University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
The Mitre

A Poem [by Edward Perronet]

collapse section 
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
CANTO III.
 IV. 


140

CANTO III.

Infandam, Regina, cogis revocare Querelam!
Virg.

1

Commence we now a second scene,
A feast of dullness, pride, or sin:
Where hungry souls are starv'd:
A Sermon dight—you'll understand,
Or made—or newly come to hand:
An old one would have serv'd.

2

First mounts a pompous, downy Sire:
Wrapt up like Muffins at the fire:
For fear they should grow cold:
Settl'd secure—th' important Sage
'Gins mutter o'er the lifeless page:
His gospel to unfold.

3

Tells you—“we were not born in Sin,
Adam's too early to begin
“The present decent race:
“For tho' 'tis true(as all must own)
“A naughty apple threw him down:
“Yet we pick'd up his Grace.

4

“That all the fall consists in this,
“Our aptitude to do amiss:
“And some times—to do good:
“Tho' doubtless not so much as Sin,
“As possible—it would have been,
“Had father Adam stood.

141

5

“And therefore all the ill in us,
“Is not as madmen would impose,
“Or wild Fanatics dream:
“From any tincture of his fall:
“Or if it be—'tis mighty small:
“And all must lie on him.

6

How well receiv'd by all who hear!
No wonder each erects his ear:
And hums the hush'd applause:
When thus the preacher—soft or warm:
Their ignorance can kind inform,
“That Adam's all the Cause.

7

Not of their guilt or foulest stain:
This were all true—nor light nor vain:
And might alarm their fear:
But “of some little Taste for vice:
“As scandal, levity, or lies,
Low whisper'd in your ear.”

8

“That this is common to us all:
“And no more proves a general Fall,
“Than if because your leg
“Were here and there a little stain'd,
“With scarlet spots—(or if your hand)
“Would prove a general Plague.

9

Now could you hear or see the crowd!
“Well this is excellently good!
“Ay this—is something like!

142

This is Divinity indeed:”
Thus they correct 'em with a reed:
And with a bulrush strike!

10

Not thus the preacher who has known
His sin and Adam's were but one:
“The common source and head:
“Grand representer of his race:
“That lost for all the common Grace,
“And all in him are dead!

11

“That from him—(as a fountain) springs,
“All that in Beggars or in Kings,
“Is lofty or impure:
“That saints and sinners are the same,
“Alike their Nature and their shame,
“Alike their death or cure!”

12

“That all are dead asleep in sin
“Nor ever once their life begin
“'Till quicken'd from above:
“By that great hand—which rais'd up him
“Who only could a world redeem:
“Or buy the Father's love!

143

13

“That hence the taint thro' out the whole:
“The dying Frame—the dying Soul:
Prime curse and end of Vice:
“That hence the fairest, hum an saint,
“With all her virtuous, moral paint—
“Her Passion—or her Price

14

She may indeed—assume form:
The gentle dove or humble worm:
Yet credit not her Face:
Since after all—she's nothing more,
Than an untry'd—untempted whore:
Soft ya-hoe of the race!

15

So that in truth, the warmth within,
Is not resentment at the Sin:
But vengeance at the Shame
Annex'd from Custom to it's Cause:
For, save but this—or bribe the Laws:
She burns a rival flame.

16

Nor burns she more, than all may burn
With passion, pride, revenge or scorn:
Tho' diverse in Degree:
Nature no formal boundary knows:
But various channels—various flows
From Monarchs—down to me!

17

For ev'ry Heart and ev'ry Soul,
Is equally impure and foul,
From her infected source:
Runs thro' the whole a muddied stream
Of guilt—of nakedness—and shame:
Strong as diffus'd it's course!

144

18

Thus, like a Tree—high-branching wide:
Whose fruit is Ignorance and Pride:
Self-poison'd at the Root:
Soaks thro' the sap each op'ning pore;
Rotten it's Essence—and it's Core:
Tho' fair—unsound the fruit!

19

That not by taking thence a drop
Or here—by plucking from the top
A single leaf or stem:
Can you eradicate the tree:
Change or it's Bane or Quality:
Or purge the tainted Stream.

20

As well the woodman may suppose
(As fondly view'd the stately rows
Of Cedars yet unhewn:)
That cropt a Tendril or a twig:
He may in time by cropping—dig,
Or cut the forest down.

21

Or that by pruning of the Vine:
Untwisted or remov'd it's twine:
It's present form or place:
He can or break the nervous bend:
It's native curl, or change or mend:
Or meliorate the race.

22

What Nature—but a lofty pine?
Or a wide spreading tow'ring Vine
High over all and chief!
Scorns or the finger or the sheers:
Yet drops (what without hurt she spares)
A Tendril or a Leaf.

145

23

But lay the ax beneath the root:
Down falls the tree—it's branch and fruit
Low levell'd with the ground:
Or dry the river at it's source,
Then alter or direct it's course:
And make the water sound.

24

Not that compar'd the vile and good:
As equal enemies to God:
To virtue or mankind:
As if no difference were between
The vulgar rude or decent mien:
The base or polish'd mind.

25

This we allow—each takes his place:
But where exempt if view'd in Grace?
Here all insolvent see:
All are in debt—and who can say
The grand discharge—or who shall pay
“My hand has set me free!”

26

Free before Men—they may appear:
Delude thine eye—or mock thine ear:
With Figure or with Sound:
But will he (think you) judge the same
Who knows no difference of Blame,
Where difference is not found?

27

And none is here—for all have sinn'd
His Glory lost—nor e'er has gain'd
One soul his lost esteem:
'Till conscious prostrate in the dust,
Condemn'd as guilty and unjust,
He owns his equal shame.

146

28

Then may he rise—but not before:
'Till then alike the vile or pure:
The humble and the proud:
All else is Nature's work and pride:
Unsearch'd—untempted—or untry'd:
Most negligently good!

29

Small cause to boast if this the case,
Virtuous or vile alike from Grace:
The man endu'd with none:
Yet unemerg'd from Nature's night,
Or, glories in her borrow'd light:
And glitters like the moon.

30

“Yet this is light”—we grant it is:
And such as oft deceives the wise:
Serene or mild as balm:
As well might Ships their virtue boast,
Who ride unshatter'd, as untost:
Amidst the flatten'd calm.

31

The calm of Elegance and Ease:
Unruffl'd by the lightest breeze
To influence your course:
Yet even here—your Pride is seen:
You shew or meditate your Mien:
Your Stature or your Horse.

32

Yet with the air of Disregard,
(Your self-complacence your reward:
Nor this alone—your end)
Silent you ask a smile or steal:
Then with a blush—reflective feel
The flattery of a friend.

147

33

Feel it with pleasure and with pain:
Disgust of politic disdain:
Yet while you seem to shun
The fond applause—or feign to hide:
How fed the ardor of your pride!
Nor this engag'd alone:

34

For now your Virtue comes in play:
Your Tempers shine a summer's day:
Your soul—a violin:
How ready to oblige or go!
The rise how grand! the stoop how low!
How virtuous—Harlequin!

35

Was e'er such goodness seen before?
Why yes—at Court—ten thousand more
Whose piety like his,
Drops from their eyes or fingers ends:
Smile on their foes and squeeze their friends,
How gracious or—how wise!

36

See grave Tertullus in his rear:
Thoughtful, serene, august, severe:
And polish'd as a Reed:
Has nobly drawn in the defence
Of Grace—the Truth and common Sense:
A Convert to his Creed!

37

But yet, Tertullus might do well
To weigh a moment if his zeal
Be girt with Charity:
Genius—consistent in his mien:
Devoid of Party, State, or Spleen:
Unmix'd simplicity!

148

38

Not clouded by the portly frown
That with imperial scorn looks down
On any who dissent
In practice, principle or mode:
Nor deems a sacrifice to God,
The bigot's Compliment.

39

Paid as an offering to the shrine
Of human precepts as divine:
Whence thousand Contrasts rise!
The whims of Priests' prolific brain:
Of senseless vanities—a train
And hierarchal lies!

40

Whence hard contempt or hate of them,
Who bare the Burden and the Shame
Of half a kingdom's Crimes:
Their toil—or use—as light esteem'd:
Themselves as vile Intruders deem'd:
The Stop-gaps of the times!

41

And yet Tertullus burns with zeal,
And huge concern for Zion's weal:
As warm her sons to save!
But spurns the very men by whom
Her head emerges from the Tomb:
Her honours from their Grave!

42

Thinks—pity God had not employ'd
The men by whom, as half destroy'd:
So half her shrine's defil'd:
Her Statutes, Orders, and her Creeds,
Esteem'd a Rig-ma-roll of beads:
The Drivelings of a child!

149

43

Fit troop indeed—to raise her fame!
Her merit—dignity or name:
Themselves her worst disgrace!
How fitter far to serve their turn,
To whom her very Name's a scorn:
Insulted to her face!

44

Yet These—Tertullus are thy Choice!
For these preferr'd th' elective voice:
How thoughtless and ingrate!
Not once reflecting—he condemns
The very men—whom yet esteems
His Folly or—his Fate!

45

Strange—that Tertullus does not see
What wild—unfair absurdity
His Witless scheme attends!
Since, tho' the first are wrong believ'd:
The men—who them support—receiv'd
His patterns and his friends!

46

Nay—should his heat for Modes subside:
Or cool his superstitious pride:
Or Stateliness of sense:
What difference would he dare commend
'Twixt those—who rob'd or robeless stand?
Her Hate—and her Defence!

150

47

Would he not see—and own how wise
That ruling Providence—whose eyes
Beheld her vile estate:
Had interpos'd his timely power:
By these had sav'd her from the hour
Of Rome's impending fate!

48

The fate of all—who boast a name
To live—yet to their living shame
Are dead—amidst their Breath!
The case of her—before us seen:
Till these (he scorns) arose between
Her Sentence and her Death!

