TRUTH
.
Pensentur
trutinâ
.
HOR.
MAN
on
the
dubious
waves
of
error
toss'd
,
His
ship
half
founder'd
and
his
compass
lost
,
Sees
far
as
human
optics
may
command
,
A
sleeping
fog
,
and
fancies
it
dry
land
:
Spreads
all
his
canvass
,
ev'ry
sinew
plies
,
Pants
for
it
,
aims
at
it
,
enters
it
,
and
dies
.
Then
farewell
all
self-satisfying
schemes
,
His
well-built
systems
,
philosophic
dreams
,
Deceitful
views
of
future
bliss
,
farewell
!
He
reads
his
sentence
at
the
flames
of
hell
.
Hard
lot
of
man
!
to
toil
for
the
reward
Of
virtue
,
and
yet
lose
it
—
wherefore
hard
?
He
that
would
win
the
race
,
must
guide
his
horse
Obedient
to
the
customs
of
the
course
,
Else
,
though
unequall'd
to
the
goal
he
flies
,
A
meaner
than
himself
shall
gain
the
prize
.
Grace
leads
the
right
way
,
if
you
chuse
the
wrong
,
Take
it
and
perish
,
but
restrain
your
tongue
;
Charge
not
,
with
light
sufficient
and
left
free
,
Your
willful
suicide
on
God's
decree
.
Oh
how
unlike
the
complex
works
of
man
,
Heav'ns
easy
,
artless
,
unincumber'd
plan
!
No
meretricious
graces
to
beguile
,
No
clust'ring
ornaments
to
clog
the
pile
,
From
ostentation
as
from
weakness
free
,
It
stands
like
the
caerulean
arch
we
see
,
Majestic
in
its
own
simplicity
.
Inscrib'd
above
the
portal
,
from
afar
Conspicuous
as
the
brightness
of
a
star
,
Legible
only
by
the
light
they
give
,
Stand
the
soul-quick'ning
words
—
BELIEVE
AND
LIVE
.
Too
many
shock'd
at
what
should
charm
them
most
,
Despise
the
plain
direction
and
are
lost
.
Heav'n
on
such
terms
!
they
cry
with
proud
disdain
,
Incredible
,
impossible
,
and
vain
—
Rebel
because
'tis
easy
to
obey
,
And
scorn
for
its
own
sake
the
gracious
way
.
These
are
the
sober
,
in
whose
cooler
brains
Some
thought
of
immortality
remains
;
The
rest
too
busy
or
too
gay
,
to
wait
On
the
sad
theme
,
their
everlasting
state
,
Sport
for
a
day
and
perish
in
a
night
,
The
foam
upon
the
waters
not
so
light
.
Who
judg'd
the
Pharisee
?
What
odious
cause
Expos'd
him
to
the
vengeance
of
the
laws
?
Had
he
seduc'd
a
virgin
,
wrong'd
a
friend
,
Or
stabb'd
a
man
to
serve
some
private
end
?
Was
blasphemy
his
sin
?
Or
did
he
stray
From
the
strict
duties
of
the
sacred
day
?
Sit
long
and
late
at
the
carousing
board
?
(
Such
were
the
sins
with
which
he
charg'd
his
Lord
)
No
—
the
man's
morals
were
exact
,
what
then
?
'Twas
his
ambition
to
be
seen
of
men
;
His
virtues
were
his
pride
;
and
that
one
vice
Made
all
his
virtues
gewgaws
of
no
price
;
He
wore
them
as
fine
trappings
for
a
show
,
A
praying
,
synagogue
frequenting
beau
.
The
self-applauding
bird
,
the
peacock
see
—
Mark
what
a
sumptuous
Pharisee
is
he
!
Meridian
sun-beams
tempt
him
to
unfold
His
radiant
glories
,
azure
,
green
,
and
gold
;
He
treads
as
if
some
solemn
music
near
,
His
measur'd
step
were
govern'd
by
his
ear
,
And
seems
to
say
,
ye
meaner
fowl
,
give
place
,
I
am
all
splendor
,
dignity
and
grace
.
Not
so
the
pheasant
on
his
charms
presumes
,
Though
he
too
has
a
glory
in
his
plumes
.
