HOPE
.
—
doceas
iter
et
sacra
ostia
pandas
.
VIRG.
EN
.
6.
ASK
what
is
human
life
—
the
sage
replies
With
disappointment
low'ring
in
his
eyes
,
A
painful
passage
o'er
a
restless
flood
,
A
vain
pursuit
of
fugitive
false
good
,
A
scene
of
fancied
bliss
and
heart-felt
care
,
Closing
at
last
in
darkness
and
despair
.
—
The
poor
,
inur'd
to
drudgery
and
distress
,
Act
without
aim
,
think
little
and
feel
less
,
And
no
where
but
in
feign'd
Arcadian
scenes
,
Taste
happiness
,
or
know
what
pleasure
means
.
Riches
are
pass'd
away
from
hand
to
hand
,
As
fortune
,
vice
or
folly
may
command
;
As
in
a
dance
the
pair
that
take
the
lead
Turn
downward
,
and
the
lowest
pair
succeed
,
So
shifting
and
so
various
is
the
plan
By
which
Heav'n
rules
the
mixt
affairs
of
man
,
Vicissitude
wheels
round
the
motley
crowd
,
The
rich
grow
poor
,
the
poor
become
purse-proud
:
Bus'ness
is
labour
,
and
man's
weakness
such
,
Pleasure
is
labour
too
,
and
tires
as
much
,
The
very
sense
of
it
foregoes
its
use
,
By
repetition
pall'd
,
by
age
obtuse
.
Youth
lost
in
dissipation
,
we
deplore
Through
life's
sad
remnant
,
what
no
sighs
restore
,
Our
years
,
a
fruitless
race
without
a
prize
,
Too
many
,
yet
too
few
to
make
us
wise
.
Dangling
his
cane
about
,
and
taking
snuff
,
Lothario
cries
,
what
philosophic
stuff
.
Oh
querulous
and
weak
!
whose
useless
brain
Once
thought
of
nothing
,
and
now
thinks
in
vain
,
Whose
eye
reverted
weeps
o'er
all
the
past
,
Whose
prospect
shows
thee
a
disheartning
waste
,
Would
age
in
thee
resign
his
wintry
reign
,
And
youth
invigorate
that
frame
again
,
Renew'd
desire
would
grace
with
other
speech
Joys
always
priz'd
,
when
plac'd
within
our
reach
.
For
lift
thy
palsied
head
,
shake
off
the
gloom
That
overhangs
the
borders
of
thy
tomb
,
See
nature
gay
as
when
she
first
began
,
With
smiles
alluring
her
admirer
,
man
,
She
spreads
the
morning
over
eastern
hills
,
Earth
glitters
with
the
drops
the
night
distils
,
The
sun
obedient
,
at
her
call
appears
To
fling
his
glories
o'er
the
robe
she
wears
,
Banks
cloath'd
with
flow'rs
,
groves
fill'd
with
sprightly
sounds
,
The
yellow
tilth
,
green
meads
,
rocks
,
rising
grounds
,
Streams
edg'd
with
osiers
,
fatt'ning
ev'ry
field
Where'er
they
flow
,
now
seen
and
now
conceal'd
,
From
the
blue
rim
where
skies
and
mountains
meet
,
Down
to
the
very
turf
beneath
thy
feet
,
Ten
thousand
charms
that
only
fools
despise
,
Or
pride
can
look
at
with
indiff'rent
eyes
,
All
speak
one
language
,
all
with
one
sweet
voice
Cry
to
her
universal
realm
,
rejoice
.
Man
feels
the
spur
of
passions
and
desires
,
And
she
gives
largely
more
than
he
requires
,
Not
that
his
hours
devoted
all
to
care
,
Hollow-ey'd
abstinence
and
lean
despair
,
The
wretch
may
pine
,
while
to
his
smell
,
taste
,
sight
,
She
holds
a
Paradise
of
rich
delight
,
But
gently
to
rebuke
his
aukward
fear
,
To
prove
that
what
she
gives
,
she
gives
sincere
,
To
banish
hesitation
,
and
proclaim
His
happiness
,
her
dear
,
her
only
aim
.
'Tis
grave
philosophy's
absurdest
dream
,
That
Heav'n's
intentions
are
not
what
they
seem
,
That
only
shadows
are
dispens'd
below
,
And
earth
has
no
reality
but
woe
.
Thus
things
terrestrial
wear
a
diff'rent
hue
,
As
youth
or
age
persuades
,
and
neither
true
;
So
Flora's
wreath
through
colour'd
chrystal
seen
,
The
rose
or
lily
appears
blue
or
green
,
But
still
th'
imputed
tints
are
those
alone
The
medium
represents
,
and
not
their
own
.