49

Strange sort of Homage this—to her:
Whose fall he mourns—for whom his pray'r
Ascends a filial flame:
Thus to esteem who her despise:
And them contemn—by whom they rise
From Infamy to Fame!

50

The first, in truth, for little more,
Than what e'en Heathens might adore:
The Drapery or Vest:
Accoutrements contriv'd to screen
The nonsense, dulness, or the sin
Of one—yclep'd a Priest!

51

The next again—for little else
Than that these want the lordly veils
Of Aaron's pontiff line:
But stand the ministers of God:
Uncumber'd with th' invidious load,
Of Priestcraft and her Shrine!

151

52

As if (because unbound by swarms
Of Ephods, Articles and Forms:)
Unhallow'd and unmeet!
Or, as devoid of thought or sense,
An awful, all-wise Providence
Had acted indiscreet!

53

For tho' the Inference should shame,
As well it may—yet still we claim
With Reason to conclude:
“Who or despises or condemns
“The Instruments—the Workman blames:
“As foolish or not good!”

54

This most undoubtedly's imply'd:
Tho' plac'd in Form—might be deny'd:
Or as an Axiom brought,
Would shock Tertullus' generous soul:
His sparkling eyes resentive roll,
With horror at the Thought!

55

But such the Inconsistency,
Where squinting—moon-ey'd Bigotry
Maintains her hood-wink'd sway:
Or with the hand of witchcraft spreads
Her leaden mantle o'er our heads:
And blunts the visual ray!

56

Next Mitio—herald of the word:
As plain as e'er was Norway board:
And stedfast as a tow'r:
Serious, serene, polite, and mild:
Yet all his virtues—how despoil'd!
Were Mitio fond of Pow'r?

152

57

But what—if he were fond of more?
Not the successive, bursting roar,
That noisy Bigots raise:
But if he drinks with eager breath,
Th' empoison'd draught of certain death:
The stabs of decent praise ?

58

Nor were this all—see next behind,
With all the graces of his mind:
The fiend his bane instill:
If by his eloquence, or strain,
His art, his interest, or mien,
He perpetrates his Will.

59

Since tho' unmov'd by vulgar things,
The pomp of courtiers and of kings:
Of Titles or of Pelf:
Yet on the whole, we should infer,
However self-renounc'd his Air,
“That Mitio lov'd himself.”

60

Now Glario—solemn, midnight sage!
Bursts o'er the manners of the age,
His deep, nocturnal groan!
Drawn by the Profile of his pen,
Who sees—yet sorrows not that Men
And Centaurs, are but one?

153

61

Critic of morals and the times:
He spares not Britain nor her crimes,
But mark the luckless foil:
Not censur'd all—ah partial Rose!
While o'er his Idols shrines he throws
The Daubings of his oil!

62

Daubings of fulsomeness and pride:
The drapery design'd to hide
The Monsters he should paint:
The rich, the rising, and the great:
The pimps and minions of a state:
Pray which of these—the Saint!

63

Why then condemn'd the Infidel?
Who with his Astaroth or Belle
Exclaims—“Behold the Sun!”
While Age herself adores the fair,
And points to ev'ry list'ning ear:
“One brighter than the Moon?”

64

Forgive the pertness of the Muse:
Nor call her liveliness—abuse:
But list thine eyes and see
The answer, e'er her being, giv'n:
“Who spare not Wilmington, nor Heav'n,
“Will surely not spare thee!”

65

Beside, the thought that plumes thy crest:
May lawful warm her tumid breast:
Enkindled at thy flame:
In whose, with thine, with all around,
The universal Passion's found
Of universal Fame!

154

66

Nor ought avails—th' unequall'd pen:
Depictur'd—Goddesses or men,
How bright or blind their eyes:
Not hers, the subject of my song:
For thee reserv'd—and for thy tongue,
“Fair P—tl—d of the skies!”

67

The skies—her rival and her sphere:
Where not Selina's brightness dare
With Cynthia's form contend:
But “more a Goddess by the Change”
Exult—and in her lunar range
Adore her nobler friend!

68

Unmask her, Glario unmask:
For thee 'tis no unusual task
To strip the borrow'd plume:
Besides, 'twas borrow'd from thy pen,
And to thy shame resume again,
Nor dread the waxing gloom.

69

What tho' eclips'd—she hide her face,
Nay more than hide—suppose her Grace
Should frown upon thy age:
What's that to thee? her harshest frown
Will not retard thy falling sun:
Nor sweep thee from the Stage!

70

But if she could—what would she more,
Than sweep thee from the dreary shore
Of earth's inhuman throng?
Sweep thee where smiling seraphs live,
Where bright Narcissa's flames revive
And angels learn her song!

155

71

And thou shalt theirs—if theirs thy lot:
On high up-cast—where Midnight thought
Like Light herself shall shine:
Where plays the uncreated ray:
Where all is one unclouded day:
Eclaircissement divine!

72

Next, Crusius, warm, prelatic bard:
A Levite—poet—truth 'tis hard,
To say what he is not:
At times he's taken for a fool:
A madman—void of care or rule:
All vacuum of thought!

73

Or thought confus'd or uncontroul'd:
To selfish whim or fancy sold:
All hurry and turmoil!
Yet amidst all—the Something's found
That like a gem from under ground
Denominates the Soil!

74

But here the grand obstruction lies:
Crusius can see with both his eyes:
But uses only one:
From hence arises his reserve:
Or huge affection—till the nerve
Of friendship is undone.

75

Here stands a Pauper—well what then?
Is he a saint? not Crusius can
Discern it in his Face:
Shew him a Colonel—or my Lord:
They hardly breathe—but “on his word,
He knows they must have Grace!”

156

76

And whence is this? why, chance from hence,
That Crusius knows for he has sense)
And gives the reason wny—
'Tis this—“a something's felt within”
(For if they're not afraid to sin)
“They're not afraid to die.”

77

And mayn't the fear of death be gone
From thousands as from only one:
Whose state is insecure?
Not sure where found the noble mind:
From vulgar dross and dregs refin'd:
High polish'd—and obdure!

78

But this is Crusius' turn and taste:
He thinks unthought—and speaks in haste:
Commends or disapproves:
Dependant each—not on the ground
Of solid rock—at random found:
Wherever Crusius loves.

79

And where is that? why you shall hear,
The rich, the stranger, and the fair:
The graceful and the wise:
The man of pomp or eminence:
The dame of honour and of sense:
How thick their Virtues rise!

80

From hence his inconsistency,
His cool relax to you or me:
His glory and his stain:
Yet after all to speak his due:
Aside what else we might review:
He dies—an honest man!

157

81

What hence inferr'd? why what is plain,
How strong tho' latent is the stain
Diffusive thro' us all:
Nor can our utmost efforts hide
What are themselves the fruits of Pride:
As pride is of the Fall.

82

But you—perhaps are something more:
You visit, nay you love the poor:
Nor scorn their levell'd roof:
So good—you'll rise by night or day:
Nay pity, feed, or clothe, or pray:
But can you bear Reproof?

83

“Reproof for what?” why this or that:
Or any thing—I can't tell what
Particularly now:
“But I must know”—I'll tell you why—
You're or most pompously too high:
Or sullenly too low.

84

Not barely in your mien or mood:
And Right—were an extreme of good:
Nor wholly free from blame:
But or too warm your fond pretence,
Or soon and lasting your offence:
I need not speak your Name.

85

'Tis you, 'tis me, in short, 'tis all,
On most the Inuendos fall:
Our foible or our crime:
'Tis want of prudence or of grace:
'Tis want of knowledge in our place:
Or difference of time.

158

86

All the effect of pious pride:
Without ability to hide
Your impotence of soul:
Easy elate, with ease deprest,
For trifles angry, or distrest,
At parties, or the whole.

87

And yet, methinks, I know a case,
Where you would court the lowest place,
Nay, relish a rebuke:
“Where?”—why when sweetly with your leave,
Nods with an air, or pulls your sleeve,
My Lady or the Duke.

88

Then—you are all submiss of form:
Never so humble was a worm:
You're nothing that you should:
Replete with foibles, blots and crimes,
The very model of the times:
How wicked and how—good!

89

'Tis well that neither you nor they,
Believe one syllable you say:
How wretched your desert!
If either did—how flush'd your face!
What ordeal trial of your grace!
'Twould scarify your heart!

90

But you are safe—there's nought to fear
From them, ungrateful, or severe:
No Delicacy hurt:
You wound yourself—there is no harm:
Besides their flattery's a balm:
Soft physic of the Court!

159

92

But undone this—O what a Face!
What flushings of exasper'd grace!
What menaces or scorn!
What dread designs against our peace!
Our hearts, our credit, or our ease!
Your very entrails burn.

93

Burn with amazement or revenge,
At those who firm disdain to cringe,
But honest disregard
Your pleasure or impertinence,
Yourself a rock of just offence:
Your torment your reward.

94

And plain the premises approve
That all the ardor of your love,
Your piety and zeal,
When closely scann'd are little more
Than (as was hinted just before)
The honours of your Will.

95

Be this perform'd—you're all that's pleas'd,
And this oppos'd—ne'er so diseas'd,
The leprous head or hand:
Too strong for Reason's gentle rein,
You cannot for your life refrain,
Nor bear a reprimand.

96

“Bear it from whom?” why, from a friend:
“O yes—I hope—I'd always mend
“When it is rightly giv'n!”
Rightly forsooth! come cut it short:
You love the language of the Court:
A little of the leaven.

160

91

Give you your way—(for that's the thing)
What down so soft! nor smiles the king
More gracious from his throne:
Accent how mild—how meek your eyes!
The cause just nam'd—(nor latent lies)
Your sov'reign Mind is done.

