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Take, Madam, the reward of all your prayers,
Where hermits and where Bramins meet with theirs;
Your portion is with them; nay, never frown,
But, if you please, some fathoms lower down.

Artist, attend ! your brushes and your paint,,
Produce them-take a chair—now draw a Saint.
Oh sorrowful and sad! the streaming tears
Channel her cheeks, a Niobe appears.
Is this a Saint ? Throw tints and all away.
True Piety is cheerful as the day,
Will weep indeed, and heave a pitying groan,
For others' woes, but smiles upon her own.

What purpose has the King of Saints in view ?
Why falls the Gospel like a gracious dew?
To call up Plenty from the teeming earth,
Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth?
Is it that Adam's offspring may be saved
From servile fear, or be the more enslaved ?
To loose the links that galled mankind before,
Or bind them faster on, and add still more?
The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove,
Or, if a chain, the golden one of love;
No Fear attends to quench his glowing fires,
What fear he feels his gratitude inspires.
Shall he, for such deliverance freely wrought,
Recompense ill? He trembles at the thought.
His master's interest and his own combined,
Prompt every movement of his heart and mind;
Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince,
His freedom is the freedom of a prince.

Man's obligations infinite, of course
His life should prove that he perceives their force;
His utmost he can render is but small,
The principle and motive all in all.
You have two servants,—Tom, an arch, sly rogue,
From top to toe the Geta now. in vogue,
Genteel in figure, easy in address,
Moves without noise, and swift as an express,

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Reports a message with a pleasing grace,

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Expert in all the duties of his place;
Say, on what hinge does his obedience move?
Has he a world of gratitude and love?
No, not a spark—'tis all mere sharper's play;
He likes your house, your housemaid, and your pay;
Reduce his wages, or get rid of her,
Tom quits you, with—'Your most obedient, Sir.'

The dinner served, Charles takes his usual stand,
Watches your eye, anticipates command,
Sighs if perhaps your appetite should fail,

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And if he but suspects a frown, turns pale;
Consults all day your interest and your ease,
Richly rewarded if he can but please,
And, proud to make his firm attachment known,
To save your life would nobly risk his own.

Now which stands highest in your serious thought?
'Charles, without doubt,' say you—and so he ought;
One act, that from a thankful heart proceeds,
Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds.

Thus Heaven approves, as honest and sincere, 225
The work of generous love and filial fear,
But, with averted eyes, the omniscient Judge,
Scorns the base hireling, and the slavish drudge.

Where dwell these matchless saints ?' old Curio cries.
Even at your side, Sir, and before your eyes,

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The favoured few—the enthusiasts you despise,
And, pleased at heart, because on holy ground
Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found,
Reproach a people with his single fall,
And cast his filthy raiment at them all.

235 Attend ;-an apt similitude shall show, Whence springs the conduct that offends you so.

See where it smokes along the sounding plain,
Blown all aslant, a driving, dashing rain,
Peal upon peal redoubling all around,

240 Shakes it again, and faster, to the ground; Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play,

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Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away.
Ere yet it came, the traveller urged his steed,
And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed;
Now drenched throughout, and hopeless of his case,
He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace.
Suppose, unlooked for in a scene so rude,
Long hid by interposing hill or wood,
Some mansion, neat and elegantly dressed,
By some kind, hospitable heart possessed,
Offer him warmth, security, and rest;
Think with what pleasure, safe and at his ease,
He hears the tempest howling in the trees;
What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ,
While danger passed is turned to present joy.
So fares it with the sinner, when he feels
A growing dread of vengeance at his heels;
His conscience, like a glassy lake before,
Lashed into foaming waves, begins to roar;
The law grown clamorous, though silent long,
Arraigns him, charges him with every wrong,
Asserts the rights of his offended Lord,
And death or restitution is the word;
The last impossible, he fears the first,
And having well deserved, expects the worst.
Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home;
Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come!
Crush me, ye rocks; ye falling mountains, hide,
Or bury me in ocean's angry tide!
The scrutiny of those all-seeing eyes
I dare not—'And you need not,' God replies;
“The remedy you want I freely give;
The book shall teach you; read, believe, and live!'
'Tis done—the raging storm is heard no more,
Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore,
And Justice, guardian of the dread command,
Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand.
A soul redeemed demands a life of praise,
Hence the complexion of his future days,

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Hence a demeanour holy and unspecked,
And the world's hatred, as its sure effect.

Some lead a life unblameable and just,
Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust :
They never sin-or if (as all offend)

285 Some trivial slips their daily walk attend, The poor are near at hand, the charge is small, A slight gratuity atones for all. For though the Pope has lost his interest here, And pardons are not sold as once they were,

290 No Papist more desirous to compound, Than some grave sinners upon English ground. That plea refuted, other quirks they seekMercy is infinite, and man is weak; The future shall obliterate the past,

295 And heaven, no doubt, shall be their home at last.

Come then—a still, small whisper in your ear-
He has no hope who never had a fear;
And he that never doubted of his state,
He may perhaps—perhaps he may—too late.

300 The path to bliss abounds with many a snare; Learning is one, and wit, however rare. The Frenchman first in literary fame, (“Mention him if you please;—Voltaire?'—'The same.') With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied,

305 Lived long, wrote much, laughed heartily, and died; The Scripture was his jest book, whence he drew Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew; An infidel in health;—'But what when sick?' Oh, then, a text would touch him at the quick ! 310 View him at Paris in his last career, Surrounding throngs the demigod revere, Exalted on his pedestal of pride, And fumed with frankincense on every side, He begs their flattery with his latest breath,

315 And smothered in't at last, is praised to death.

Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, Pillow and bobbins all her little store,

Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,

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Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night,
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit,
Receives no praise, but, though her lot be such, 325
(Toilsome and indigent), she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew,
And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

330 O happy peasant! O unhappy bard! His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward; He, praised perhaps for ages yet to come, She, never heard of half a mile from home; He, lost in errors his vain heart prefers,

335 She, safe in the simplicity of hers.

Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound In science, win one inch of heavenly ground; And is it not a mortifying thought, The poor should gain it, and the rich should not? 340 No;—the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget One pleasure lost, lose heaven without regret; Regret would rouse them, and give birth to prayer, Prayer would add faith, and faith would fix them there. Not that the Former of us all in this,

345 Or aught He does, is governed by caprice; The supposition is replete with sin, And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in. Not so; the silver trumpet's heavenly call Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all;

350 Kings are invited, and would kings obey, No slaves on earth more welcome were than they; But royalty, nobility, and state, Are such a dead, preponderating weight, That endless bliss (how strange soe'er it seem) 355 In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam.

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