He
,
christian
like
,
retreats
with
modest
mien
,
To
the
close
copse
or
far
sequester'd
green
,
And
shines
without
desiring
to
be
seen
.
The
plea
of
works
,
as
arrogant
and
vain
,
Heav'n
turns
from
with
abhorrence
and
disdain
;
Not
more
affronted
by
avow'd
neglect
,
Than
by
the
mere
dissemblers
feign'd
respect
.
What
is
all
righteousness
that
men
devise
,
What
,
but
a
fordid
bargain
for
the
skies
?
But
Christ
as
soon
would
abdicate
his
own
,
As
sloop
from
heav'n
to
sell
the
proud
a
throne
.
His
dwelling
a
recess
in
some
rude
rock
,
Book
,
beads
,
and
maple-dish
his
meagre
stock
,
In
shirt
of
hair
and
weeds
of
canvass
dress'd
,
Girt
with
a
bell-rope
that
the
Pope
has
bless'd
,
Adust
with
stripes
told
out
for
ev'ry
crime
,
And
sore
tormented
long
before
his
time
,
His
pray'r
preferr'd
to
saints
that
cannot
aid
,
His
praise
postpon'd
,
and
never
to
be
paid
,
See
the
sage
hermit
by
mankind
admir'd
,
With
all
that
bigotry
adopts
,
inspir'd
,
Wearing
out
life
in
his
religious
whim
,
'Till
his
religious
whimsy
wears
out
him
.
His
works
,
his
abstinence
,
his
zeal
allow'd
,
You
think
him
humble
,
God
accounts
him
proud
;
High
in
demand
,
though
lowly
in
pretence
,
Of
all
his
conduct
,
this
the
genuine
sense
—
My
penitential
stripes
,
my
streaming
blood
Have
purchas'd
heav'n
,
and
prove
my
title
good
.
Turn
eastward
now
,
and
fancy
shall
apply
To
your
weak
sight
her
telescopic
eye
.
The
Bramin
kindles
on
his
own
bare
head
The
sacred
fire
,
self-torturing
his
trade
,
His
voluntary
pains
,
severe
and
long
,
Would
give
a
barb'rous
air
to
British
song
,
Nor
grand
inquisitor
could
worse
invent
,
Than
he
contrives
to
suffer
,
well
content
.
Which
is
the
saintlier
worthy
of
the
two
?
Past
all
dispute
,
yon
anchorite
say
you
.
Your
sentence
and
mine
differ
.
What's
a
name
?
I
say
the
Bramin
has
the
fairer
claim
.
If
suff'rings
scripture
no
where
recommends
,
Devis'd
by
self
to
answer
selfish
ends
Give
saintship
,
then
all
Europe
must
agree
,
Ten
starvling
hermits
suffer
less
than
he
.
The
truth
is
(
if
the
truth
may
suit
your
ear
,
And
prejudice
have
left
a
passage
clear
)
Pride
has
attain'd
its
most
luxuriant
growth
,
And
poison'd
every
virtue
in
them
both
.
Pride
may
be
pamper'd
while
the
flesh
grows
lean
;
Humility
may
cloath
an
English
Dean
;
That
grace
was
Cowper's
—
his
confess'd
by
all
—
Though
plac'd
in
golden
Durham's
second
stall
.
Not
all
the
plenty
of
a
Bishop's
board
,
His
palace
,
and
his
lacqueys
,
and
,
my
Lord
!
More
nourish
pride
,
that
condescending
vice
,
Than
abstinence
,
and
beggary
and
lice
.
It
thrives
in
misery
,
and
abundant
grows
In
misery
fools
upon
themselves
impose
.
But
why
before
us
Protestants
produce
An
Indian
mystic
or
a
French
recluse
?
Their
sin
is
plain
,
but
what
have
we
to
fear
,
Reform'd
and
well
instructed
?
You
shall
hear
.