97

But is your food or physic worse
Because the vehicle is coarse?
Your freedom less admir'd:
Because the hand that sets you free,
Or bids you turn the friendly key,
Is raggedly attir'd?

98

“But 'tis unmerited the blame”—
Why then your censure's not your shame:
How little we abide!
Besides 'tis what you might have done,
And may e'er sets the rising sun:
Just issue of your pride.

99

“Well but I did not do the thing:”
Allow'd—but pray are you a king
That no one must reprove:
What or they hear or think you did,
But only as you please to bid,
Or delicately love?

100

If true the guilt—esteem it well:
Not be displeas'd that any tell
Your weakness or your crime:
If not—be thankful you are clear:
And take as warning for your care,
Against another time.

161

101

For who despises a reproof,
But fondly deems he's safe enough
From error's sad disease:
Yet shews a mind but too infirm,
To bear the impulse of a storm:
Or ruffling of a breeze.

102

But lofty minds are always safe:
At admonition's frown or laugh:
The monitor miscall:
Unweeting (till they smart within)
That scorn of that precedes our sin:
And haughtiness our fall!

103

Now comes your rival—bold or fair:
Who sweeps along like zephyr'd air:
(You're very smart indeed)
Has seen the world—that is the Stage:
Talks of it's manners and the age:
How infidel their creed!

104

Laments in soft pathetic tone
The crimes that constantly are done
Within this lower sphere:
Loves much to hear the gospel spreads,
The suckling on the serpent treads:
It's Messengers how dear!

105

The last how just—how shrewdly true!
But is there nothing dear to you
Beside their Word's success?
Mistakes mine ear—or dims mine eye,
When prone to think you half apply
For personal Address.

162

106

At least, for personal regard:
Their just attention your reward:
As pleas'd to hear you speak
Your own—or judgment of the wise:
“How strong their thoughts—how clear their eyes,
“How masculine their Greek!

107

“How tun'd their voice—how wav'd their hand:
All nature moves at their command:
“The hearers how inform'd!
“What nervous points! what crowds attend!
“Myself—how raptur'd to the end!
(Less mended than you're warm'd.)

108

“Well, sir, I hope not short your stay:
“Indeed, you ne'er should go away,
“If I could have my will:”
Believ'd, Miranda, you say right:
You'd hark the year, from morn to night
Yet, be Miranda still.

109

And that's enough—'tis all that's frail:
A blast—a bubble, or a tale:
A fairy or an elf:
It is, in short—what is it not?
A dream—the Ideot of a thought:
It is—Miranda's self.—

110

And reason good it should be so:
You aim at nothing but to know:
An easy, lifeless task:
But as a Medium of excuse:
Permit me less reserve to use:
And unapolig'd ask,

163

111

Start there no glances from your eyes?
No grave, affected, soft surprize
At what you knew before?
No gentle, sprightly, well—turn'd leer?
No Inclination of your ear,
To be inform'd of more?

112

I would not willing judge thee hard:
Only 'tis meet that some regard
In reason should be paid
To marks as glaring as the sun:
By or your hand, or air, or tone:
Or motion of your head.

113

All these (you know) as loudly tell
(As ever toll'd th' alarming bell
For burial or for pray'rs:)
What is the Genius of your frame:
What or your hope or hopeless aim:
Or whether only—Airs?

114

And if 'tis this—'tis loss of time
At least—if not a real crime:
And nothing gain'd beside
The harsh, uncomfortable sense,
“That all your grace is but Pretence:
“And all your fervour—Pride!”

115

But come—be serious and sincere:
(All Affectation costs us dear)
Enough you know the Text:
Leave others to descant in form,
Display the logic of their Arm:
And listen to the next.

164

116

Hear then a Spark that tells you more
Than chance you ever thought before:
“There never was a Fall:
Adam was just as he was made:
“And we but carry on the trade
“That fools Corruption—call.

117

“We're all the same—pure Flesh and Blood:
“Some act amiss—but all are good:
“Each in his different way:
“Except 'tis here and there a few,
“Who ne'er or truth or morals knew:”
This is his sacred lay!

118

To him we nothing can reply:
He seems as born to live and die
A Heathen of a Priest:
But so far we may just remark:
As to return the daring spark,
His Articles at least.

119

Now comes a third—an airy beau:
That looks as if a Puppet-Show
Were really the Intent:
He talks a little like the first:
And eke unwilling to be curst:
Repeats the Compliment.

120

Tells them—“they're doubtless well inclin'd:
“Good Christians—all of the same mind:”
And so they are no doubt:
But still he cautions them (for fear)
Not to get drunk, defraud, or swear:
This serves the present bout!

165

121

And it serves them as well as him:
He tells—and they approve the dream:
But neither—quite awake,
Imagine aught behind remains,
But—to forget it for their pains:
And hold the former track.

122

Up steps a fourth—a lusty blade:
Just fit to handle Oar or Spade:
A very strong divine!
Tells us—“that nothing's good for nought:
“That Troy was burnt, and Dunkirk bought:”
They stare—go home—and dine.

123

Another lifts his trumpet's voice:
(Did ever Herald make his noise?)
“Ye can but live in sin!”
O how they echo to his praise!
Since in effect—the Wizard says,
“That we must die therein!”

124

Now hear your Christian Faith defin'd:
“A notion”—any thing—the wind:
“It is”—pray what is it?
Why, 'tis a something that you brought
Into the world—that comes to nought:
The model of your Wit.

125

Yet, “We are justify'd by Faith”
The good old Church of Encland-Path:
But hear him all ye Turks!
For fear his flock should idle grow:
And neither Good nor Evil do:
“We're justify'd by Works!”

166

126

But now—“we are set free indeed
“By Faith alone”—be this our Creed:
But does the Sire insist
On any farther due regard
To promise—threat'ning or reward?
Or live we as we list?

127

If so—what profits all our faith?
Still to move on the baleful path
Of Carelessness or Sin:
Far better yet unknown his grace:
Than thus affront him to his face:
And dare the wrath divine!

128

But hold—“ye are predestinate!”
Who are? why—we'll demand your State:
Have you one single spark
Of light or life infus'd within?
Do you design to flee from sin?
“Why yes”—then there's the Mark!

129

Allow'd—but is there nothing more?
This they could boast of long before:
So that if this be all:
But slender cause your joy to move,
Since at the close, it may but prove
An ineffectual call.

130

From hence how many self-deceiv'd:
Themselves predestinate believ'd,
For little more than Thouht!
Trifled with God, till left alone:
They're irretrievably undone:
To swift destruction brought.

167

131

Now view the souls—whose end is nigh,
Senseless or hopeless see them lie:
And desperate their case:
Yet why should these be lost with fear:
When traitors whisper in their ear:
“Ye're the elect of Grace?”

132

Nay, see a second rack'd with care:
From Guilt—he's dying in despair:
Stabb'd deeper by their breath
Who cry—“The path, that such must go,
“The saints of God must all pass thro'
“The vale and shade of death!”

133

'Tis true—who doubts or dares deny?
But pray, can you no mean descry,
No difference between
The soul that's drinking his last cup,
And Trifler that is given up
To horror for his Sin?

134

But, had ye carry'd it still higher,
The light of life, the living fire,
Bright shining in his soul:
Influx of grace and love divine:
Where sweet, angelic tempers shine,
Conspicuous thro' the whole:

135

No sinner had himself deceiv'd:
No one himself elect believ'd,
For nothing but a spark:
Or flash of weak or strong desire:
Till flam'd his soul ethereal fire,
Grand, evangelic mark!

168

136

Enlighten'd by the living word,
Born as begotten of his Lord:
He tastes that God is good:
Harmless, and pure, and undefil'd:
His Maker owns him for his Child:
His Father and his God!

137

Nor short of this—will aught avail:
Still as unenter'd in the pale;
Or covenant of grace:
A child unborn is not an Heir:
Untasted yet the vital air:
Unnumber'd with his race.

138

Instead of this—how low defin'd
The tokens of a gracious mind!
So pale, infirm, or faint:
That not the holy (these who blames?)
But e'en the Hypocrite esteems
Himself a chosen saint!

139

Has fancy'd he was born again:
Took it for granted he was clean:
Elected—ere conceiv'd:
And who can blame the dire mistake,
('Tis but the same that many make)
They said it, he believ'd!

140

Thus they sail on, right down the stream
Of party, prejudice, or whim:
They trifle, dress, or sing:
Attend the lecture of the day:
Then trade, or while—their life away,
All children of a King!”

169

141

Again, they're carry'd up so high,
That 'twere a marvel to descry
A saint thro'out the whole:
He sins amain—what next the tone?
“Why—safe his end—or else he's gone
A non-elected soul!

142

And yet, not long since, you esteem'd
This very man, elect, unblam'd:
You saw it in his Face:
But now you can't deny his Fall
You must, or make secure his Call:
Or say, “'Twas all Grimace!”

143

But where or truth or reason here?
Why will ye scruple to declare
What Facts so plain evince?
That after all that God has done,
This saint his former course may run,
And perish in his sins!

144

A brother tells the sleepy crowd,
“All fear is needless—God is good:
“Ye may repent at Will:
“Is this (say they) the truth we hear?
“Why then indulge another year:
“At least—a little while.”

145

A while the sinner puts it off:
They dance—they play—they lie—they scoff:
Each hugs the pois'nous tale:
Till in a moment—ere they think,
Death slyly moves them to the brink:
And sends the Pack to hell.

170

146

Another speaks so soft of Sin,
You'd think it were a violin:
Or ideot of a trance:
He talks so sweet of all they love,
What wonder with their Heart should move
Their Feet the choral dance!

147

Next hear a wealthy, solemn Don:
But mark the Text he is upon:
“Who works not—shall not eat:”
Well said—what pity all the Trade
Don't feel—if this was gen'ral made,
They'd nor have Drink nor Meat!

