble preachments frame
From others, long enroll'd in lists of fame;
Like Joseph's coat of every hue compos'd,
With patchwork parts, and scarce a seam well-clos'd.
You seldom exercise you mental strength,
To form fresh lectures fifteen minutes length,
And when they're shap'd, the superficial parts,
Inform no heads, nor op'rate on Men's hearts.
You ne'er, with ardour, Christ's deep doctrine search,
To fix your Faith, and edify the Church;
But cold, and careless, read the sacred Lore,
Like Tyros gabbling daily Lessons o'er.
Ne'er strive and study deep, to understand
That holy Charter of the heavenly Land.
Ne'er diligently seek to comprehend
The full donations of a dying Friend—
To trace what Things He wills to all His Heirs,
And whether those bequests are Your's and Their's—
Not suffering Fools, from prejudice, false pride,
Or petulance, to set that Will aside;
Nor suffer secret Foes from peevish Spite,
To mock their Minds, and rob them of their right.

But num'rous modern Preachers, sad to tell!
Against those Deeds, and Documents, rebel.
O'er all the interesting items leap,
Yet still propose conditions none can keep.
Still some uncharitable inference draw,
Against suppos'd oppugners of the Law;
Haranguing, loud, with harsh, unmeaning, heat
As tho' themselves kept all the Code complete:
Opposing impiously, those Doctrines' course,
Which give the moral Maxims fullest force.

Let such, as Mystics, true Professors flout,
And, proudly, try to put their Lamps all out—
Light their trimm'd link at Sinai's awful flames,
And then, from Pulpits, with preposterous aims,
Hold forth their lurid, feeble, farthing light,
To show, mid gospel sunshine, grossest Night;
Or, bring forth Ignes fatui from the Press,
To lead Believers deep in false distress.
Make smokey vapours, dark, and dense, arise,
To keep Christ's glorious gleams from faithless eyes,
Call simple comments—“Methodism—and Cant!”
“Fanatic stuff!”—“Enthusiastic rant!”
Decry the subject of a second Birth,
With cold contempt—or dull, indecent mirth.
How different from the Jewish Chief, who tried
To quell his passions, and subdue his pride;
Not the Messiah's arguments to spurn,
But humbly heard His Truths, and strove to learn.
Not urging questions just to harrass thought,
Or spread sly snares that Ignorance might be caught;
Like hypocritic Scribes and Pharisees,
To gratify their spite, and High-priests please;
But like young Children longing still to hear,
Nor judg'd such Science could be bought too dear.
With Him gross ignorance was a proper plea;
And want of light Heav'n's glorious Light to see.
Not like the Priesthood of these present times,
Which deem true Christian Doctrines damning Crimes.
Too self-sufficient to enquire, and pray,
Or seek the Saviour to point out their way.
Too proud before their Maker to attend,
And ask His help, as Father—Saviour—Friend
But call His humblest Followers arrant Fools,
Designing Knaves, or Superstition's Tools.
Call superadded Light a dark pretence—
A lack of Learning—or a loss of Sense—
Mere fancied fire, or melancholic phlegm,
And dream all Wisdom lives, alone, in Them!

If those be Fancy's frolics, they're combin'd
With all that nerves, and magnifies, the Mind!
Which, by their influence, labour to restrain
Whatever's vicious—frivolous—or vain!
Whose operative pow'rs, with strength, controul
Each base and wandering bias of the Soul!
Pride, Lust, and impious Passion, strive to quell—
Each folly, fault, and foible's pow'rs repel
Each snare Satanic, and all earthly leav'n,
All that allures to Hell, and leads from Heav'n!
The World's attractions weaken, or destroy,
And give new gravitation tow'rds the Sky!
As water smitten by the sunny beam,
With new direction quits its native stream;
No longer to its earthly centre tends,
But, drawn by fresh affinities, ascends;
Reflecting, clearer, Truth's ethereal rays,
While soaring nearer Heav'n's resplendent blaze—
Or, like the fragments of attracted steel,
Which, near the magnet, new affections feel,
And, from a sluggish state of sleep, profound,
To meet their new-belov'd, enamour'd, bound:
So when the Soul perceives its lost estate,
Enfeebled pow'rs, and fast-approaching fate;
New light imparted points out new alarms,
From countless crimes, and anger'd Heav'n in arms!
A God, offended, its all-pow'rful Foe,
With belching flames, and beckoning Fiends, below!
Till blest Immanuel's merits opening, prove
His boundless Mercy, and His endless Love!
The Will to rescue, and His wish to save,
From reigning Sin, and from the rigorous Grave,
From Lust, and Pride, and Passions' constant strife,
Redeem from Death, and give unending Life!
Then trims its native plumes, and fluttering, tries,
With gifted strength, and energy, to rise,
Enraptur'd! to attain that sacred Site,
Where Love, Grace, Glory, furnish full delight!
Meantime, tho' troubles dwell with mortal Dust,
Which swells with Pride, or leans aside with Lust;
Yet still urg'd upwards by impelling Grace,
It points with trembling, tow'rds its polar place;
And, when it touches Earth it hates the stain,
Aspiring, eagerly, tow'rds Heav'n again:
The Spirit still presenting to its view,
Some pleasing prospect, or bright object, new—
Some fresh attraction—some extatic joy
Which draws from dust, and tears each sensual tie—
Affection calling from its false career,
Still sharpening spurs, and goads, for gracious Fear;
Or twisting golden chain, or silken rope,
That fix the anchor, firm, of christian Hope—
Emotions feel that make the bosom thrill,
And Motives which o'ermatch the wayward Will,
While such Sensations fill the fervent breast,
As language ne'er display'd, or lips exprest,
Nor fancy fram'd; yet such glad motions grow,
Till scarce one lagging thought is left below.