To
rise
at
noon
,
sit
slipshod
and
undress'd
,
To
read
the
news
or
fiddle
as
seems
best
,
'Till
half
the
world
comes
rattling
at
his
door
,
To
fill
the
dull
vacuity
'till
four
,
And
just
when
evening
turns
the
blue
vault
grey
,
To
spend
two
hours
in
dressing
for
the
day
,
To
make
the
sun
a
bauble
without
use
,
Save
for
the
fruits
his
heav'nly
beams
produce
,
Quite
to
forget
,
or
deem
it
worth
no
thought
,
Who
bids
him
shine
,
or
if
he
shine
or
not
,
Through
mere
necessity
to
close
his
eyes
Just
when
the
larks
and
when
the
shepherds
rise
,
Is
such
a
life
,
so
tediously
the
same
,
So
void
of
all
utility
or
aim
,
That
poor
JONQUIL
,
with
almost
ev'ry
breath
Sighs
for
his
exit
,
vulgarly
call'd
,
death
:
For
he
,
with
all
his
follies
,
has
a
mind
Not
yet
so
blank
,
or
fashionably
blind
,
But
now
and
then
perhaps
a
feeble
ray
Of
distant
wisdom
shoots
across
his
way
,
By
which
he
reads
,
that
life
without
a
plan
,
As
useless
as
the
moment
it
began
,
Serves
merely
as
a
soil
for
discontent
To
thrive
in
,
an
incumbrance
,
e'er
half
spent
.
Oh
weariness
beyond
what
asses
feel
,
That
tread
the
circuit
of
the
cistern
wheel
,
A
dull
rotation
never
at
a
stay
,
Yesterday's
face
twin
image
of
to-day
,
While
conversation
,
an
exhausted
stock
,
Grows
drowsy
as
the
clicking
of
a
clock
.
No
need
,
he
cries
,
of
gravity
stuff'd
out
With
academic
dignity
devout
,
To
read
wise
lectures
,
vanity
the
text
;
Proclaim
the
remedy
,
ye
learned
,
next
,
For
truth
self-evident
with
pomp
impress'd
,
Is
vanity
surpassing
all
the
rest
.
That
remedy
,
not
hid
in
deeps
profound
,
Yet
seldom
sought
,
where
only
to
be
found
,
While
passion
turns
aside
from
its
due
scope
Th'
enquirer's
aim
,
that
remedy
,
is
hope
.
Life
is
his
gift
,
from
whom
whate'er
life
needs
,
And
ev'ry
good
and
perfect
gift
proceeds
,
Bestow'd
on
man
,
like
all
that
we
partake
,
Royally
,
freely
,
for
his
bounty
sake
.
Transient
indeed
,
as
is
the
fleeting
hour
,
And
yet
the
seed
of
an
immortal
flow'r
,
Design'd
in
honour
of
his
endless
love
,
To
fill
with
fragrance
his
abode
above
.
No
trifle
,
howsoever
short
it
seem
,
And
howsoever
shadowy
,
no
dream
,
Its
value
,
what
no
thought
can
ascertain
,
Nor
all
an
angel's
eloquence
explain
.
Men
deal
with
life
,
as
children
with
their
play
,
Who
first
misuse
,
then
cast
their
toys
away
,
Live
to
no
sober
purpose
,
and
contend
That
their
creator
had
no
serious
end
.
When
God
and
man
stand
opposite
in
view
,
Man's
disappointment
must
of
course
ensue
.
The
just
Creator
condescends
to
write
In
beams
of
inextinguishable
light
,
His
names
of
wisdom
,
goodness
,
pow'r
and
love
,
On
all
that
blooms
below
or
shines
above
,
To
catch
the
wand'ring
notice
of
mankind
,
And
teach
the
world
,
if
not
perversely
blind
,
His
gracious
attributes
,
and
prove
the
share
His
offspring
hold
in
his
paternal
care
.
If
led
from
earthly
things
to
things
divine
,
His
creature
thwart
not
his
august
design
,
Then
praise
is
heard
instead
of
reas'ning
pride
,
And
captious
cavil
and
complaint
subside
.
Nature
employ'd
in
her
allotted
place
,
Is
hand-maid
to
the
purposes
of
grace
,
By
good
vouchsaf'd
makes
known
superior
good
,
And
bliss
not
seen
by
blessings
understood
.
That
bliss
reveal'd
in
scripture
with
a
glow
Bright
as
the
covenant-insuring
bow
,
Fires
all
his
feelings
with
a
noble
scorn
Of
sensual
evil
,
and
thus
hope
is
born
.
Hope
sets
the
stamp
of
vanity
on
all
That
men
have
deem'd
substantial
since
the
fall
,
Yet
has
the
wond'rous
virtue
to
educe
From
emptiness
itself
a
real
use
,
And
while
she
takes
as
at
a
father's
hand
What
health
and
sober
appetite
demand
,
From
fading
good
derives
with
chymic
art
That
lasting
happiness
,
a
thankful
heart
.
Hope
with
uplifted
foot
set
free
from
earth
,
Pants
for
the
place
of
her
ethereal
birth
,
On
steady
wing
sails
through
th'
immense
abyss
,
Plucks
amaranthin
joys
from
bow'rs
of
bliss
,
And
crowns
the
soul
while
yet
a
mourner
here
,
With
wreaths
like
those
triumphant
spirits
wear
.
Hope
as
an
anchor
firm
and
sure
,
holds
fast
The
Christian
vessel
,
and
defies
the
blast
;
Hope
!
nothing
else
can
nourish
and
secure
His
new-born
virtues
,
and
preserve
him
pure
;
Hope
!
let
the
wretch
once
conscious
of
the
joy
,
Whom
now
despairing
agonies
destroy
,
Speak
,
for
he
can
,
and
none
so
well
as
he
,
What
treasures
center
,
what
delights
in
thee
.