Yon
antient
prude
,
whose
wither'd
features
show
She
might
be
young
some
forty
years
ago
,
Her
elbows
pinion'd
close
upon
her
hips
,
Her
head
erect
,
her
fan
upon
her
lips
,
Her
eye-brows
arch'd
,
her
eyes
both
gone
astray
To
watch
yon
am'rous
couple
in
their
play
,
With
boney
and
unkerchief'd
neck
defies
The
rude
inclemency
of
wintry
skies
,
And
sails
with
lappet-head
and
mincing
airs
Duely
at
clink
of
bell
,
to
morning
pray'rs
.
To
thrift
and
parsimony
much
inclin'd
,
She
yet
allows
herself
that
boy
behind
;
The
shiv'ring
urchin
,
bending
as
he
goes
,
With
slipshod
heels
,
and
dew
drop
at
his
nose
,
His
predecessors
coat
advanc'd
to
wear
,
Which
furture
pages
are
yet
doom'd
to
share
,
Carries
her
bible
tuck'd
beneath
his
arm
,
And
hides
his
hands
to
keep
his
fingers
warm
.
She
,
half
an
angel
in
her
own
account
,
Doubts
not
hereafter
with
the
saints
to
mount
,
Though
not
a
grace
appears
on
strictest
search
,
But
that
she
fasts
,
and
item
,
goes
to
church
.
Conscious
of
age
she
recollects
her
youth
,
And
tells
,
not
always
with
an
eye
to
truth
,
Who
spann'd
her
waist
,
and
who
,
where'er
he
came
,
Scrawl'd
upon
glass
Miss
Bridget's
lovely
name
,
Who
stole
her
slipper
,
fill'd
it
with
tokay
,
And
drank
the
little
bumper
ev'ry
day
.
Of
temper
as
invenom'd
as
an
asp
,
Censorious
,
and
her
every
word
a
wasp
,
In
faithful
mem'ry
she
records
the
crimes
,
Or
real
,
or
fictitious
,
of
the
times
,
Laughs
at
the
reputations
she
has
torn
,
And
holds
them
dangling
at
arms
length
in
scorn
.
Such
are
the
fruits
of
sanctimonious
pride
,
Of
malice
fed
while
flesh
is
mortified
.
Take
,
Madam
,
the
reward
of
all
your
pray'rs
,
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
chearful
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
desart
with
a
tenfold
dearth
?
Is
it
that
Adam's
offspring
may
be
sav'd
From
servile
fear
,
or
be
the
more
enslav'd
?
To
loose
the
links
that
gall'd
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
deliv'rance
freely
wrought
,
Recompense
ill
?
He
trembles
at
the
thought
:
His
masters
int'rest
and
his
own
combin'd
,
Prompt
ev'ry
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
,
Reports
a
message
with
a
pleasing
grace
,
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
sharpers
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
serv'd
,
Charles
takes
his
usual
stand
,
Watches
your
eye
,
anticipates
command
,
Sighs
if
perhaps
your
appetite
should
fail
,
And
if
he
but
suspects
a
frown
,
turns
pale
;
Consults
all
day
your
int'rest
and
your
ease
,
Richly
rewarded
if
he
can
but
please
,
And
proud
to
make
his
firm
attachment
known
,
To
save
your
life
would
nobly
risque
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
heav'n
approves
as
honest
and
sincere
,
The
work
of
gen'rous
love
and
filial
fear
,
But
with
averted
eyes
th'omniscient
judge
,
Scorns
the
base
hireling
and
the
slavish
drudge
.
Where
dwell
these
matchless
Saints
?
Old
Curio
cries
—
Ev'n
at
your
side
,
Sir
,
and
before
your
eyes
,
The
favour'd
few
,
th'
enthusiasts
you
despise
.
And
pleas'd
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
.
Attend
—
an
apt
similitude
shall
show
,
Whence
springs
the
conduct
that
offends
you
so
.