Among the Few that such Experience find,
Which warms the Heart, and meliorates the Mind,
Will any wish to quench that brilliant Light
Which brings all-perfect Beauty, thus, to sight?
E'er labour to extinguish grateful Fire,
Which kindles rapturous hope, and pure desire?
That Spirit vex—put out—or, force to part,
Whose pow'r exalts, and purifies the Heart?
Which, in a World of wants, and woes, like this,
Bestows rich tastes of beatific Bliss?
That such pure blessings true Believers share,
Let all their humble, honest, hearts declare.

If such be dark Deceptions, those, deceiv'd,
Wish all their transports tasted—boasts believ'd!
If 'tis Possession, all the Souls possest,
Experience pleasures Nature ne'er caress'd!
Feel more delights from such rich Whims arise,
Than all blind Worldlings judge substantial Joys!
More than the pulse of short-liv'd Lusts, impure,
In grovelling Letcher, or prone Epicure!
More bliss than Misers', when their eyes behold,
And hearts adore, their dazzling Gods of gold!
More than rapt nerves of Vanity, and Pride,
Or bold Ambition's, with no wish denied!
An humble Christian Clown enjoys, each hour,
More than proud Prince in all his Pomp and Pow'r.
Believing Artist, destitute of bread,
More than blind Atheist at full tables fed—
A pious Pauper, stripped to nakedness,
Than graceless Deist deckt with gaudiest dress—
In Hospitals, the Faithful void of Health,
Than Prodigals, in Halls, while squandering Wealth—
Believing Debtors, starv'd, in Dungeons bound,
Than Rakes, on Thrones, with Wine and Wantons round.

If all be Fancy's freaks, or mad mistake,
Such dreaming Maniacs never wish to wake;
But still to rave, nor seek, or ask, a cure,
While Life's lov'd dream, and frantic fits, endure.
No Soul would wish fancied Scenes to fly
That ever view'd such visionary Joy—
No Mind would seek such Malady to heal
Who ever felt what such fond Madmen feel—
Who call that pleasure which the World calls pain,
And beg, sincerely, still to be insane!

Sure such Demoniacs need not be deplor'd,
Who only feel a fear to be restor'd—
And none need pity Prisoners fancied pains,
Who're charm'd with music in the rattling chains—
Who watch, with diligence, lest word, or thought,
Bring that imaginary bliss to nought—
Who constant strive against all carnal schemes,
Lest Earth's delirium should destroy those dreams—
Deem false Professors most deluded Elves,
Yea, all, besides, more moonstruck than Themselves.
Thro' all the cheated Multitude, the chief
Think those derang'd by Pride and Disbelief.

Earth's Maniacs may, by Fancy's pow'rful spells,
Make Palaces of prisoning walls and cells—
Turn squalid tatters into royal Robe—
With sedgey Sceptre govern all the Globe—
Rule millions with imaginary Law,
By edicts issued from their Thrones of straw—
Transform to regal Crown fantastic wreath
And deem their frantic Brethren far beneath—
But Heav'n's presuming Lunatics aspire
To more exalted State, and Honours high'r!
Ne'er satisfied with sublunary Things,
That appertain to temporal Courts, and Kings!
But hope, and trust, to share an endless Reign,
Secure from sorrow, sickness—care—and pain—
Adorn'd with bright, unfading Diadem,
Reserv'd in Heav'n for Them—and, only Them!
In robes of Christ's clean Righteousness array'd,
That never can decay, nor foul, nor fade—
With Life—and Love—and Bliss—beyond all bound—
By Angel Hosts proclaim'd, as Kings, and crown'd;
While at His feet they throw all Honours down,
Whose Grace gives both the Kingdom and the Crown!