Had
he
the
gems
,
the
spices
,
and
the
land
That
boasts
the
treasure
,
all
at
his
command
,
The
fragrant
grove
,
th'
inestimable
mine
,
Were
light
when
weigh'd
against
one
smile
of
thine
.
Though
clasp'd
and
cradl'd
in
his
nurse's
arms
,
He
shine
with
all
a
cherub's
artless
charms
,
Man
is
the
genuine
offspring
of
revolt
,
Stubborn
and
sturdy
,
a
wild
ass's
colt
;
His
passions
like
the
wat'ry
stores
that
sleep
Beneath
the
smiling
surface
of
the
deep
,
Wait
but
the
lashes
of
a
wintry
storm
,
To
frown
and
roar
,
and
shake
his
feeble
form
.
From
infancy
through
childhood's
giddy
maze
,
Froward
at
school
,
and
fretful
in
his
plays
,
The
puny
tyrant
burns
to
subjugate
The
free
republic
of
the
whip-gig
state
.
If
one
,
his
equal
in
athletic
frame
,
Or
more
provoking
still
,
of
nobler
name
,
Dares
step
across
his
arbitrary
views
,
An
Iliad
,
only
not
in
verse
,
ensues
.
The
little
Greeks
look
trembling
at
the
scales
,
'Till
the
best
tongue
or
heaviest
hand
prevails
.
Now
see
him
launched
into
the
world
at
large
;
If
priest
,
supinely
droning
o'er
his
charge
,
Their
fleece
his
pillow
,
and
his
weekly
drawl
,
Though
short
,
too
long
,
the
price
he
pays
for
all
;
If
lawyer
,
loud
whatever
cause
he
plead
,
But
proudest
of
the
worst
,
if
that
succeed
.
Perhaps
a
grave
physician
,
gath'ring
fees
,
Punctually
paid
for
length'ning
out
disease
,
No
COTTON
,
whose
humanity
sheds
rays
That
make
superior
skill
his
second
praise
.
If
arms
engage
him
,
he
devotes
to
sport
His
date
of
life
,
so
likely
to
be
short
,
A
soldier
may
be
any
thing
,
if
brave
,
So
may
a
tradesman
,
if
not
quite
a
knave
.
Such
stuff
the
world
is
made
of
;
and
mankind
To
passion
,
int'rest
,
pleasure
,
whim
resign'd
,
Insist
on
,
as
if
each
were
his
own
pope
,
Forgiveness
,
and
the
privilege
of
hope
;
But
conscience
in
some
awful
silent
hour
,
When
captivating
lusts
have
lost
their
pow'r
,
Perhaps
when
sickness
,
or
some
fearful
dream
Reminds
him
of
religion
,
hated
theme
!
Starts
from
the
down
on
which
she
lately
slept
,
And
tells
of
laws
despis'd
,
at
least
not
kept
;
Shows
with
a
pointing
finger
and
no
noise
,
A
pale
procession
of
past
sinful
joys
,
All
witnesses
of
blessings
foully
scorn'd
,
And
life
abus'd
—
and
not
to
be
suborn'd
.
Mark
these
,
she
says
,
these
summoned
from
afar
,
Begin
their
march
to
meet
thee
at
the
bar
;
There
find
a
Judge
,
inexorably
just
,
And
perish
there
,
as
all
presumption
must
.
Peace
be
to
those
(
such
peace
as
earth
can
give
)
Who
live
in
pleasure
,
dead
ev'n
while
they
live
,
Born
capable
indeed
of
heav'nly
truth
,
But
down
to
latest
age
from
earliest
youth
Their
mind
a
wilderness
through
want
of
care
,
The
plough
of
wisdom
never
ent'ring
there
.
Peace
(
if
insensibility
may
claim
A
right
to
the
meek
honours
of
her
name
)
To
men
of
pedigree
,
their
noble
race
Emulous
always
of
the
nearest
place
To
any
throne
,
except
the
throne
of
grace
.
Let
cottagers
and
unenlightened
swains
Revere
the
laws
they
dream
that
heav'n
ordains
,
Resort
on
Sundays
to
the
house
of
pray'r
,
And
ask
,
and
fancy
they
find
blessings
there
;
Themselves
perhaps
when
weary
they
retreat
T'
enjoy
cool
nature
in
a
country
seat
,
T'
exchange
the
center
of
a
thousand
trades
,
For
clumps
and
lawns
and
temples
and
cascades
,
May
now
and
then
their
velvet
cushions
take
,
And
seem
to
pray
for
good
example
sake
;
Judging
,
in
charity
no
doubt
,
the
town
Pious
enough
,
and
having
need
of
none
.
Kind
souls
!
to
teach
their
tenantry
to
prize
What
they
themselves
without
remorse
despise
;
Nor
hope
have
they
nor
fear
of
aught
to
come
,
As
well
for
them
had
prophecy
been
dumb
;
They
could
have
held
the
conduct
they
pursue
,
Had
Paul
of
Tarsus
lived
and
died
a
Jew
;
And
truth
propos'd
to
reas'ners
wise
as
they
,
Is
a
pearl
cast
—
completely
cast
away
.
