THO

HOU, whom nor honours, wealth, nor youth can spoil

With the leaft vice of each luxuriant foil,

Say, YORKE, (for fure, if any, thou canft tell)
What Virtue is, who practife it fo well;
Say, where inhabits this Sultana queen;
Prais'd and ador'a by all, but rarely feen:
By what fure mark her effence can we trace,
When each religion, faction, age, and place
Sets up fome fancy'd idol of its own,
A vain pretender to her facred throne?
In man too oft a well-diffembled part,
A felf-denying pride in woman's heart

In fynods faith, and in the fields of fame
Valour ufurps her honours, and her name;
Whoe'er their sense of virtue wou'd exprefs,
'Tis still by something they themselves possess.
Hence youth good-humour, frugal craft old-age,
Warm politicians term it party-rage,

True churchmen zeal right orthodox; and hence
Fools think it gravity, and wits pretence ;
To conftancy alone fond lovers join it,
And maids unask'd to chastity confine it

But have we then no law befides our will?
No just criterion fix'd to good and ill?

As well at noon we may obstruct our fight,
Then doubt if fuch a thing exists as light;
For no lefs plain wou'd nature's law appear
As the meridian fun unchang'd, and clear,
Wou'd we but fearch for what we were defign'd,
And for what end th' Almighty form'd mankind;
A rule of life we then should plainly see,

For to pursue that end muft virtue be.

Then what is that? not want of power, or fame, Or worlds unnumber'd to applaud his name,

But a defire his bleffings to diffuse,

And fear left millions fhou'd exiftence lofe;

His goodness only cou'd his power employ,
And an eternal warmth to propagate his joy.
Hence foul and fense diffus'd thro' ev'ry place,
Make happiness as infinite as fpace;

Thousands of funs beyond each other blaze,

Orbs roll o'er orbs, and glow with mutual rays;
Each is a world, where form'd with wond'rous art,
Unnumber'd species live thro' ev'ry part:

In ev'ry tract of ocean, earth, and skies,
Myriads of creatures ftill fucceffive rife:
Scarce buds a leaf, or fprings the vileft weed,
But little flocks upon its verdure feed;

No fruit our palate courts, or flow'r our smell,
But on its fragrant bofom nations dwell,
All form'd with proper faculties to share

The daily bounties of their Maker's care:
The great Creator from his heav'nly throne,

Pleas'd on the wide-expanded joy looks down,
And his eternal law is only this,

That all contribute to the general bliss.

Nature so plain this primal law displays,
Each living creature sees it, and obeys ;
Each, form'd for all, promotes thro' private care
The public good, and juftly tastes its share.
All understand their great Creator's will,
Strive to be happy, and in that fulfil;
Mankind excepted, lord of all befide,
But only flave to folly, vice, and pride;
'Tis he that's deaf to this command alone,
Delights in others woe, and courts his own;
Racks and destroys with tort'ring steel and flame,
For lux'ry brutes, and man himself for fame;
Sets Superstition high on Virtue's throne,
Then thinks his Maker's temper like his own;
Hence are his altars ftain'd with reeking gore,
As if he cou'd atone for crimes by more :
Hence whilft offended Heav'n he ftrives in vain
T' appeafe by fasts and voluntary pain,
Ev'n in repenting he provokes again.

How eafy is our yoke! how light our load!
Did we not ftrive to mend the laws of God!

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