See
where
it
smoaks
along
the
sounding
plain
,
Blown
all
aslant
,
a
driving
dashing
rain
,
Peal
upon
peal
redoubling
all
around
,
Shakes
it
again
and
faster
to
the
ground
,
Now
flashing
wide
,
now
glancing
as
in
play
,
Swift
beyond
thought
the
light'nings
dart
away
;
Ere
yet
it
came
the
traveller
urg'd
his
steed
,
And
hurried
,
but
with
unsuccessful
speed
,
Now
drench'd
throughout
,
and
hopeless
of
his
case
,
He
drops
the
rein
,
and
leaves
him
to
his
pace
;
Suppose
,
unlook'd
for
in
a
scene
so
rude
,
Long
hid
by
interposing
hill
or
wood
,
Some
mansion
neat
and
elegantly
dress'd
,
By
some
kind
hospitable
heart
possess'd
,
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
past
is
turn'd
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
,
Lash'd
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
deserv'd
,
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
oceans
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
redeem'd
demands
a
life
of
praise
,
Hence
the
complexion
of
his
future
days
,
Hence
a
demeanor
holy
and
unspeck'd
,
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
)
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
int'rest
here
,
And
pardons
are
not
sold
as
once
they
were
,
No
Papist
more
desirous
to
compound
,
Than
some
grave
sinners
upon
English
ground
:
That
plea
refuted
,
other
quirks
they
seek
,
Mercy
is
infinite
and
man
is
weak
,
The
future
shall
obliterate
the
past
,
And
heav'n
no
doubt
shall
be
their
home
at
last
.
Come
then
—
a
still
,
small
whisper
in
your
ear
,
He
has
no
hope
that
never
had
a
fear
;
And
he
that
never
doubted
of
his
state
,
He
may
perhaps
—
perhaps
he
may
—
too
late
.
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
,
Liv'd
long
,
wrote
much
,
laugh'd
heartily
and
died
:
The
scripture
was
his
jest-book
,
whence
he
drew
Bon
môts
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
:
View
him
at
Paris
in
his
last
career
,
Surrounding
throngs
the
demi-god
revere
,
Exalted
on
his
pedestal
of
pride
,
And
fum'd
with
frankincense
on
ev'ry
side
,
He
begs
their
flattery
with
his
latest
breath
,
And
smother'd
in't
at
last
,
is
prais'd
to
death
.
Yon
cottager
who
weaves
at
her
own
door
,
Pillow
and
bobbins
all
her
little
store
,
Content
though
mean
,
and
chearful
,
if
not
gay
,
Shuffling
her
threads
about
the
live-long
day
,
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
,
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
.
Oh
happy
peasant
!
Oh
unhappy
bard
!
His
the
mere
tinsel
,
her's
the
rich
reward
;
He
prais'd
perhaps
for
ages
yet
to
come
,
She
never
heard
of
half
a
mile
from
home
;
He
lost
in
errors
his
vain
heart
prefers
,
She
safe
in
the
simplicity
of
hers
.
Not
many
wise
,
rich
,
noble
,
or
profound
In
science
,
win
one
inch
of
heav'nly
ground
;
And
is
it
not
a
mortifying
thought
The
poor
should
gain
it
,
and
the
rich
should
not
?
No
—
the
voluptuaries
,
who
ne'er
forget
One
pleasure
lost
,
lose
heav'n
without
regret
;
Regret
would
rouse
them
and
give
birth
to
pray'r
,
Pray'r
would
add
faith
,
and
faith
would
fix
them
there
.
Not
that
the
Former
of
us
all
in
this
,
Or
aught
he
does
,
is
govern'd
by
caprice
,
The
supposition
is
replete
with
sin
,
And
bears
the
brand
of
blasphemy
burnt
in
.
Not
so
—
the
silver
trumpet's
heav'nly
call
,
Sounds
for
the
poor
,
but
sounds
alike
for
all
;
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
)
In
counterpoise
,
flies
up
and
kicks
the
beam
.
'Tis
open
and
ye
cannot
enter
—
why
?
Because
ye
will
not
,
Conyers
would
reply
—
And
he
says
much
that
many
may
dispute
And
cavil
at
with
ease
,
but
none
refute
.
Oh
bless'd
effect
of
penury
and
want
,
The
seed
sown
there
,
how
vigorous
is
the
plant
!
No
soil
like
poverty
for
growth
divine
,
As
leanest
land
supplies
the
richest
wine
.