They
die
—
Death
lends
them
,
pleas'd
and
as
in
sport
,
All
the
grim
honours
of
his
ghastly
court
;
Far
other
paintings
grace
the
chamber
now
,
Where
late
we
saw
the
mimic
landscape
glow
;
The
busy
heralds
hang
the
sable
scene
With
mournful
'scutcheons
and
dim
lamps
between
,
Proclaim
their
titles
to
the
crowd
around
,
But
they
that
wore
them
,
move
not
at
the
sound
;
The
coronet
placed
idly
at
their
head
,
Adds
nothing
now
to
the
degraded
dead
,
And
ev'n
the
star
that
glitters
on
the
bier
,
Can
only
say
,
nobility
lies
here
.
Peace
to
all
such
—
'twere
pity
to
offend
By
useless
censure
whom
we
cannot
mend
,
Life
without
hope
can
close
but
in
despair
,
'Twas
there
we
found
them
and
must
leave
them
there
.
As
when
two
pilgrims
in
a
forest
stray
,
Both
may
be
lost
,
yet
each
in
his
own
way
,
So
fares
it
with
the
multitudes
beguil'd
In
vain
opinion's
waste
and
dang'rous
wild
;
Ten
thousand
rove
the
brakes
and
thorns
among
,
Some
eastward
,
and
some
westward
,
and
all
wrong
:
But
here
,
alas
!
the
fatal
diff'rence
lies
,
Each
man's
belief
is
right
in
his
own
eyes
;
And
he
that
blames
what
they
have
blindly
chose
,
Incurs
resentment
for
the
love
he
shows
.
Say
botanist
!
within
whose
province
fall
The
cedar
and
the
hyssop
on
the
wall
,
Of
all
that
deck
the
lanes
,
the
fields
,
the
bow'rs
,
What
parts
the
kindred
tribes
of
weeds
and
flow'rs
?
Sweet
scent
,
or
lovely
form
,
or
both
combin'd
,
Distinguish
ev'ry
cultivated
kind
,
The
want
of
both
denotes
a
meaner
breed
,
And
Chloe
from
her
garland
picks
the
weed
.
Thus
hopes
of
every
sort
,
whatever
sect
Esteem
them
,
sow
them
,
rear
them
,
and
protect
;
If
wild
in
nature
,
and
not
duly
found
Gethsemane
!
in
thy
dear
,
hallowed
ground
,
That
cannot
bear
the
blaze
of
scripture
light
,
Nor
cheer
the
spirit
,
nor
refresh
the
sight
,
Nor
animate
the
soul
to
Christian
deeds
,
Oh
cast
them
from
thee
!
are
weeds
,
arrant
weeds
.
Ethelred's
house
,
the
center
of
six
ways
,
Diverging
each
from
each
,
like
equal
rays
,
Himself
as
bountiful
as
April
rains
,
Lord
paramount
of
the
surrounding
plains
,
Would
give
relief
of
bed
and
board
to
none
,
But
guests
that
sought
it
in
th'
appointed
,
ONE
.
And
they
might
enter
at
his
open
door
,
Ev'n
till
his
spacious
hall
would
hold
no
more
.
He
sent
a
servant
forth
by
ev'ry
road
,
To
sound
his
horn
and
publish
it
abroad
,
That
all
might
mark
,
knight
,
menial
,
high
and
low
,
An
ord'nance
it
concern'd
them
much
to
know
.
If
after
all
,
some
headstrong
,
hardy
lowt
,
Would
disobey
,
though
sure
to
be
shut
out
,
Could
he
with
reason
murmur
at
his
case
,
Himself
sole
author
of
his
own
disgrace
?
No
!
the
decree
was
just
and
without
flaw
,
And
he
that
made
,
had
right
to
make
the
law
;
His
sov'reign
pow'r
and
pleasure
unrestrain'd
,
The
wrong
was
his
,
who
wrongfully
complain'd
.
Yet
half
mankind
maintain
a
churlish
strife
With
him
,
the
donor
of
eternal
life
,
Because
the
deed
by
which
his
love
confirms
The
largess
he
bestows
,
prescribes
the
terms
.
Compliance
with
his
will
your
lot
insures
,
Accept
it
only
,
and
the
boon
is
yours
;
And
sure
it
is
as
kind
to
smile
and
give
,
As
with
a
frown
to
say
,
do
this
and
live
.
Love
is
not
pedlars
trump'ry
,
bought
and
sold
,
He
will
give
freely
,
or
he
will
withold
,
His
soul
abhors
a
mercenary
thought
,
And
him
as
deeply
who
abhors
it
not
;
He
stipulates
indeed
,
but
merely
this
,
That
man
will
freely
take
an
unbought
bliss
,
Will
trust
him
for
a
faithful
gen'rous
part
,
Nor
set
a
price
upon
a
willing
heart
.
Of
all
the
ways
that
seem
to
promise
fair
,
To
place
you
where
his
saints
his
presence
share
,
This
only
can
—
for
this
plain
cause
,
express'd
In
terms
as
plain
;
himself
has
shut
the
rest
.