Scoff not, ye Kings! tho' subject Slaves surmise,
Or boast, of Crowns reserv'd, above the Skies;
That Want should hold such Honours full in view,
And hope to mount, perhaps, much high'r than You!
Scoff not, ye Princes! should poor Clowns presume
To deck their Heads with more than princely Plume;
Nor frown, contemptuous, with proud look elate,
Should abject Penury hope superior State!
By pacts, and covenants, to You unknown,
Each Christian Beggar claims a brighter Throne!
By Acts, and Deeds, of Potentate supreme,
Man's only Hope, and Angels' happiest Theme!
Whose Name—His Will and Testament records,
Eternal King of Kings, and Lord of Lords!
A Lord, not titled a few fleeting Years,
Among a motley Troop of temporal Peers;
Or one whose Honours can be e'er increas'd,
From country Curate, to a proud High-priest—
Perhaps be summoned in a single Hour,
From all his Honours—Riches—Pomp—and Pow'r—
But independent—whose Prerogatives
Nor Time extinguishes—nor Greater gives!
A King, not reigning by deputed Sway,
Which Multitudes may give or take away;
Or Monarch ruling by mere right of Birth,
Uncertain time, o'er some small tract of Earth;
But matchless Majesty, which rules, and reigns,
With endless Life, o'er infinite Domains!
With Pow'r to fix, and Goodness to fulfil,
His gracious Covenant! His godly Will!
The Record not in Archives close confin'd,
But offer'd to the eyes of all Mankind!
Not understood by Lords, or Kings, alone,
Or Gods that occupy the Papal Throne;
But such a simple, pure, and perfect, Deed,
That Faith's wayfaring Men may run and read;
Yet, still, the plain interpretation's kept
From each vain Hebrew, and Greek Adept,
While Christian Tyros clearly understand,
In true translations thro' each thinking Land;
Who heav'nly Wit and Knowledge never learn'd,
Yet plain to each repentant Soul concern'd—
All humble Supplicants, contrite and meek,
Still taught the meaning, and most promptly speak;
Not mutual Covenant, by Monarchs, sworn,
So soon by Interest—Pride—or Passion—torn.
Not such convenient, necessary, Act,
Where selfish Pow'r confirms the solemn Pact;
Nor false, capricious, arbitrary, Deed,
Which, when the Sovereigns break the Subjects bleed;
But which the sole Contractor's Life-blood seals,
Nor Time—Caprice—nor Death—the Deed repeals.
A Deed of heavenly Love! firm—full—and free—
And sanction'd by the Oath of Deity!
A Will, not made to heighten Monarch's meed,
But chiefly meant to chear Man's humble Breed—
Not to endow the Great with grander Dow'r—
Not to give Pride more Pomp, or Might more Pow'r—
Not for the Noble whose fond boast is Birth—
Not for the Wealthy who engross the Earth—
Not for the Learn'd, of paltry Knowledge proud—
But simple Souls, collected from the Crowd—
The Weak, so rated by Self-wisdom's Race;
And what vain Boasters name the Mean, and Base—
But call'd by Him, on whom all Pow'r depends,
By fondest Names of Brethren—Sisters—Friends;
And tenderer still, if tenderer can be known,
His Bride, belov'd! His very Flesh and Bone!

Wealth! wonder not their pious Hearts aspire
To call the lov'd Testator Lord—and Sire!
Whose kind selection every claim secures,
More than hereditary rights like Your's!
They know their Bodies are, like Your's—but Dust,
Yet Death, You dread, ne'er takes away Their Trust,
But borne on wing sublime, by Faith, They aim,
Far to surpass Your Fortune, and Your Fame!
Hope still endeavouring to substantiate Joys,
Which, with dull Ways and Means, your Minds despise;
While holy Love of Heav'n, and gracious Gifts,
The faithful Spirit, thro' their influence, lifts
Above the Evils of this nether Sphere,
And Toys that fetter Your Affections here!
Above the changes of this churlish Clime;
The haze of Habits, and the mists of Time—
Fancy's dim fog, and Prejudice's cloud—
Which, from Your mental sight the Saviour shrowd—
Refracting mediums, interpos'd by Sense,
With darkling envelopes of Providence—
All palpitations—pains—and wants—and woes—
That kingly pride, and priestly claims, impose,