Earth
gives
too
little
,
giving
only
bread
,
To
nourish
pride
or
turn
the
weakest
head
:
To
them
,
the
sounding
jargon
of
the
schools
,
Seems
what
it
is
,
a
cap
and
bells
for
fools
:
The
light
they
walk
by
,
kindled
from
above
,
Shows
them
the
shortest
way
to
life
and
love
:
They
,
strangers
to
the
controversial
field
,
Where
deists
always
foil'd
,
yet
scorn
to
yield
,
And
never
check'd
by
what
impedes
the
wise
,
Believe
,
rush
forward
,
and
possess
the
prize
.
Envy
ye
great
the
dull
unletter'd
small
,
Ye
have
much
cause
for
envy
—
but
not
all
;
We
boast
some
rich
ones
whom
the
gospel
sways
,
And
one
that
wears
a
coronet
and
prays
;
Like
gleanings
of
an
olive
tree
they
show
,
Here
and
there
one
upon
the
topmost
bough
.
How
readily
upon
the
gospel
plan
,
That
question
has
its
answer
—
what
is
man
?
Sinful
and
weak
,
in
ev'ry
sense
a
wretch
,
An
instrument
whose
chords
upon
the
stretch
And
strain'd
to
the
last
screw
that
he
can
bear
,
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
,
Dwelt
visibly
the
light-creating
God
;
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
scatter'd
wide
and
no
where
to
be
found
,
As
soon
shall
rise
and
re-ascend
the
throne
,
By
native
pow'r
and
energy
her
own
,
As
nature
at
her
own
peculiar
cost
,
Restore
to
man
the
glories
he
has
lost
.
Go
bid
the
winter
cease
to
chill
the
year
,
Replace
the
wand'ring
comet
in
his
sphere
,
Then
boast
(
but
wait
for
that
unhop'd-for
hour
)
The
self-restoring
arm
of
human
pow'r
.
But
what
is
man
in
his
own
proud
esteem
?
Hear
him
,
himself
the
poet
and
the
theme
;
A
monarch
cloath'd
with
majesty
and
awe
,
His
mind
his
kingdom
and
his
will
his
law
.
Grace
in
his
mien
and
glory
in
his
eyes
,
Supreme
on
earth
and
worthy
of
the
skies
,
Strength
in
his
heart
,
dominion
in
his
nod
,
And
,
thunderbolts
excepted
,
quite
a
God
.
So
sings
he
,
charm'd
with
his
own
mind
and
form
,
The
song
magnificent
,
the
theme
a
worm
:
Himself
so
much
the
source
of
his
delight
,
His
maker
has
no
beauty
in
his
sight
:
See
where
he
sits
contemplative
and
fixt
,
Pleasure
and
wonder
in
his
features
mixt
,
His
passions
tam'd
and
all
at
his
controul
,
How
perfect
the
composure
of
his
soul
!
Complacency
has
breath'd
a
gentle
gale
O'er
all
his
thoughts
,
and
swell'd
his
easy
sail
:
His
books
well
trimm'd
and
in
the
gayest
stile
,
Like
regimented
coxcombs
rank
and
file
,
Adorn
his
intellects
as
well
as
shelves
,
And
teach
him
notions
splendid
as
themselves
:
The
bible
only
stands
neglected
there
,
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
human
kind
,
Whose
happy
skill
and
industry
combin'd
,
Shall
prove
(
what
argument
could
never
yet
)
The
bible
an
imposture
and
a
cheat
?
The
praises
of
the
libertine
profess'd
,
The
worst
of
men
,
and
curses
of
the
best
.
Where
should
the
living
,
weeping
o'er
his
woes
,
The
dying
,
trembling
at
their
awful
close
,
Where
the
betray'd
,
forsaken
and
oppress'd
,
The
thousands
whom
the
world
forbids
to
rest
,
Where
should
they
find
(
those
comforts
at
an
end
The
scripture
yields
)
or
hope
to
find
a
friend
?
Sorrow
might
muse
herself
to
madness
then
,
And
seeking
exile
from
the
sight
of
men
,
Bury
herself
in
solitude
profound
,
Grow
frantic
with
her
pangs
and
bite
the
ground
.