But
oh
the
strife
,
the
bick'ring
and
debate
,
The
tidings
of
unpurchas'd
heav'n
create
!
The
flirted
fan
,
the
bridle
and
the
toss
,
All
speakers
,
yet
all
language
at
a
loss
.
From
stucco'd
walls
smart
arguments
rebound
,
And
beaus
,
adepts
in
ev'ry
thing
profound
,
Die
of
disdain
,
or
whistle
off
the
sound
.
Such
is
the
clamor
of
rooks
,
daws
,
and
kites
,
Th'
explosion
of
the
levell'd
tube
excites
,
Where
mould'ring
abbey-walls
o'erhang
the
glade
,
And
oaks
cooeval
spread
a
mournful
shade
.
The
screaming
nations
hov'ring
in
mid
air
,
Loudly
resent
the
stranger's
freedom
there
,
And
seem
to
warn
him
never
to
repeat
His
bold
intrusion
on
their
dark
retreat
.
Adieu
,
Vinoso
cries
,
e'er
yet
he
sips
,
The
purple
bumper
trembling
at
his
lips
,
Adieu
to
all
morality
!
if
grace
Make
works
a
vain
ingredient
in
the
case
.
The
Christian
hope
is
—
waiter
,
draw
the
cork
—
If
I
mistake
not
—
blockhead
!
with
a
fork
!
Without
good
works
,
whatever
some
may
boast
,
Mere
folly
and
delusion
—
Sir
,
your
toast
.
My
firm
persuasion
is
,
at
least
sometimes
,
That
heav'n
will
weigh
man's
virtues
and
his
crimes
,
With
nice
attention
in
a
righteous
scale
,
And
save
or
damn
as
these
or
those
prevail
.
I
plant
my
foot
upon
this
ground
of
trust
,
And
silence
every
fear
with
—
God
is
just
;
But
if
perchance
on
some
dull
drizzling
day
,
A
thought
intrude
that
says
,
or
seems
to
say
.
If
thus
th'
important
cause
is
to
be
tried
,
Suppose
the
beam
should
dip
on
the
wrong
side
,
I
soon
recover
from
these
needless
frights
,
And
God
is
merciful
—
sets
all
to
rights
.
Thus
between
justice
,
as
my
prime
support
,
And
mercy
fled
to
,
as
the
last
resort
,
I
glide
and
steal
along
with
heav'n
in
view
,
And
—
pardon
me
,
the
bottle
stands
with
you
.
I
never
will
believe
,
the
col'nel
cries
,
The
sanguinary
schemes
that
some
devise
,
Who
make
the
good
Creator
,
on
their
plan
,
A
being
of
less
equity
than
man
.
If
appetite
,
or
what
divines
call
lust
,
Which
men
comply
with
,
e'en
because
they
must
,
Be
punish'd
with
perdition
,
who
is
pure
?
Then
theirs
,
no
doubt
,
as
well
as
mine
,
is
sure
.
If
sentence
of
eternal
pain
belong
To
ev'ry
sudden
slip
and
transient
wrong
,
Then
heav'n
enjoins
the
fallible
and
frail
,
An
hopeless
task
,
and
damns
them
if
they
fail
.
My
creed
(
whatever
some
creed-makers
mean
By
Athanasian
nonsense
or
Nicene
)
My
creed
is
,
he
is
safe
that
does
his
best
,
And
death's
a
doom
sufficient
for
the
rest
.
Right
,
says
an
ensign
,
and
for
aught
I
see
,
Your
faith
and
mine
substantially
agree
:
The
best
of
ev'ry
man's
performance
here
,
Is
to
discharge
the
duties
of
his
sphere
.
A
lawyer's
dealing
should
be
just
and
fair
,
Honesty
shines
with
great
advantage
there
;
Fasting
and
pray'r
sit
well
upon
a
priest
,
A
decent
caution
and
reserve
at
least
.
A
soldier's
best
is
courage
in
the
field
,
With
nothing
here
that
wants
to
be
conceal'd
,
Manly
deportment
,
gallant
,
easy
,
gay
,
An
hand
as
lib'ral
as
the
light
of
day
,
The
soldier
thus
endow'd
,
who
never
shrinks
,
Nor
closets
up
his
thought
what'er
he
thinks
,
Who
scorns
to
do
an
injury
by
stealth
,
Must
go
to
heav'n
—
and
I
must
drink
his
health
.
Sir
Smug
!
he
cries
(
for
lowest
at
the
board
,
Just
made
fifth
chaplain
of
his
patron
lord
,
His
shoulders
witnessing
by
many
a
shrug
,
How
much
his
feelings
suffered
,
sat
Sir
Smug
)
Your
office
is
to
winnow
false
from
true
,
Come
,
prophet
,
drink
,
and
tell
us
what
think
you
.
Sighing
and
smiling
as
he
takes
his
glass
,
Which
they
that
wooe
preferment
,
rarely
pass
,
Fallible
man
,
the
church-bred
youth
replies
,
Is
still
found
fallible
,
however
wise
,
And
differing
judgments
serve
but
to
declare
That
truth
lies
somewhere
,
if
we
knew
but
where
.