148

Another vindicates the poor:
But mind they're thrusted from his door:
He ne'er admits one in:
But to excite his hearers Pride,
He tells'em—“Charity shall hide
“A Multitude of sin!”

149

The multitude his wisdom praise:
And doubt not but that as he says,
“It shall their doom decide:”
For once to huge confession brought:
Each owns (but who believes) he'as got
A Multitude to hide!

150

Strait see the patin or the dish:
All cannot give—but all can wish
To offer up their mite:
Some Heaven buy—as much as needs:
Others atone (as some by Beads))
Their lust, revenge, or spite!

171

151

Yet this—they're told—is Charity:
Only distinctive in Degree:
But all is pious done:
From him that lamps the gloomy pile:
To him that makes an Organ smile:
And mends it's broken tone.

152

The donors die—but heav'n has all
Who them support, or they their Pall:
What Certainty of gain!
But only see their windows broke:
A plank too starts—not struck a stroke:
Nor ever heal'd a pane!

153

A Steeple totters in it's height:
'Tis bad—it's split—oh what a fright!
(The land-mark of the Poor:)
Come, take it down—to stand a shame:
Lost now—from all except the Name
Of Arnold and his Tow'r!

154

Where now employ'd the sacred sum?
Supports it any other dome?
To what is now devote?
Who can explore (and yet 'twere meet)
The heighten'd fund—'tis all secrete:
Or Thousands or a Groat!

155

O would some Lay-unhallow'd Law
But lift on high her leaden paw,
And make the scrutiny!
You'd soon perceive—(tho' hard deny'd)
That Part at least was ill apply'd:
Not all—in charity.

172

156

Another grave, important Bard
Tells us what he himself has heard:
And ancient sires declare,
(An old wife's tale—more dull than true)
“That saints in Heav'n—their Sins shall view,
“To keep them humble there!”

157

His audience—all of the same mind:
And (reason good) are well inclin'd
To lay aside their fear:
E'en let us prosecute our will:
We may as well retain 'em still,
To keep us humble here.

158

They take the counsel of the Priest:
However—each his own at least:
And hugs the lying tale:
Each lives incautious of his state:
Till with amaze they find too late
Their Sins and them in hell!

159

But see his Successor appear:
(Hey day! pray who have we got here!)
O a far deeper Rose!
He enters wide into his work:
Tosses and cuts like any Cork,
The Text before his nose.

160

Tells you how all the Heav'ns were made:
(As if Apprentice to the trade)
How all the glitt'ring stars
Are suns and worlds—just such as ours:
Where there are seas, and hills, and tow'rs:
He joins the Hemispheres!

173

161

The audience gaze—and well they may:
They'd rather heard of Hopps and Hay:
Or have had leave to sin:
But all have different gifts to use,
Some for diversion or abuse:
And some to raise a grin.

162

Next hear a Moralist declaim:
Tells you the nature of your Frame:
How form'd to act at Will!
How you may reason, know and chuse:
Compare, determine, and refuse:
Yet—be a Sinner still!

163

Talks of the human soul and powers:
Grace and her Nonsense scorns and scowers,
As Scavengers the Street:
Sweeps them away as dirt and stone:
For since the world is wiser grown,
'Tis almost out of date.

164

The gospel doubtless—is a scheme,
That long has been a fav'rite theme
Among the good and weak:
But never was of God design'd,
But only as a light—to blind
The senseless Jew or Greek.

165

Talks of Confucius, Socrates:
Seneca, Plato, whom you please:
As Millers of their Grist:
Quotes now and then (to save the rest)
A poor old Prophet's dream or jest:
But hardly once of Christ.

174

166

Another mentions him—as what?
I hardly know—what it is not:
A stranger—or as one
They say “once liv'd—and dy'd, and rose,
“But left behind his Burial-Clothes:
“Then came—and put 'em on.”

167

His brother comes and calls him “Lord,”
But makes him nothing but a Word:
Tho' not long since his pen
Witnest his Godhead—human born:
We know him—were the times to turn,
He'd witness it again!

168

These wretches can take any form,
One when they're cold—another warm:
For int'rest, pique, or pride:
Swear and subscribe—yet ne'er believe,
Or nonsense—or a lye receive:
Then seek their shame to hide.

169

But seek in vain—'tis known to all:
Alike their Honesty and Call,
Consistent and divine!
'Tis all to serve a private end:—
To serve the times—or make a friend:
Or consecrate their shrine!

170

At first—they sign'd the Church's sense:
Their Patron bids 'em now dispense:
But soon as this is done:
The knaves confounded—hardly know
What to reply—but brazen bow—
“We sign'd it—in our own!”

175

171

But what to wonder at in them,
Their calling's burden and it's shame?
All—but their sin—by halves:
That those should high blaspheme their God,
And deem the virtue of his blood
No better than a Calve's!

172

Fit doctrine to indulge the times
In vice and infamy of crimes!
Who shall his ruin tell,
When rushing down the deep amain:
He like a comet—drags a train
Of Proselytes to Hell!

173

There leave him to enjoy his fame,
Convert to wisdom in a flame:
High blazing o'er his head!
Not for his Ignorance or Mistake,
But for his Perfidy to make
A Market of his Creed!

174

Now sparkling see a diamond ring!
Would fain talk sense about the King:
His Loyalty we know:
His hearers think him mighty fine:
But scarce a Priest—and no Divine,
He shines a finish'd Beau!

176

175

Another raves or tells his mind:
His audience are all inclin'd,
To take the counsel giv'n:
They do take care—but what to do?
Nor to repent, nor live anew:
But—to beware of—Heav'n.

176

A champion now upon the lists!
Down Puritan and Methodists:
Beware all flesh or bone!
Well meant and large upon the head:
It comes with weight—'tis solid lead:
As is his Heart of Stone!

177

Hear now the Heretics defin'd—
“Monsters—Leviathans—the wind—
“Red Dragons of the sea!”
But view the buzzing, sniggering crowd,
Who point, and whisp'ring hiss aloud—
“There—yonder—that is he!”

178

“You're very good—I see him now—
“O what a Jesuitic brow!
“How villainously pale!
“Well—who'd have thought—if still unseen,
“That such a Wretch had ever been!
“Pray—won't he go to Hell!”

179

Why yes he will—if he don't mend:
With you and your inquiring friend:
Fell brothers of Despite:
Who censure, damn, revile and curse:
Are wrong yourselves, or, what is worse,
Uncharitably right!

177

180

Well—now we're bidden “to be good”—
But O how frail is Flesh and Blood!
Perfection is not here!”
What rapture seizes all around!
Since what you know cannot be found,
Need never make our care!

181

But you should leave your grosser sin,
Because if chance ye should therein
Be driven from the earth:
'Tis possible you may be sent
Where (tho' in vain) you'll sure repent
You ever knew your birth.

182

“However small infirmities
“Are not to be adjudg'd as Vice:”
(A Thread is not a Vein)
How swallow'd glib the golden pill!
Each walks his way—infirm or ill
In Folly and in Sin.

183

This—the infirmity of Pride:
That—has the weakness to deride
Or Grace or Nature's fool:
One's folly to live void of care:
While others dance, debauch, or swear:
Infirmity's their rule!

184

At length the preacher proves a Sword:
A sinner feels the pointed word:
Condemn'd—the Convict cries,
What must I do—t'escape the doom
“For Sin reveal'd—the wrath to come?”
Where shall he turn his eyes?

178

185

Not to the World—their case the same,
But ignorant, would revile or blame:
No mercy at their hand:
The Pastor's sought—what's the event?
To sports, the world, or nonsense sent:
A faithful, triple Band!

186

He takes the counsel—see his end—
The world are pledg'd to stand his Friend:
They stand—and see him fall:
His peace, repute, or bus'ness dies:
He finds their promises are lies:
Forsaken of them all!

187

Another drunk—a Brute—a Thief:
Of sinners, held by all, as Chief:
Their scandal or their load:
Reform'd—he lives another man,
The world no longer can contain:
But curse him with his God!

188

Some could have borne a partial change,
But thus abridg'd his former range,
No patience with the times!
Sinners—their Contrast view and burn:
While envious Saints malign with scorn
The convert from his crimes.

189

What wonder that a circle's round!
Has not the same been always found?
What here then strange or new,
That Darkness should oppose the Light?
The Blind revile the men of Sight?
The lying false—the true?

179

190

Has not thy Lord foretold thy fate?
Himself sure object of their hate,
The scandal of his own?
The men of outward form and pride,
With barefac'd sinners help deride
The sacred Corner-Stone!

191

“But they—were Jews”—and what are these?
Why Jews—or Pagans—which you please,
Their Spirit just the same:
Replete with pride—(a shameless crew!)
They'd join the Pagan or the Jew,
To crucify the Lamb!

192

Regard them not—they know not him:
What marvel then—they both blaspheme
In thee the name of Christ?
In thee—thy Lord revil'd again?
A Lollard—saint—or Puritan,
Or, viler Methodist!

193

Now hark—the Decalogue's explain'd:
No pride of human glory stain'd:
The Letter is the thing:
Who breaks not this—is sound and safe:
May eat and drink—carouse or laugh:
A Goddess or a King!

194

And well they might, were this the case
And nothing more the sign of grace,
Than Negatives in sin:
A myriad might their Merits boast:
To honour, truth, and virtue lost:
If only lost within!

180

195

Keep from commission of the Deed,
How pure their Heart—how firm their Creed!
All else as guilty blam'd:
But take the Spirit of the word,
A thief—a jilt—her Grace—my Lord:
Tho' Saints—are all condemn'd.

196

How strange we would be justify'd
By that—which in the letter try'd,
Would scarce discharge us clear!
And yet defy the Spirit's sense,
As if unguilty the offence,
And folly all our fear!