Thus
often
unbelief
grown
sick
of
life
,
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
;
They
knew
not
,
what
some
bishops
may
not
know
,
That
scripture
is
the
only
cure
of
woe
:
That
field
of
promise
,
how
it
flings
abroad
Its
odour
o'er
the
Christians
thorny
road
;
The
soul
reposing
on
assur'd
relief
,
Feels
herself
happy
amidst
all
her
grief
,
Forgets
her
labour
as
she
toils
along
,
Weeps
tears
of
joy
,
and
bursts
into
a
song
.
But
the
same
word
that
like
the
polish'd
share
Ploughs
up
the
roots
of
a
believer's
care
,
Kills
too
the
flow'ry
weeds
wheree'r
they
grow
,
That
bind
the
sinner's
Bacchanalian
brow
.
Oh
that
unwelcome
voice
of
heav'nly
love
,
Sad
messenger
of
mercy
from
above
,
How
does
it
grate
upon
his
thankless
ear
,
Crippling
his
pleasures
with
the
cramp
of
fear
!
His
will
and
judgment
at
continual
strife
,
That
civil
war
imbitters
all
his
life
;
In
vain
he
points
his
pow'rs
against
the
skies
,
In
vain
he
closes
or
averts
his
eyes
,
Truth
will
intrude
—
she
bids
him
yet
beware
—
And
shakes
the
sceptic
in
the
scorner's
chair
.
Though
various
foes
against
the
truth
combine
,
Pride
above
all
opposes
her
design
;
Pride
,
of
a
growth
superior
to
the
rest
,
The
subtlest
serpent
with
the
loftiest
crest
,
Swells
at
the
thought
,
and
kindling
into
rage
,
Would
hiss
the
cherub
mercy
from
the
stage
.
And
is
the
soul
indeed
so
lost
,
she
cries
,
Fall'n
from
her
glory
and
too
weak
to
rise
,
Torpid
and
dull
beneath
a
frozen
zone
,
Has
she
no
spark
that
may
be
deem'd
her
own
?
Grant
her
indebted
to
what
zealots
call
Grace
undeserv'd
,
yet
surely
not
for
all
—
Some
beams
of
rectitude
she
yet
displays
,
Some
love
of
virtue
and
some
pow'r
to
praise
,
Can
lift
herself
above
corporeal
things
,
And
soaring
on
her
own
unborrow'd
wings
,
Possess
herself
of
all
that's
good
or
true
,
Assert
the
skies
,
and
vindicate
her
due
.
Past
indiscretion
is
a
venial
crime
,
And
if
the
youth
,
unmellow'd
yet
by
time
,
Bore
on
his
branch
luxuriant
then
,
and
rude
,
Fruits
of
a
blighted
size
,
austere
and
crude
,
Maturer
years
shall
happier
stores
produce
,
And
meliorate
the
well
concocted
juice
.
Then
conscious
of
her
meritorious
zeal
,
To
justice
she
may
make
her
bold
appeal
,
And
leave
to
mercy
with
a
tranquil
mind
,
The
worthless
and
unfruitful
of
mankind
.
Hear
then
how
mercy
slighted
and
defied
,
Retorts
th'
affront
against
the
crown
of
pride
.
Perish
the
virtue
,
as
it
ought
,
abhorr'd
,
And
the
fool
with
it
that
insults
his
Lord
.
Th'
atonement
a
Redeemer's
love
has
wrought
Is
not
for
you
,
—
the
righteous
need
it
not
.
Seest
thou
yon
harlot
wooing
all
she
meets
The
worn-out
nuisance
of
the
public
streets
,
Herself
from
morn
to
night
,
from
night
to
morn
,
Her
own
abhorrence
,
and
as
much
your
scorn
,
The
gracious
show'r
,
unlimited
and
free
,
Shall
fall
on
her
,
when
heav'n
denies
it
thee
.
Of
all
that
wisdom
dictates
,
this
the
drift
,
That
man
is
dead
in
sin
,
and
life
a
gift
.
Is
virtue
then
,
unless
of
christian
growth
,
Mere
fallacy
,
or
foolishness
,
or
both
,
Ten
thousand
sages
lost
in
endless
woe
,
For
ignorance
of
what
they
could
not
know
?
That
speech
betrays
at
once
a
bigot's
tongue
,
Charge
not
a
God
with
such
outrageous
wrong
.