Ye mighty Chiefs! who rule each hostile Host,
Who dauntless Courage, bloody Conflicts, boast;
Look not askance, and toss each haughty head
O'er humble Souls in simple Hamlets bred;
Who ne'er the pulse of proud Ambition feel
To bear War's standard, and Strife's brandish'd steel!
To climb the mountain, or to stem the flood,
And reap rich harvests, fed from Brethren's blood!
Christians are Warriors—may be Chieftains too,
And undertake more dread Campaigns than You!
No carnal Chief e'er felt so strong a call,
Or shew'd such painful scars as Christian Paul!
Far more than You each Subaltern sustains,
Of watchings—labours—fastings—fears—and pains—
And all must learn more strict than martial Laws,
Who fight for Heav'n, and Christ's most glorious Cause!
All who beneath Immanuel's banner fight,
Need more than worldly Warrior's utmost Might—
Much harder discipline each undergoes,
Who strives with stronger—subtler—fiercer—Foes!
For not alone must each obedience yield
To Man's inspection—fight in public field—
But every moment meets Omniscient's view,
Who marks each thought, and looks each motive through.
Not only swears to honour sovereign sway
But gets no furlough, for a single day—
Still, daily, train'd to learn the use of Arms,
In drills, alert, or open War's alarms—
Must, every moment, wield their weapons, keen,
Against a Host of Enemies, unseen;
Each more malicious—politic—and strong—
Than all You Chiefs, with Xerxes' hostile Throng!
Nor only taught to walk with upright Air,
And keep, completely, flesh and clothing fair;
But watch, with constant care, their inward parts,
To keep foul spots, and wrinkles, from their hearts;
Lest treason and rebellion work within
By base desires producing acts of sin—
Still toiling hard to gain some higher ground,
Against a wicked World, in Arms, around;
Striving by strength, by artifice, or skill,
Their Faith to conquer, or their Hope to kill—
To ridicule their Love—their Prospect spurn—
Or, elbowing, hustling, each, at every turn.
By smiles, or frowns; by flattery, or disgrace,
To push by Pow'r, or tempt them from their place—
While inward weakness prompts them to comply,
Or, from their Posts, like faithless Cowards, fly,
But, tho' oft wounded—sometimes sorely beat;
They ne'er must seek, nor meditate, retreat!
No hospital must rest their weary head,
Skreen Lives from danger, or frail Souls from dread;
But still must combat, while retaining breath,
In Youth—in Age—in Sickness—Pain—and Death!

Where then is these poor Warriors' rich reward,
Who, thus, have fought so long, and far'd so hard!
Is it prompt payment, or the hopes of pay,
That stimulates their Spirits day by day?
To help their Labour, and allure from Sloth,
Each Soul's supplied with blessings from them both.
Tho' low, like Rank-and-file, they're simply fed,
With Nature's beverage, and with humblest bread;
Yet not with these, alone—they often fare
On what the Saints, in Heav'n, with Angels, share.
Food issued from their high Commander's hoard,
Exhaustless! to supply their humble board—
Fit only to refresh pure mental Taste;
Enough for nourishment, but none to waste—
With richer relish than what-e'er's enjoy'd,
By Luxury, and Lust, by Pomp and Pride!
Not to be bought of Kings, like Pow'r, with Gold,
But offer'd, free, from Christ, an hundred-fold
For every Pleasure—Passion—Wile, or Whim,
Lust—Vanity—or Gain—giv'n up for Him?
But, chief, blest promises for future Time—
And fairer prospects in a happier Clime—
All gracious Gifts! for ever full, and free!
From General Jesus; God true Guarantee!

This is, in part, the patient Christian's Meed,
Bestow'd by God—proclaim'd in gospel Creed—
Indited by His Spirit, bless'd, above,
And brought below, by Christ, from realms of Love;
Which claims each Christian's Faith, with fullest scope,
Confirming, in his heart, each fruitful Hope!
Its perfect sense no Soul interprets right,
But those that see by that same Spirit's light—
And, when instructed in their Saviour's Will,
With all their Force each labours to fulfil.
'Tis not attainable by natural Sense,
Or e'er transmitted by bare Eloquence—
Nor can mere Learning lasting Pow'r impart,
To teach and turn one unregenerate heart—
Yet this is frequent found in meanest Mind,
With neither Knowledge, Wit, or Sense, refin'd;
But blest with mild Humility, to seek
Those matchless Favours Heav'n affords the Meek.
Enough of Knowledge certainly to see
The emptiness of Earth's poor Pageantry—
Wit to discern whence every blessing springs,
And Sense to labour for those better Things.