197

Allow'd in part, the Letter free,
But appertains the Law to thee,
Yet flatter'd a Release!
Try'd by the Letter at thy word,
What proves it but a two-edg'd sword,
A ponyard to thy peace?

198

And well it may—for what's the doom?
Why nothing but “the Wrath to come,”
As unperform'd the whole:
The Letter broke—but once allow:
Behold the lightnings of his brow,
Bright flashing on thy soul!

199

Flashing conviction to thy face:
Felon of this—if not of Grace:
Small reason to presume:
Or boast, as sure thy vain retreat:
When seen (with horror at thy state)
The Letter of thy Doom?

181

200

But still the Letter is not all:
It's Spirit has a further call:
And hails thee at the bar:
No longer now secure or free:
The Spirit's sentence and decree:
From Sinai's thunder hear.

201

The text—“No other Gods but me,
“What wretches all the Papists be!
“Within this sacred place
“Not one Idolater has been!”
Pray what are they who love their Sin,
Or, idolize a Face?

202

Thou shalt not make an Idol-God:”
They don't—they can't—or else—they wou'd:
By this the Thesis prove:
They're ready made—make it a Creed:
When pride, revenge, and lust, or trade,
Sole objects of their love!

203

Thou shalt not take my Name in vain:
Swearers—how wicked and prophane!”
And art not thou condemn'd,
Who boasts a Christian's faith and name?
Thy life a stumbling-block and shame:
Thro' thee—thy Lord blasphem'd!

204

Remember—sanctify my Day:
“They do—they go to church and pray:”
But how concludes the rest?
In publick strollings or in sport:
While some in Scandal cut it short:
Or spend the time in jest!

182

205

Some move a Pawn—or deal a Card:
But then 'tis decent disregard,
'Tis only candle light:
“Come draw the curtain”—why—what fear?
“None—but to save the vulgar stare:”
But—is not God in Sight:

206

“Honour thy Parents”—now the Theme:
“Unruly children what a shame!
“How threatn'd their offence!”
But are unmeant nor menac'd they
Who curse, revile, or disobey
Their Betters or their Prince?

207

The ag'd—the honour'd—how revil'd!
Their years contemn'd—their glory soil'd,
From wantonness or pride:
What mongrels lift not up their horn?
Their counsels hate, their dictates scorn,
Their weaknesses deride!

208

Thus are contemn'd thro' all the land,
Who bear or high or sole command,
Their terror and their jest:
Their rulers dupes—their prince a fool,
Their parents doat—an Ass or Mule,
Or dull or stubborn beast!

209

“Thou shalt not murder”—next the word:
“Not one of these—e'er drew a sword:”
What unconcern'd surprize!
But has not Hatred found a part,
Deep lodg'd the cavern of thy Heart,
Or started from thine eyes?

183

210

Hast thou not wish'd a brother dead!
A thousand curses on his head!
Here then thy Virtue's flaw!
Come—blush condemn'd and conscious own,
What farther still thy hand had done,
But only for the Law!

211

Nay—nor has this always deterr'd:
So little Murderers regard
Conscience or future pain:
But had ye dy'd a sacrifice
To frantic Honour and her lies:
Where had ye both now been?

212

Why—where all murderers shall go:
Deep to the shades of final woe:
Who hate, revenge, or kill:
Alike the spirit of them all,
Alike their everlasting fall:
Such thine unalter'd will!

213

Now hear “Adultery”—forbid:
“All clear—as not the outward deed:
But who's untaint within?
Has not thine eye a wanderer rov'd?
Creatures inordinately lov'd:
And art thou clear of Sin?

214

Hear what the Spirit saith of old:
Thy crime—it's cause and end foretold:
“Who looks the base desire,
“That moment bursts the sacred line,
“Incurs the penalty divine:
“Heav'n's vengeance and hell-fire!”

184

215

Thou shalt not steal”—how great a Sin!
“But who of these concern'd therein?
“Who are of these to blame?”
Not you—who ne'er took Gold or Fleece:
But only robb'd thy neighbour's Peace,
Or stole his guiltless Name!

216

But hangs the Thief that steals thy Purse
Half-starv'd?—why then escapes a worse,
If thou unhang'd may'st live,
Who causeless wounds another's Name:
Or wanton stabs a dying fame,
Unable to survive!

217

Now hark, a voice salutes thine ear,
“Thou shalt no perjur'd Witness bear”
For enmity or gain,
“Against thy Neighbour's life or weal,”
Where Justice lifts aloft her scale,
Or lawless F—ds arraign.

218

“Of this—all innocent and pure!
“From legal vengeance how secure?”
But what is his esteem,
Whose ear has heard thy sland'rous tongue
Whisper aloud the infectious wrong,
Of treacherous Defame?

319

“Thou shalt not covet”—saith the Lord,
By whom not broken all his word?
Who guiltless bears not part
Or in the judgment of mankind:
Or, (of their judge) tho' more refin'd,
A sinner in his Heart?

185

220

Has not thine eye with envy seen
Another's wealth, or peace, or mien,
His fortune or his fame?
Another's beauty or estate?
The objects of thy restless hate?
Or, base, malignant theme?

221

For these—what censure upon all!
How prov'd a universal fall!
But Sinai roars in vain,
While lying prophets tell the crowd,
“That all but Profligates are good,
“Nor general the stain!”

222

From hence—what vile deceit of pride!
All now beneath the banner hide
Of less enormous crimes!
The Saint and Sinner bear a part,
And cry—from insolence of heart,
“How wicked are the Times?”

223

Wicked indeed! when each of you
(A proud, prophane, or formal crew,
What dire hypocrisy!)
Comparing each yourselves with them,
Whom Fame or human Laws condemn,
Cry—“Stand aloof from me!”

224

Aloof for what? are ye afraid
Of being number'd with the Dead
In Trespasses and Sin!
Yourselves unquickn'd to this hour,
Void of the Form—at least the Pow'r
Of godliness within!

186

225

In truth as much need they to fear
A worse estate—lest without care,
The men whom ye deride
Should catch from you that foul disease,
Sure death of all whome'er it seize:
The plague of holy pride!

226

Far safer is their present lot,
If pierc'd their heart—abas'd their thought,
They mourn uncancell'd sin:
Than with yourselves—deluded dream
All is secure—yet rush the stream
Of death's unending pain!

227

Object not here—“A mottled blend
“Of Vice with Virtue's foes or friend:”
Not East from West more wide:
Our sole design (and all we crave)
The Sinner and the Saint to save
From Ruin and from Pride.

228

Well weeting they are all condemn'd:
Alike in his account esteem'd,
Who balances the soul:
His Law—a Circle round his throne:
That so whoe'er offends in one
Is guilty of the whole .

229

How stain'd the pride of human boast!
Their merits void—their glorying lost:
Just issue of the Fall:
The Lord alone exalted stands,
While Justice with her dread demands,
Is justify'd of all!

187

230

No more the saints their Virtue plead:
Sinners no more the worthless deed
Of partial—virtuous vice:
But both alike condemn'd for Sin,
Find judgment scattering within,
The Refuge of their Lies.

231

No longer damns the chaste—a Whore:
The proud—a Pharisee—no more
The scrupulous a Thief:
But each with equal guilt and shame,
Prostrate—abas'd—aloud exclaim,
“Of Sinners I am Chief!

232

But how shall this effect be wrought?
Is it by poisoning the thought
With false or proud conceit
Of their own merit or desert?
And leave as unarraign'd the Heart,
Prime source of all deceit.

233

Is it by saying—“ye are good,”
Because unspilt a brother's Blood,
His Property yet clear?
While still beneath the fairest form,
Sly lurks the fox, the wolf, or worm,
The tyger or the bear!

234

Touch but the apple of their eye,
Their virtue, fame, or quality:
Their goodness or their face:
Trust me, you'll soon their vengeance feel:
E'en Mystics—cannot long conceal
The Vengeance of their Grace!

188

235

Couch but the Truth—in aukward terms,
My Lord will glow—my Lady warms:
Pugh—don't pretend to hide:
'Tis nothing more than artifice,
The stately coverture of lies,
The Mystery of Pride!

236

Still light or varying as the wind,
Like this to calm or storm inclin'd:
Uncertain, yet the same:
Now pliant bends, elastic steel:
Or whirls on fury's livid wheel,
The hot vindictive flame.

237

Or, with the meek, superb address,
Of stately, calm, contemptuous ease,
Remits you back again:
For what? because you're but a Clown:
Knew not their distance or your own:
And put their Pride to pain.

238

And here—hail thou—idol of all!
Thy voice of old—a trumpet's call
To Seriousness and God:
The Christian's hope of perfect love
Co-rival of the saints above:
Now both their Bane and Rod.

239

Lost in the all-confounding maze
Of mystic labyrinths—where the race
Of Tauler and his sons,
Began but never ended theirs:
Bequeath'd the clue each to his heirs,
An endless period runs.

189

240

Where shall it end? who can say where?
Or in the Spirit of Love, or Pray'r,
Or lunacy of Pride?
Most like—while these supremely wise,
A universe of Fools despise,
Or, modestly deride.

241

But yet how ill can most of these
Dispense with Fame or selfish Ease ?
Their charter and their seal:
Severe your truth—stand clear offence:
You but “excite a passion'd sense
“They do not care to feel!”

242

But then consult the Oracle:
What will they not or think or tell?
Now you are truly wife!
For owning they are so alone:
That all beside are blind of one,
While these have both their eyes!

243

And what beside should they expect,
When ask'd as judges to direct,
Your conscience or intent?
'Tis nothing more than is their due,
Who in return will dictate you,
A mystic compliment.

244

But guard against their pious lie:
'Tis but the shield of policy,
To ward the dread offence:

190

Of bold impertinents in Modes,
Who rather than presume them gods,
Dispute their very Sense.