Of
all
it
ever
was
my
lot
to
read
Of
critics
now
alive
or
long
since
dead
,
The
book
of
all
the
world
that
charm'd
me
most
Was
,
well-a-day
,
the
title-page
was
lost
.
The
writer
well
remarks
,
an
heart
that
knows
To
take
with
gratitude
what
heav'n
bestows
,
With
prudence
always
ready
at
our
call
,
To
guide
our
use
of
it
,
is
all
in
all
.
Doubtless
it
is
—
to
which
of
my
own
store
I
superadd
a
few
essentials
more
;
But
these
,
excuse
the
liberty
I
take
,
I
wave
just
now
,
for
conversation
sake
.
—
Spoke
like
an
oracle
,
they
all
exclaim
,
And
add
Right
Rev'rend
to
Smug's
honour'd
name
,
And
yet
our
lot
is
giv'n
us
in
a
land
Where
busy
arts
are
never
at
a
stand
,
Where
science
points
her
telescopic
eye
,
Familiar
with
the
wonders
of
the
sky
,
Where
bold
enquiry
diving
out
of
sight
,
Brings
many
a
precious
pearl
of
truth
to
light
,
Where
nought
eludes
the
persevering
quest
,
That
fashion
,
taste
,
or
luxury
suggest
.
But
above
all
,
in
her
own
light
array'd
,
See
mercy's
grand
apocalypse
display'd
!
The
sacred
book
no
longer
suffers
wrong
,
Bound
in
the
fetters
of
an
unknown
tongue
,
But
speaks
with
plainness
art
could
never
mend
,
What
simplest
minds
can
soonest
comprehend
.
God
gives
the
word
,
the
preachers
throng
around
,
Live
from
his
lips
,
and
spread
the
glorious
sound
:
That
sound
bespeaks
salvation
on
her
way
,
The
trumpet
of
a
life-restoring
day
;
'Tis
heard
where
England's
eastern
glory
shines
,
And
in
the
gulphs
of
her
Cornubian
mines
.
And
still
it
spreads
.
See
Germany
send
forth
Her
The
Moravian
missionaries
in
Greenland
.
Vide
Krantz
.
sons
to
pour
it
on
the
farthest
north
:
Fir'd
with
a
zeal
peculiar
,
they
defy
The
rage
and
rigor
of
a
polar
sky
,
And
plant
successfully
sweet
Sharon's
rose
,
On
icy
plains
and
in
eternal
snows
.
Oh
blest
within
th'
inclosure
of
your
rocks
,
Nor
herds
have
ye
to
boast
,
nor
bleating
flocks
,
No
fertilizing
streams
your
fields
divide
,
That
show
revers'd
the
villas
on
their
side
,
No
groves
have
ye
;
no
cheerful
sound
of
bird
,
Or
voice
of
turtle
in
your
land
is
heard
,
Nor
grateful
eglantine
regales
the
smell
Of
those
that
walk
at
ev'ning
where
ye
dwell
—
But
winter
arm'd
with
terrors
,
here
unknown
,
Sits
absolute
on
his
unshaken
throne
,
Piles
up
his
stores
amid'st
the
frozen
waste
,
And
bids
the
mountains
he
has
built
,
stand
fast
,
Beckons
the
legions
of
his
storms
away
From
happier
scenes
,
to
make
your
land
a
prey
,
Proclaims
the
soil
a
conquest
he
has
won
,
And
scorns
to
share
it
with
the
distant
sun
.
—
Yet
truth
is
yours
,
remote
,
unenvied
isle
,
And
peace
,
the
genuine
offspring
of
her
smile
,
The
pride
of
letter'd
ignorance
that
binds
In
chains
of
error
,
our
accomplish'd
minds
,
That
decks
with
all
the
splendor
of
the
true
A
false
religion
,
is
unknown
to
you
.
Nature
indeed
vouchsafes
for
our
delight
The
sweet
vicissitudes
of
day
and
night
,
Soft
airs
and
genial
moisture
,
feed
and
cheer
Field
,
fruit
and
flow'r
,
and
ev'ry
creature
here
,
But
brighter
beams
than
his
who
fires
the
skies
,
Have
ris'n
at
length
on
your
admiring
eyes
,
That
shoot
into
your
darkest
caves
the
day
From
which
our
nicer
optics
turn
away
.
Here
see
th'
encouragement
grace
gives
to
vice
,
The
dire
effect
of
mercy
without
price
!
What
were
they
?
—
what
some
fools
are
made
by
art
They
were
by
nature
,
atheists
,
head
and
heart
.
The
gross
idolatry
blind
heathens
teach
Was
too
refin'd
for
them
,
beyond
their
reach
;
Not
ev'n
the
glorious
sun
,
though
men
revere
The
monarch
most
that
seldom
will
appear
,
And
though
his
beams
that
quicken
where
they
shine
,
May
claim
some
right
to
be
esteem'd
divine
,
Not
ev'n
the
sun
,
desirable
as
rare
,
Could
bend
one
knee
,
engage
one
vot'ry
there
;
They
were
what
base
credulity
believes
True
Christians
are
,
dissemblers
,
drunkards
,
thieves
.
