'Tis open, and ye cannot enter-why? 'Because ye will not,' Conyers would replyAnd he says much that many may dispute And cavil at with ease, but none refute. 360 The seed sown there, how vigorous is the plant! 365 370 375 And one who wears a coronet and prays; Like gleanings of an olive tree they show Here and there one upon the topmost bough. 380 Sinful and weak, in every sense a wretch, An instrument whose chords, upon the stretch, And strained to the last screw that he can bear, 385 Yield only discord in his Maker's ear; Once the blest residence of truth divine, Glorious as Solyma's interior shrine, Where, in his own oracular abode, 390 But made long since, like Babylon of old, A den of mischiefs never to be told: And she, once mistress of the realms around, Now scattered wide, and no where to be found, As soon shall rise and reascend the throne, 395 Go, bid the winter cease to chill the year, Replace the wandering comet in his sphere, 400 Then boast (but wait for that unhoped-for hour) 405 410 So sings he, charmed with his own mind and form, The song magnificent, the theme a worm! Himself so much the source of his delight, 415 420 Like regimented coxcombs rank and file, Adorn his intellects as well as shelves, And teach him notions splendid as themselves: 425 Though that of all most worthy of his care, And, like an infant, troublesome awake, Is left to sleep for peace and quiet sake. What shall the man deserve of humankind, Whose happy skill and industry combined Shall prove (what argument could never yet) The Bible an imposture and a cheat? 430 The praises of the libertine professed, 435 440 Bury herself in solitude profound, Grow frantic with her pangs, and bite the ground. Thus often Unbelief, grown sick of life, 445 Flies to the tempting pool, or felon knife; The jury meet, the coroner is short, And lunacy the verdict of the court. Reverse the sentence, let the truth be known, Such lunacy is ignorance alone; 450 They knew not, what some bishops may not know, Weeps tears of joy, and bursts into a song. But the same word that, like the polished share, Ploughs up the roots of a believer's care, 460 Kills too the flowery weeds, where'er they grow, That bind the sinner's Bacchanalian brow. O that unwelcome voice of heavenly love, Sad messenger of mercy from above, In vain he points his powers against the skies, 465 470 Truth will intrude-she bids him yet beware; 475 480 Has she no spark that may be deemed her own? Grant her indebted to what zealots call Grace undeserved, yet surely not for all; Some beams of rectitude she yet displays, 485 Some love of virtue, and some power to praise ; Can lift herself above corporeal things, And soaring on her own unborrowed wings, 490 And if the youth, unmellowed yet by time, Bore on his branch, luxuriant then and rude, Hear then how Mercy, slighted and defied, Is not for you—the righteous need it not. 495 500 505 Herself from morn to night, from night to morn, 510 'Is virtue then, unless of Christian growth, Mere fallacy, or foolishness, or both? Ten thousand sages lost in endless woe, 515 For ignorance of what they could not know? 520 My creed persuades me, well employed, may save; While he that scorns the noonday beam, perverse, Shall find the blessing unimproved, a curse. Let heathen worthies, whose exalted mind 525 And take unenvied the reward they sought, But still in virtue of a Saviour's plea, Not blind by choice, but destined not to see. 530 Celestial, though they knew not whence it came, 535 From what they knew, to what they wished to know. Traduce the splendour of a noontide ray, 540 Prefer the twilight of a darker time, And deem his base stupidity no crime; The wretch who slights the bounty of the skies, And sinks, while favoured with the means to rise, Shall find them rated at their full amount, 545 The good he scorned, all carried to account.' |