245

O what an insolence of thought!
A Mystic to the Bible brought!
Now see the rising sun!
Dazzled thine eyes with unknown light,
Or strikes a Something on your sight,
As vapouring as the moon.

246

'Tis borrow'd all—return it back,
Let the first owners of it take
Their phantasies again:
(Such light is darkness—and her beams)
Nor puzzle with their complex dreams,
Thy dull, domestic brain.

247

Mystic or Pagan—where's the mean?
Or what the difference between
The Infidel and he?
By both deny'd or wrath in God,
Th' Atonement made by hallow'd blood:
All Infidelity!

248

Nor less the Papist claims his share
In the high precedented pray'r,
For full deliverance
From Tophet's warm purific fire:
The doom of Catholics, and hire
Of Behmen and his Trance!

249

As if not here was scarce begun
The sacred work—much less were done
The whole—e'er shoots the dart

191

Of death—fair levell'd with his hand,
To strike the sinner on the strand;
Sav'd—yet unpurg'd the heart!

250

O such a mixture—such a Paint
Of Pagan, Papist, Protestant!
A triple-headed scheme!
Sprung from the enterprising brain,
Of heated, self-sufficient men:
A dark, Teutonic dream!

251

Yet not alike—who bear the name
Of Mysticism—favourite theme
Of Piety and Pride:
Various it's orders and degrees,
A thousand branches and their trees,
It's fibrous roots divide.

252

Some philosophic—wise yet dark,
Noble their aim—yet miss the mark
Of true felicity:
Not from defect of thought or sense,
But from the arduous high pretence
Of false philosophy.

253

Impatient of the common load,
With scorn forsake the simple road,
Of Scripture's sacred rules:
Talk high of Nature and her tome:
Still disappointed—wildly roam:
In Happiness—are Fools.

254

Now name a man—yet name him not:
Daring his mind—and vast his thought:
But like the soul in sleep:

192

Cover'd with darkness all around,
He rolls at large the black Profound,
And takes it for the Deep!

255

Piercing his wit—severe his eye:
To probe or censure or apply
The Caustic of the soul:
But void of skill or care humane,
He wounds or aggravates the pain,
Nor finds nor leaves it whole.

256

(But what from them expect or find,
To lash as to lament inclin'd
Their partners in the Fall?
What from the men of high conceit,
Who cry with insolence of wit,
“We're wiser than ye all?”)

257

O had this son of thunder known
How bright thy ways—how dark his own!
His aim sublime—how wild!
Peaceful his feet—and safe had trod,
His soul had center'd on her God:
Secure, serene, and mild.

258

Keen had his word like lightning shone:
Or melted warm the heart of stone:
With wisdom's poignant fire:
Strong consolation deep had flow'd,
A multitude had sang their God,
Their Pastor, and their Sire!

259

For this—how slighted or revil'd
His labours void, his glory soil'd,
And all his strength in vain:

193

But here no more, now drop the veil,
His Greatness and his Fate conceal:
For ever clos'd the scene!

260

Some with the air of high conceit,
Term'd or philosophy or wit,
Of warm Teutonic blood:
Pour from their own exhaustless fund,
A meaning useless—as beyond
The vulgar and the good.

261

Stare in your face as if a ghost
Your started slumbers should accost
Amidst the noon of night:
Pity your ignorance who pretend,
Or not with ease to comprehend
The darkness of their light.

262

Talk of their own immensity,
Then bid you wond'ring gaze and see
Them sink far deeper still:
But after all their vaunt of wit,
How plain 'tis nothing but a pit,
Or unenlighten'd well.

263

Others less subtle than sincere,
Contented move an humbler sphere
Of piety and grace:
Not vaunting rise, or wanton rove,
But meek their mind as warm their love,
An unaffected race.

264

Patient, and lowly, and serene,
Grave, yet benevolent their mien,
Impartial and benign:

194

Cautious their hope, indulg'd their fear,
They trace his steps with trembling care,
Great Exemplar divine!

265

Adore his cross, and meek rejoice:
In secret silence wait the voice
Of Wisdom and her Sire:
Long with empassion'd sense to feel,
(Not the judicial scorch of hell)
But pure seraphic fire.

266

Fire of affliction and of love,
By which the saints their virtue prove,
From dross their gold refin'd;
Bright in his image wait to stand,
High polish'd by the Saviour's hand,
Fair emblems of his mind.

267

Such Philo, venerable name,
His soul a sweet angelic flame,
Of modesty and love:
Serious his faith, as meek his hope,
Cautious he scales the mountain's top:
Yet sure his throne above.

268

Did Mystics all resemble thee,
From pride, and guile, and nonsense free:
All false distinctions void:
My wearied soul would quit her sphere,
No more my heart, mine eye, mine ear,
With Sects or Parties cloy'd.

269

But they are not—thou art but one:
They all leave thee—thou them alone:
As little more than name:

195

I join thy tears—for Zion mourn:
And weeping for her laurels torn,
Continue where I am.

270

Useless, neglected, and contemn'd,
My faults unspar'd—my Virtues blam'd,
If virtue's not deny'd
To one now stript of Means as Ends,
By causeless foes—by thankless friends,
Beyond the utmost try'd.

271

Constru'd Infirmities to Crimes:
And crimes minute—a thousand times
Exagger'd and expos'd:
Scorch'd by the breaths that should have heal'd
My sorrows—and my faults conceal'd:
Now gracelessly disclos'd.

272

But stop, my Muse, thy eager hand,
Repress, or gracefully command
The ardor of thy strain:
Suffice in secret flows thy tear:
Sigh deep—but sigh to him whose ear
Receptive feels thy pain!

273

The pain of Friendship's generous pride:
Deep wounded thro' the gilded side
Of honour in disguise:
The gauze of fair profession's veil,
Thrown as a mantle to conceal
A Magazine of lies!

274

Yet why complain—as none but thee
Were doom'd the mark of treachery,
As had thy breast alone,

196

Indulg'd a fawning viprous brood,
When clasp'd of old the Son of God,
A Traitor to his own!

275

Yet not thyself with him compare:
All bright—all spotless, and all fair,
Unguilty and untaint:
But to abate thy keen surprize,
To wipe the wonder from thine eyes,
And heal thy loud complaint.

276

Now name a race—but only name,
Their present boast—their present shame:
Of high Barcleian mold!
Scornful they leave each ritual mode,
By Bigots deem'd—or serv'd a God,
Or as they serve their Gold!

277

Yet boast of their Forefathers zeal:
Their labours, love, and sufferings tell:
Now—only on record:
Their sons display another mind,
To dull formality subjoin'd:
A lifeless, senseless word.

278

Say not—“Condemn'd the whole for few:
Ye know that more than this is true
(What Thieves conviction love!)
Your own may censure loud and warm:
Arraign the deadness of your form:
But may none else reprove?

279

For who more worthy reprimand,
Than they who with uplifted hand,
Point out our heresy?

197

Their soundness boast (of words a strife)
Are sunk in all the Pride of Life,
Or proud Formality!

280

To these succeed as poor a train:
Light, empty bigots, proud and vain:
Yet boast superior grace!
For what? is more sublime their Love?
In aught more favour'd from above,
As the peculiar race?

281

No—they unlimited deny,
Renouncing stout the heresy
Of Calvin and his pale:
These loud maintain the general Call:
As they deny the general Fall:
But—they believe—in Gale!

282

Avouch the true, primeval Mode
Of dedicating souls to God:
Immers'd beneath the deep:
Implung'd in darkness and in sin,
Emerging just as they went in,
Uncleans'd and fast asleep!

283

Yet boast of Nature and her Skill:
Her mighty pow'rs to act at Will:
They censure or deride
Who dare believe that all have fell,
By nature born the heirs of hell:
Their charity and pride!

198

284

Deny the Resurrection's pow'r
Of Soul as Body till the hour
When all the dead must rise :
Disown their Lord's divinity:
Account his merits as a lye:
A Dream—his sacrifice!

285

Revile or slander who regard
The purchas'd glory—the reward
Of faith in Jesus' blood:
Trust to themselves and their own works:
May share the paradise of Turks:
But not the mount of God!

286

A moment view their Contrast here:
Who move a more contracted sphere:
(How can Extremes be right!)

199

But both are so in their own eyes:
Reciprocally fools and wise:
Each other's darkness—light!

287

These hold the truths—the first deny:
And right affirm that all shall die
Of the accursed seed:
But who these are—is the dispute:
Be all but Revelation mute,
Their oracles our Creed .

288

Not here decide—but there refer:
To end the antichristian war
Of Calvin and Socine:
Let each of all but clear evince
Themselves elect—abhorr'd their sins:
Love mutual as divine!

289

Till this be done—nought else avails,
'Tis all but froth—and frothy tales:
Each but asserts his will:

200

Small difference of superior claim,
Whether the meek or surly name
Of Episcope or Gill!

290

Now—for the Complex of them all!
A prince—my Lord—or monarch call,
A prelate or a priest:
'Tis hard to say—(if same be true)
What name—or style—is not his due,
SPITZBUB or the Beast!

291

Seven are his heads—and ten his horns,
A flagrant branch his front adorns,
Of insolence and pride:
Skill'd in the arts of polish'd guile,
He lures a senate at his will,
Or bribes them on his side.

292

Read but himself —and read his scheme,
'Tis any thing you please—a dream
Of blasphemy and filth:
Where could he get it?—who can tell?
Sure it was laded up from Hell,
Or, was it got by stealth?

201

293

Of him no more—unmatch'd by all:
We leave him or to stand or fall,
Till safe in his abode:
He tread the ever scorching ground,
With Lucifer in darkness bound:
Or strangely mounts—to God!

294

Now lifts an orator his hand,
While earthquakes shake a stagg'ring land,
(Hear all the awak'ning sound)
“The ax is laid beneath the root,
“What tree now brings not forth good fruit
“Is smitten to the ground!”