The
full-gorged
savage
at
his
nauseous
feast
Spent
half
the
darkness
,
and
snor'd
out
the
rest
,
Was
one
,
whom
justice
on
an
equal
plan
Denouncing
death
upon
the
sins
of
man
,
Might
almost
have
indulg'd
with
an
escape
,
Chargeable
only
with
an
human
shape
.
What
are
they
now
?
—
morality
may
spare
Her
grave
concern
,
her
kind
suspicions
there
.
The
wretch
that
once
sang
wildly
,
danc'd
and
laugh'd
,
And
suck'd
in
dizzy
madness
with
his
draught
,
Has
wept
a
silent
flood
,
revers'd
his
ways
,
Is
sober
,
meek
,
benevolent
,
and
prays
;
Feeds
sparingly
,
communicates
his
store
,
Abhors
the
craft
he
boasted
of
before
,
And
he
that
stole
has
learn'd
to
steal
no
more
.
Well
spake
the
prophet
,
let
the
desart
sing
,
Where
sprang
the
thorn
,
the
spiry
fir
shall
spring
,
And
where
unsightly
and
rank
thistles
grew
,
Shall
grow
the
myrtle
and
luxuriant
yew
.
Go
now
,
and
with
important
tone
demand
On
what
foundation
virtue
is
to
stand
,
If
self-exalting
claims
be
turn'd
adrift
,
And
grace
be
grace
indeed
,
and
life
a
gift
;
The
poor
reclaim'd
inhabitant
,
his
eyes
Glist'ning
at
once
with
pity
and
surprise
,
Amaz'd
that
shadows
should
obscure
the
sight
Of
one
whose
birth
was
in
a
land
of
light
,
Shall
answer
,
Hope
,
sweet
Hope
,
has
set
me
free
,
And
made
all
pleasures
else
mere
dross
to
me
.
These
amidst
scenes
as
waste
as
if
denied
The
common
care
that
waits
on
all
beside
,
Wild
as
if
nature
there
,
void
of
all
good
,
Play'd
only
gambols
in
a
frantic
mood
;
Yet
charge
not
heav'nly
skill
with
having
plann'd
A
play-thing
world
unworthy
of
his
hand
,
Can
see
his
love
,
though
secret
evil
lurks
In
all
we
touch
,
stamp'd
plainly
on
his
works
,
Deem
life
a
blessing
with
its
num'rous
woes
,
Nor
spurn
away
a
gift
a
God
bestows
.
Hard
task
indeed
,
o'er
arctic
seas
to
roam
!
Is
hope
exotic
?
grows
it
not
at
home
?
Yes
,
but
an
object
bright
as
orient
morn
,
May
press
the
eye
too
closely
to
be
borne
,
A
distant
virtue
we
can
all
confess
,
It
hurts
our
pride
and
moves
our
envy
less
.
Leuconomus
(
beneath
well-sounding
Greek
I
slur
a
name
a
poet
must
not
speak
)
Stood
pilloried
on
infamy's
high
stage
,
And
bore
the
pelting
scorn
of
half
an
age
,
The
very
butt
of
slander
,
and
the
blot
For
ev'ry
dart
that
malice
ever
shot
.
The
man
that
mentioned
him
,
at
once
dismiss'd
All
mercy
from
his
lips
,
and
sneer'd
and
hiss'd
;
His
crimes
were
such
as
Sodom
never
knew
,
And
perjury
stood
up
to
swear
all
true
;
His
aim
was
mischief
,
and
his
zeal
pretence
,
His
speech
rebellion
against
common
sense
,
A
knave
when
tried
on
honesty's
plain
rule
,
And
when
by
that
of
reason
,
a
mere
fool
,
The
world's
best
comfort
was
,
his
doom
was
pass'd
,
Die
when
he
might
,
he
must
be
damn'd
at
last
.
Now
truth
perform
thine
office
,
waft
aside
The
curtain
drawn
by
prejudice
and
pride
,
Reveal
(
the
man
is
dead
)
to
wond'ring
eyes
,
This
more
than
monster
in
his
proper
guise
.
He
lov'd
the
world
that
hated
him
:
the
tear
That
dropped
upon
his
Bible
was
sincere
.
Assail'd
by
scandal
and
the
tongue
of
strife
,
His
only
answer
was
a
blameless
life
,
And
he
that
forged
and
he
that
threw
the
dart
,
Had
each
a
brother's
interest
in
his
heart
.
Paul's
love
of
Christ
,
and
steadiness
unbrib'd
,
Were
copied
close
in
him
,
and
well
transcrib'd
;
He
followed
Paul
:
his
zeal
a
kindred
flame
,
His
apostolic
charity
the
same
,
Like
him
cross'd
chearfully
tempestuous
seas
,
Forsaking
country
,
kindred
,
friends
,
and
ease
;
Like
him
he
labour'd
,
and
like
him
,
content
To
bear
it
,
suffer'd
shame
where'er
he
went
.
Blush
calumny
!
and
write
upon
his
tomb
,
If
honest
eulogy
can
spare
thee
room
,
Thy
deep
repentance
of
thy
thousand
lies
,
Which
aim'd
at
him
,
have
pierc'd
th'
offended
skies
,
And
say
,
blot
out
my
sin
,
confess'd
,
deplor'd
,
Against
thine
image
in
thy
saint
,
oh
Lord
!
