Th' occasion it presents of doing good
More than the perquisite :-where law shall speak Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts
And equity; not jealous more to guard A worthless form, than to decide aright :- Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse, Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace) With lean performance ape the work of love! Come then, and, added to thy many crowns, Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth, Thou who alone art worthy! It was thine By ancient covenant, ere nature's birth; And thou hast made it thine by purchase since, And overpaid its value with thy blood.
Thy saints proclaim thee king; and in their hearts Thy title is with a pen
Dipp'd in the fountain of eternal love.
Thy saints proclaim thee king; and thy delay Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see The dawn of thy last advent, long desir'd, Would creep into the bowels of the hills, And flee for safety to the falling rocks. The very spirit of the world is tir’d
Of its own taunting question, ask'd so long, "Where is the promise of your Lord's approach " The infidel has shot his bolts away,
Till, his exhausted quiver yielding none,
He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoil'd, And aims them at the shield of truth again. The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands,
That hides divinity from mortal eyes; And all the mysteries to faith propos'd, Insulted and traduc'd, are cast aside,
As useless, to the moles and to the bats.
They now are deem'd the faithful, and are prais'd, Who, constant only in rejecting thee,
Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal, And quit their office for their error's sake. Blind, and in love with darkness! yet ev'n these Worthy, compar'd with sycophants, who knee Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man! So fares thy church. But how thy church may fare The world takes little thought. Who will may preach, And what they will. All pastors are alike To wand'ring sheep, resolv'd to follow none. Two gods divide them all-Pleasure and Gain. For these they live, they sacrifice to these, And in their service wage perpetual war
With conscience and with thee. Lust in their hearts, And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth To prey upon each other; stubborn, fierce, High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace. Thy prophets speak of such; and, noting down The features of the last degen'rate times,
Exhibit ev'ry lineament of these.
Come then, and, added to thy many crowns, Receive yet one, as radiant as the rest,
Due to thy last and most effectual work,
Thy word fulfill'd, the conquest of a world!
He is the happy man, whose life ev'n now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state, Is pleas'd with it, and, were he free to choose, Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit
Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one Content indeed to sojourn while he must Below the skies, but having there his home. The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Of objects, more illustrious in her view; And, occupied as earnestly as she,
Though more sublimely, he o’erlooks the world. She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not ; He seeks not hers, for he has prov'd them vain. He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Pursuing gilded flies; and such he deems. Her honours, her emoluments, her joys. Therefore in contemplation is his bliss,
Whose pow'r is such, that whom she lifts from earth She makes familiar with a heav'n unseen,
And shows him glories yet to be reveal❜d. Not slothful he, though seeming unemploy'd, And censur'd oft as useless. Stillest streams Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird That flutters least is longest on the wing. Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has rais'd, Or what achievements of immortal fame He purposes, and he shall answer-None.
His warfare is within. There unfatigu'd
His fervent spirit labours. There he fights, And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself,
And never with'ring wreaths, compar'd with which The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds. Perhaps the self-approving haughty world, That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see, Deems him a cypher in the works of God, Receives advantage from his noiseless hours, Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring And plenteous harvest, to the pray'r he makes, When, Isaac like, the solitary saint
Walks forth to meditate at even-tide,
And think on her, who thinks not for herself. Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concerns Of little worth, an idler in the best,
If, author of no mischief and some good, He seek his proper happiness by means That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine. Nor, though he tread the secret path of life, Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, Account him an incumbrance on the state, Receiving benefits, and rend'ring none.
His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere Shine with his fair example, and though small His influence, if that influence all be spent In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, In aiding helpless indigence, in works
From which at least a grateful few derive Some taste of comfort in a world of woe, Then let the supercilious great confess He serves his country, recompenses well The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine He sits secure, and in the scale of life
Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place. The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen, Must drop indeed the hope of public praise; But he may boast what few that win it can― That, if his country stand not by his skill, At least his follies have not wrought her fall. Polite refinement offers him in vain
Her golden tube, through which a sensual world Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, The neat conveyance hiding all th' offence. Not that he peevishly rejects a mode Because that world adopts it. If it bear The stamp and clear impression of good sense, And be not costly more than of true worth, He puts it on, and for decorum sake, Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she. She judges of refinement by the eye, He by the test of conscience, and a heart Not soon deceiv'd; aware that what is base No polish can make sterling; and that vice, Though well perfum'd and elegantly dress'd, Like an unburied carcase trick'd with flow'rs, Is but a garnish'd nuisance, fitter far For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.
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