295

But who's the tree that is not good?
“Why—who denies the word of God,
“Transmitted from above:”
(The preacher's right) and he no less
Who holds it in Unrighteousness,
Or want of humble Love!

296

But who is this? is not he one
Who with his pontiff habit on,
Bids you incline your ear:
Himself betroth'd (with all he says)
To pride, revenge, intrigue or ease,
Can Infidels—but sneer?

202

297

Laugh in their sleeves and spue on him,
As telling in his sleep a dream:
Awake he must deny:
Or else renounce his own pretence
To grace, or honesty, or sense:
Himself—his sermons lye.

298

Next hear a preaching Politician,
The State's and not the soul's physician,
Their benefit his aim:
'Tis well—a few with zeal may burn,
But then the greater part return,
No warmer than they came.

299

Another mounts and tells his tale,
(You'd better read the Flander's mail)
(Tho' orthodox the Text:)
Pities the Vulgar—shews their cause,
'Tis nothing more than nature's Laws,
And natural th' effects.

300

Effect of water and of air,
Pent up within the lower sphere:
The marrow of her mines:
Opprest or troubled in her course,
What wonder she should vent with force
The burden of her Loins?

301

The list'ning croud exulting hear,
Away or penitence or fear:
This doctrine must be sound:
The Preacher says he knows the cause,
'Tis nothing but the common laws
Of nature under-ground.

203

302

But can the preacher be a fool?
Does he not know that nature's Rule
Is nature's awful God?
That second causes are the Means
He but employs to serve his ends?
His warnings or his rod.

303

Is it less dreadful an event,
Less kind or certain the intent,
Of warnings from his hand,
Because a second cause is prov'd?
But is the Danger too remov'd,
Or, Folly from the land?

304

Proves not each Second cause a first:
Who then the bands of Reason burst,
Or render them in vain?
The men who point from them to this,
Or, you who more than common wise,
Would rid them of their pain?

305

The pain of salutary fear,
As if a raid that over care
Should make them over good:
Or is it lest their foolish mind,
To superstition's voice inclin'd,
Should agitate their blood?

306

Distort their senses—or their head?
Fill'd with the fond conceit or dread,
As Nature were undone?
When, after all—'tis nothing more,
Than what has oft been seen before,
A Freak of nature's own.

204

307

But such a freak as you esteem,
Or, they who fond suppose a whim,
What Nature dreads to tell:
Were you to ask the destin'd brood,
Late smitten by the hand of God
To ruin and to Hell,

308

“What (maugre all they dreamt before
With you—and half a million more,
Who scornful set at nought)
“Is, now their judgment of the laws
“Of Nature and her second cause,
“What now their real thought?”

309

Would they (imagine you) reply,
“O this is nothing—we but lie
“Beneath the common laws
“Of Nature in her usual course,
“'Tis all, true, philosophic force,
“Her secondary cause?”

310

Would they not rather mourn their fate,
Their eyes unopen'd till too late,
For mercy once their friend?
Would they not answer—“These were all
“The friendly warnings of his call,
Prophetic of their end?

311

“That these unnotic'd or despis'd,
“As visions scorn'd, as phantoms priz'd,
“Were the tremendous cause
“Why lost at all—they mourn in vain
“The endless rack of endless pain:
Hell's nature and her laws!”

205

312

But put no cause should intervene,
A warning or a bar between
The sinner and his doom:
But in a moment swept away,
Should end the long protracted day,
Amidst the wrath to come.

313

Would he not justly loud complain?
Unnotic'd as unthought his pain:
Would not yourself bewail
The hapless portion and the end
Of a poor unadmonish'd friend,
Ne'er warn'd till deep in hell?

314

Would ye not both aloud blaspheme
The wrath of God and of the Lamb,
Unrighteously severe?
As struck without one warning giv'n
From all the hope of life and heav'n,
To torture and despair?

315

Would ye not plead (the general lye)
“That had, but ere his doom drew nigh,
Some notice been vouchsaf'd:
“He gladly would have burst the yoke,
“Have shunn'd the dread, avenging stroke,
“Nor drank the fiery draught?”

316

Is this the copy of thy face?
Thy self a copy of the race,
Perfidious and ingrate!
By this we prove the whole untrue,
Here are the warnings of the blow
That shall decide thy fate.

206

317

But where the terror that should reign?
Or where the sorrows for thy sin?
Where or discern'd or found?
Are not you one—out-stretch'd at ease,
While fierce omnipotence displays
It's thunders all around?

318

So far from this you either smile
Philosopher—serene and still:
The Cause (to you) is clear:
Or coward tremble from within:
Remov'd—congratulate your Sin:
Base perjury of fear!

319

But to return—are you afraid
Too soon improvement should be made,
Of terror and it's pain?
You may assign what cause you please,
Small labour serves to set at ease
Their conscience and it's sin.

320

Have not they all forgot the day,
When rous'd from slumber or from play,
Her Nobles were dismay'd,
Lest earth her jaws should open wide,
Their doom unchangeably decide?
Fast number'd with the dead!

321

Afraid no more—return'd amain,
To pride, to wantonness, or gain,
The nation lull'd to rest:
Rolls on her way—secure her sons:
Her gentry, rabble, and her dons:
Thrice obdurate her breast!

207

322

Small reason then to find a plea,
From Nonsense or Philosophy,
Why sinners should not mend:
Far better bid the nation join
Their concrete voice—loud added thine,
To deprecate their end!

323

Last starts a wretch—hell starts to hear!
All—(but his own) are struck with fear,
A fell blasphemer—he!
Heard him mine ears—write it my pen,
And if repeat—then write again,
His horrid Blasphemy!

324

Spare not his form—or lank demure,
His soft address—or dark obscure,
His subtlety or pride:
His mean submission to the Great,
His abject scorn or private hate:
Lash him but not deride.

325

No there his Nonsense—but his Crimes,
Report to these or future times:
Rise censure like a storm!
Whether he plays the guileful fox,
The surly bear or stately ox,
Or, crawls a wriggling worm.

326

Tho' these are flea-bites to the next:
Attend and hear him read his text:
Hell opens at the sound!
What wonder Earth had open'd too,
Swallow'd with Lisbon's worthless crew,
Himself and all around!

208

327

But God had mercy on the man,
They all perform the best they can,
But oft how bad the best!
Sure never sprang from Infidel
A worse (it must come warm from hell)
Or, vile' paganic priest!

328

What was the axiom—or the word?
Malignant Treason at his Lord:
Yet holds the Trinity!
But such his infamy of face,
He calls—“Imputed Righteousness
“Impute Absurdity

329

Could he beyond—unless deny'd
The Saviour either liv'd or dy'd,
Or risen from the dead?
So far ev'n Priests themselves have stretch'd:
All this might be—and but impeach'd
His Impudence or Head.

330

But Treason belches from the Heart:
This member must have borne it's part
With the blasphemer's tongue:
(Judicial blast for pride and sin)
Or the Redeemer ne'er had been
His ridicule or song.

209

331

“My God forgive his blasphemy:
“Open his darken'd eyes to see
“His treachery and shame:
“Bolt the deep thunder on his heart,
“With lightning let his eye-balls start,
“And flash the livid flame!

332

“Plunge the keen ponyard of despair
“Beneath his breast—hell's fiery glare
“Strike horror on his eyes:
“Till burst his soul, with dread replete,
“He fall condemn'd before thy feet,
“Nor trifle nor despise.

333

Shew him his righteousness is Sin,
“Ragged and filthy and obscene:
“When thus expos'd his shame:
“He'll blush at his own nakedness,
“And cloth'd with Jesus' righteousness, ,
“Shall reverence the Lamb.”

210

334

I know the vulgar fond excuse,
Their fear and danger of abuse:
As Morals were at stake:
Pray look around—and take a view
Of such who scorn as well as you,
The Pharisee or Rake.

335

These like imputed righteousness,
Just as the Wise approve your Dress,
Perhaps not quite so well:
But if maintain'd it ne'er so strong,
Could they or your misguided throng,
Be any nearer Hell?

336

Could they a greater distance move
From all that God or Angels love?
From happiness to come,
Than now they stand?—alike their case:
Each in his sinful righteousness,
And just alike their doom!

337

One argument for all suffice,
Experience only answers lies:
Death stares upon them Both:
Eternity is hard at hand:
It's terrors in their brightness stand:
Less pale the Shroud or Cloth!

211

338

“How strange is this!” not strange at all,
Both are the offspring of the Fall,
And both alike abhorr'd:
Both yet unsav'd—or purg'd from sin:
Nor ever from the birth have been
Or pardon'd or restor'd.

339

'Tis not then Actions—are the whole:
But 'tis our nakedness of Soul,
Alike in all or none:
Marvel not then the howl of saints,
Beyond the sinner's loud complaints:
God estimates them one.

340

They're not like him—this is their Bane:
Their present curse and future pain:
They're yet unborn anew:
And what is more (ah dire to tell!)
God oft condemns them both to hell:
Ere they believe it true!

341

But take a courtezan or king:
A villain in his star or string:
A tyrant or his slave:
Strip them of all that is their own,
And put his robes of beauty on:
How brilliant and how brave!

342

The reason here—they're now uncloath'd
Of what the eye of Justice loath'd,
The food of wrath divine:
But veil'd and cover'd with that dress,
The garment of his rigteousness,
Each like the Saviour shine.

212

343

Hell quits her claim and death her sting,
The vile's a saint, the saint a king:
No judgment now or dread:
They live enwrapt in that bright veil,
That death defies and laughs at hell:
All perfect as their Head!

344

“Hide me—my God beneath this shroud,
Envelop'd as a fiery cloud
This spotted soul of mine:
I see it brighter than the sun,
E'en Seraphs might they put it on,
Would more Seraphic shine!

