Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

If aught beneath them happy Souls attend,
Let Morgan hear the Triumph of a Friend,
And hear well-pleas'd.—Let Libertines so gay
With careless Indolence despise the Lay:
Let Critick Wits and Fools, for Laughter born,
Their Verdict pass with supercilious Scorn:
Let jovial Crowds, in Wine their Senses drown'd,
Stammer out Censure in their frantick Round:
Let yawning Sluggards faint Dislike display,
Who while they trust To-morrow lose To-day.
Let such as these the pious Strains condemn,
For 'tis true Glory to be hiss'd by Them.

Wise in his Prime, he waited not 'till Noon,
Convinc'd that Mortals “never liv'd too soon.”
As if foreboding then his little Stay,
He made his Morning bear the Heat of Day.
Fix'd, while unfading Glory he pursues,
No Ill to hazard, and no Good to lose;
No fair Occasion glides unheeded by,
Snatching the golden Moments as they fly,
He by few fleeting Hours ensures Eternity.
Friendship's warm Beams his artless Breast inspire,
And tend'rest Rev'rence to a much-lov'd Sire.
He dar'd from Heav'n this flatt'ring World forego,
Ardent to teach, as diligent to know.

Unwarp'd by sensual Ends, or vulgar Aims,
By idle Riches, or by idler Names.
Fearful of Sin in ev'ry close Disguise,
Unmov'd by threat'ning, or by glosing Lies.
Seldom indeed the Wicked came so far,
Forc'd by his Piety to defensive War:
Whose Zeal for other Men's Salvation shown,
Beyond the reach of Hell secur'd his own.
Glad'ning the Poor where e'er his steps he turn'd,
Where pin'd the Orphan, or the Widow mourn'd:
Where Pris'ners sigh'd beneath Guilt's horrid stain,
The worst Confinement, and the heaviest Chain;
Where Death's sad Shade the uninstructed Sight
Veil'd with thick Darkness in the Land of Light.
Our Saviour thus fulfill'd his great Design,
(For Human may be liken'd to Divine,)
Heal'd each Disease that Bodies frail endure,
And preach'd th' unhop'd-for Gospel to the Poor.

Nor yet the Priestly Function he invades,
'Tis not his Sermon, but his Life, persuades.
Humble and teachable to Church he flies,
Prepar'd to practise, not to criticize.
Then only angry, when a Wretch conveys
The Deists Poison in the Gospel Phrase.
To Means of Grace the last Respect he show'd,
Nor sought new Paths, as wiser than his God.
Their sacred Strength preserv'd him from Extremes
Of empty Outside, or Enthusiast Dreams:
Whims of Molinos, lost in Rapture's Mist,
Or Quaker, late-reforming Quietist.

He knew that Works must here our Faith employ,
And that 'tis Heav'n's great Business, to enjoy.
Fix'd on that Heav'n, he Death's Approaches saw,
Nor vainly murmur'd at our Nature's Law.
Repin'd not that his Youth so soon should go,
Nor griev'd for fleeting Pleasures here below.
Of sharpest Anguish scorning to complain,
He fills with Mirth the Intervals of Pain:
Not only unappall'd, but cheerful, sees
The dark cold Passage that must lead to Peace.
Strong with immortal Bloom, secure to rise,
The Tears for ever banish'd from his Eyes.

Who now regrets his early Youth would spend
The Life so nobly that so soon should end?
Who blames the Stripling for performing more
Than Doctors grave, and Prelates of Three-score?
Who now esteems his Fervour indiscreet,
His Pray'rs too frequent, and his Alms too great?
Who thinks, where blest he reigns beyond the Sky,
His Crown too radiant, and his Throne too high?
Who but the Fiend, who once his Course withstood,
And whisper'd,—Stay till Fifty to be good.
Sure, if believ'd, t' obtain his hellish Aim,
Adjourning to the Time that never came.