Truly
not
I
—
the
partial
light
men
have
,
My
creed
persuades
me
,
well
employed
may
save
,
While
he
that
scorns
the
noon-day
beam
perverse
,
Shall
find
the
blessing
,
unimprov'd
,
a
curse
.
Let
heathen
worthies
whose
exalted
mind
,
Left
sensuality
and
dross
behind
,
Possess
for
me
their
undisputed
lot
,
And
take
unenvied
the
reward
they
sought
.
But
still
in
virtue
of
a
Savior's
plea
,
Not
blind
by
choice
,
but
destin'd
not
to
see
.
Their
fortitude
and
wisdom
were
a
flame
Celestial
,
though
they
knew
not
whence
it
came
,
Deriv'd
from
the
same
source
of
light
and
grace
That
guides
the
christian
in
his
swifter
race
;
Their
judge
was
conscience
,
and
her
rule
their
law
,
That
rule
pursued
with
rev'rence
and
with
awe
,
Led
them
,
however
fault'ring
,
faint
and
slow
,
From
what
they
knew
,
to
what
they
wish'd
to
know
;
But
let
not
him
that
shares
a
brighter
day
,
Traduce
the
splendor
of
a
noon-tide
ray
,
Prefer
the
twilight
of
a
darker
time
,
And
deem
his
base
stupidity
no
crime
;
The
wretch
that
slights
the
bounty
of
the
skies
,
And
sinks
while
favour'd
with
the
means
to
rise
,
Shall
find
them
rated
at
their
full
amount
,
The
good
he
scorn'd
all
carried
to
account
.
Marshalling
all
his
terrors
as
he
came
,
Thunder
and
earthquake
and
devouring
flame
,
From
Sinai's
top
Jehovah
gave
the
law
,
Life
for
obedience
,
death
for
ev'ry
flaw
.
When
the
great
sov'reign
would
his
will
express
.
He
gives
a
perfect
rule
;
what
can
he
less
?
And
guards
it
with
a
sanction
as
severe
As
vengeance
can
inflict
,
or
sinners
fear
:
Else
his
own
glorious
rights
he
would
disclaim
,
And
man
might
safely
trifle
with
his
name
:
He
bids
him
glow
with
unremitting
love
To
all
on
earth
,
and
to
himself
above
;
Condemns
th'
injurious
deed
,
the
sland'rous
tongue
,
The
thought
that
meditates
a
brother's
wrong
;
Brings
not
alone
,
the
more
conspicuous
part
,
His
conduct
to
the
test
,
but
tries
his
heart
.
Hark
!
universal
nature
shook
and
groan'd
,
'Twas
the
last
trumpet
—
see
the
judge
enthron'd
:
Rouse
all
your
courage
at
your
utmost
need
,
Now
summon
ev'ry
virtue
,
stand
and
plead
.
What
,
silent
?
Is
your
boasting
heard
no
more
?
That
self-renouncing
wisdom
learn'd
before
,
Had
shed
immortal
glories
on
your
brow
,
That
all
your
virtues
cannot
purchase
now
.
All
joy
to
the
believer
!
He
can
speak
—
Trembling
yet
happy
,
confident
yet
meek
.
Since
the
dear
hour
that
brought
me
to
thy
foot
,
And
cut
up
all
my
follies
by
the
root
,
I
never
trusted
in
an
arm
but
thine
,
Nor
hop'd
,
but
in
thy
righteousness
divine
:
My
pray'rs
and
alms
,
imperfect
and
defil'd
,
Were
but
the
feeble
efforts
of
a
child
,
Howe'er
perform'd
,
it
was
their
brightest
part
,
That
they
proceeded
from
a
grateful
heart
:
Cleans'd
in
thine
own
all-purifying
blood
,
Forgive
their
evil
and
accept
their
good
;
I
cast
them
at
thy
feet
—
my
only
plea
Is
what
it
was
,
dependence
upon
thee
;
While
struggling
in
the
vale
of
tears
below
,
That
never
fail'd
,
nor
shall
it
fail
me
now
.
Angelic
gratulations
rend
the
skies
,
Pride
falls
unpitied
,
never
more
to
rise
,
Humility
is
crown'd
,
and
faith
receives
the
prize
.