345

Perhaps they do—who rash would dare
To say that Angels can appear,
With ought themselves acquire:
But highly favour'd yield their robe
For that, which must enshroud a globe,
Or burst o'er all a Fire!

346

Shall Man then boast his righteousness?
His filthy rags and tatter'd dress,
Of arrogance and shame?
Shun the foul deed—lest God shun thee,
Detest thy vile hypocrisy:
Anatomiz'd in flame!

347

Who hugs his own, will ne'er find his,
Who theirs abhor will never miss
Of glory or it's crown:
Alike receiv'd, as once his Grace,
The purchase of that righteousness,
His merit makes our own.

213

348

In this who walk before him here,
In that before him shall appear,
Environ'd and secure:
Shine as ne'er Angels shone above,
High in his brightness and his love
As glorious and as pure!

349

Here then the difference with them,
Who here but glory in their Shame,
Proud of their Sins or Grace:
From those who all an off'ring bring,
Fall at his feet—remount and sing
“The Lord our Righteousness!”

350

The contrast here assigns the cause,
(Like different climes and different laws)
Why different our Thought:
Why some are rescu'd from their sin,
Another lives and dies therein,
While yet a third is brought

351

To true repentance from despair,
To faith or joy from hopeless fear,
To virtue and to God:
While others stand unmov'd as oak,
The Devil's plants, till death's last stroke,
Insures them their abode.

352

The scene is done—the sermon ends:
The priest and people part good Friends,
Intending to meet soon:
They nod, they bow, they compliment,
Each lisps or mutters his intent
To spend the afternoon.

214

353

All now return, both low and high,
Who heard—as he who told his lie,
Each wanton, hard or vain:
Resolv'd to live, as list their lays,
While the loud Organ roars their praise,
“You're welcome, Gentlemen.”

354

“The Altar next elate—secur'd:”
Not less by Rails (with ease endur'd)
Than by a scarlet Race
Of crimson dye—and crimson souls,
The doughty pastors of thy folds,
And helpers of their grace.

355

Who with the hands of pomp and pride,
The sacred elements divide:
Pour out the graceless wine:
Bought fresh—with that which bought the last,
For who would say (but in his haste)
“It should be bought with thine?”

356

To this ascends a mottled crowd,
Of surly, trifling, righteous, proud:
All once or twice a-year,
(Except the Atheist and profane,
Nay these when provident of gain)
To keep their reck'ning clear.

357

But all are welcome when they come,
Unsummon'd or by pipe or drum:
They come for various ends:
Some for Devotion, some for Task,
Some know not why—some for a Mask,
And some to please their friends.

215

358

Nathless they come, and there they are:
Now thin adorn or thick the bar:
Each lying—as they kneel:
Not rash—'tis true, the whole we say,
You did yourselves but t'other day,
Say what you did not feel.

359

“The Burden of our sins is great,”
“Remembrance vast—unwieldy Weight!
“But Sorrow—how Sincere!”
When in that moment—had you known
What you ne'er did—nor yet have done,
What Agony!—what Fear!

216

360

How thunder-struck with self-amaze!
How would you shudd'ring grieve and blaze
Your own hypocrisy!
That had so long impos'd the cheat,
In place of real—palm'd deceit,
For holiness—a Lie!

361

This the effect of pious fraud!
We lie to conscience and her God:
Till smitten from above
With bright conviction—pungent pain,
Of self-deception and chicane:
We tremble but not love.

362

Yet safer this—than as before:
Return'd but blind and harden'd more,
As better for your Sin:
For what beside—tho' you affirm,
Resolv'd—yet never dare reform,
Nor e'er one virtue win!

363

For this—how many fall'n asleep!
How many plung'd the soundless deep,
Of vast, unending pain!
For having trifled with their God,
Eat of his flesh and drank his blood,
Unfeeling—or in vain.

364

Come brib'd, or harden'd, unprepar'd,
Fall on their knees—but off their guard,
Week's Preparation void:
Go back to censure, guile and strife,
To all the toys or crimes of life,
To levity and pride.

217

365

Thus ends the service of the day,
A farce, a tragedy, a play:
Yet how secure within!
But Time and Providence will shew
Still deeper shades of heighten'd woe,
For insolence and sin!
 

Ay—but plague spots are a sign of the plague—and if the inclination in all to commit sin (till grace destroy it) be not a sign of the corruption of all, then our faith is vain, and our Bibles are a fable.

See Rom v. 12, &c. If Adam had not sinned—Adam had never died—but he did sin—and his death was two-fold— spiritual and natural.—His posterity are in the same situation— and why?—because they have not sinned?—or because they sinned actually before they were in being?—no—but because they sinned in him as their progenitor and representative; so that (like a family whose chief is attainted and condemned for high-treason) they are all equally subject to the consequences of his crime—a natural effect under his over-ruling wisdom, who giveth account of his works to none!

Vid. Rom. iii 23.

Viz. The despising others for God's sake.

The Deists, Arians, Socinians, Papists, and Dissenters: all of whom in their different ways have had a stroke at our poor Jerusalem!—and the bad lives of so many of her ministers, is the general handle with them all.

As for example, if a man in writing a dialogue, should so manage it, that his pupil (if himself were the instructor) should compliment him from beginning to end?—or, from a diffidence of his own inability and demerits, should suffer two or three poetical eulogiums to be printed (as it were on the very title page of his book) could one impute it to any thing, but the want of knowledge, resolution, or humility?

The very expression of a certain modern D.D.—How different was the judgment of this apostle from that of the famous author of the Epistle to the Hebrews. See Heb. xii. 24.

See James ii. 10.

Two things, among many others, the modern mystics do not care to part with any more than some other people.

I should be mighty glad to know what either good or wise end so uncomfortable an hypothesis can possibly answer: that, contrary to reason, scripture, and (so far as these are any evidence of it) to the experience of all who are now on the other side of time—a number of otherwise ingenious and good men have taken so much pains to demonstrate and recommend it.—I am sure with regard to the N. T.—there is one writer has most preposterously uttered himself—If this doctrine be true, viz. St. Paul Philip. i 24. where he desires to depart and to be with Christ —He should rather have petitioned to depart, that he might go to sleep with him—which is far better still—But the merit of being thought wiser than others—which is vanity, and the want of real, vital, and internal spiritual experience—which is no other than real and spiritual ignorance—is the fountain of these, and ten thousand other whimsies and extravagancies of men, whose minds are corrupted by vice, or obscured by the mists of vanity and self-importance.—One simple act of lively, holy faith dispels all these glooms, and clears up an infinity of difficulties, which without that, will always confound us!

Here was a fair occasion of entring full drive into the yet undecided controversy between the Calvinists and their opponents—but it is purposely avoided, as not only unnecessary but endless—and the parties on both sides referred to what is the best proof of their own sincerity and benevolence in either, viz. to the spirit of Christian amity and a Christian life.—And had this been the method pursued by only one of them, the controversy had long ago been at an end.—All pious fury at our antipodes in sentiment had been avoided, and a direful handle to the adversaries of Jesus Christ and his gospel had never been given; but they have stumbled (and it was right they should, for they sought an occasion of stumbling, and were glad of an opportunity to disobey and despise the Bible) but woe to the men thro' whom the offence has come!

As in the latter part of the fourth line in the first verse, the reader will observe the whole here is quite supposititious; so this line refers to such writings as have been published by this eminent person, or have come out under his immediate auspicies and inspection; in which, without the least imputation of flattery or falshood, one may venture to affirm, there are found such sentiments and expressions, as are not to be matched in all the writings of either the ancient or modern Theology; yet strange or unscriptural as they are, there are not wanting many who both admire and vindicate them— and that too in such a manner, as, considering they so warmly condemn things of far less moment and exception in every body else, is a most undeniable proof if of nothing worse—at least of the most devoted ignorance and bigotry to a peculiar sect, which have at last rendered themselves so universally contemptible and suspected.

“Cornu petit ille, caveto.”
Virg

The real expression was—“imputed nonsense.”—Let any man in his senses only read over attentively the fourth chapter of the Romans, and then see whether he receives any authority from St. Paul, to treat so tremendous and important a point in so profane and ludicrous a manner!

Whoever would see this most sublime and important doctrine most fully and emphatically elucidated—we refer him to the very valuable and ingenious author of Theron and Aspasio,—tho' at the same time, we must take the liberty of observing, that not only what is there his main scope, might have been proved and recommended in a far less compass, than in three large volumes; but that, had he been less strenuous in asserting some other controversial points—and especially had he omitted such an effluvia of redundant and romantic rhetoric, it had certainly been as great a proof of his superior judgment—as, had he been somewhat less severe upon (that miserable helpless part of mankind) the common beggars, (for whose wants, idleness, and other misbehaviour, the magistrates are to blame more than they) this had likewise been of his superior charity! for who could ever have imagined but from under his own hand,

“That minds like his would e'er indulge a thought,
“Of Mercy naked, and from Love remote?”

I am well aware of the vulgar, senseless objection, both with respect to this and many other parts of this poem, beginning with a great round—“O—but you condemn all, “without making any distinction.”—O what an outcry about nothing! but I suppose you are one, for I think your speech betrayeth you—but had you either common sense, or common humanity, you would have considered, that, as no man but a murderer would ever do the one, so again, that no man, not a lunatic, would ever require the other, when he knows at the same time, that upon the principles of reason and benevolence, a proper distinction is necessarily implied, and so consequently here—tho' 'tis true—satyr, like the law, (which is itself only the satyr of a government, and now and then a satyr upon it too) always supposes every one guilty (especially if found in bad company) till a full and impartial trial has proved them otherwise; and therefore, where daily experience demonstrates the Generality culpable—to seem to include the whole is neither impropriety nor crime. —Who thinks it is, only let him live the exception, and his life is his patent for ever!