No
blinder
bigot
,
I
maintain
it
still
,
Than
he
that
must
have
pleasure
,
come
what
will
;
He
laughs
,
whatever
weapon
truth
may
draw
,
And
deems
her
sharp
artillery
mere
straw
.
Scripture
indeed
is
plain
,
but
God
and
he
On
scripture-ground
,
are
sure
to
disagree
;
Some
wiser
rule
must
teach
him
how
to
live
,
Than
that
his
Maker
has
seen
fit
to
give
,
Supple
and
flexible
as
Indian
cane
,
To
take
the
bend
his
appetites
ordain
,
Contriv'd
to
suit
frail
nature's
crazy
case
,
And
reconcile
his
lusts
with
saving
grace
.
By
this
,
with
nice
precision
of
design
,
He
draws
upon
life's
map
a
zig-zag
line
,
That
shows
how
far
'tis
safe
to
follow
sin
,
And
where
his
danger
and
God's
wrath
begin
.
By
this
he
forms
,
as
pleas'd
he
sports
along
,
His
well
pois'd
estimate
of
right
and
wrong
,
And
finds
the
modish
manners
of
the
day
,
Though
loose
,
as
harmless
as
an
infant's
play
.
Build
by
whatever
plan
caprice
decrees
,
With
what
materials
,
on
what
ground
you
please
,
Your
hope
shall
stand
unblam'd
,
perhaps
admir'd
,
If
not
that
hope
the
scripture
has
requir'd
:
The
strange
conceits
,
vain
projects
and
wild
dreams
,
With
which
hypocrisy
for
ever
teems
,
(
Though
other
follies
strike
the
public
eye
,
And
raise
a
laugh
)
pass
unmolested
by
;
But
if
unblameable
in
word
and
thought
,
A
man
arise
,
a
man
whom
God
has
taught
,
With
all
Elijah's
dignity
of
tone
,
And
all
the
love
of
the
beloved
John
,
To
storm
the
citadels
they
build
in
air
,
And
smite
th'
untemper'd
wall
,
'tis
death
to
spare
.
To
sweep
away
all
refuges
of
lies
,
And
place
,
instead
of
quirks
themselves
devise
,
LAMA
SABACTHANI
,
before
their
eyes
,
To
prove
that
without
Christ
,
all
gain
is
loss
,
All
hope
,
despair
,
that
stands
not
on
his
cross
,
Except
the
few
his
God
may
have
impress'd
,
A
tenfold
frenzy
seizes
all
the
rest
.
Throughout
mankind
,
the
Christian
kind
at
least
,
There
dwells
a
consciousness
in
ev'ry
breast
,
That
folly
ends
where
genuine
hope
begins
,
And
he
that
finds
his
heav'n
must
lose
his
sins
:
Nature
opposes
with
her
utmost
force
,
This
riving
stroke
,
this
ultimate
divorce
,
And
while
religion
seems
to
be
her
view
,
Hates
with
a
deep
sincerity
,
the
true
;
For
this
of
all
that
ever
influenced
man
,
Since
Abel
worshipp'd
,
or
the
world
began
,
This
only
spares
no
lust
,
admits
no
plea
,
But
makes
him
,
if
at
all
,
completely
free
,
Sounds
forth
the
signal
,
as
she
mounts
her
car
,
Of
an
eternal
,
universal
war
,
Rejects
all
treaty
,
penetrates
all
wiles
,
Scorns
with
the
same
indiff'rence
frowns
and
smiles
,
Drives
through
the
realms
of
sin
,
where
riot
reels
,
And
grinds
his
crown
beneath
her
burning
wheels
!
Hence
all
that
is
in
man
,
pride
,
passion
,
art
,
Powr's
of
the
mind
,
and
feelings
of
the
heart
,
Insensible
of
truth's
almighty
charms
,
Starts
at
her
first
approach
,
and
sounds
to
arms
!
While
bigotry
with
well-dissembled
fears
,
His
eyes
shut
fast
,
his
fingers
in
his
ears
,
Mighty
to
parry
,
and
push
by
God's
word
With
senseless
noise
,
his
argument
the
sword
,
Pretends
a
zeal
for
godliness
and
grace
,
And
spits
abhorrence
in
the
Christian's
face
.
Parent
of
hope
,
immortal
truth
,
make
known
Thy
deathless
wreaths
,
and
triumphs
all
thine
own
:
The
silent
progress
of
thy
pow'r
is
such
,
Thy
means
so
feeble
,
and
despis'd
so
much
,
That
few
believe
the
wonders
thou
hast
wrought
,
And
none
can
teach
them
but
whom
thou
hast
taught
.
Oh
see
me
sworn
to
serve
thee
,
and
command
A
painter's
skill
into
a
poet's
hand
,
That
while
I
trembling
trace
a
work
divine
,
Fancy
may
stand
aloof
from
the
design
,
And
light
and
shade
and
ev'ry
stroke
be
thine
.
If
ever
thou
hast
felt
another's
pain
,
If
ever
when
he
sigh'd
,
hast
sigh'd
again
,
If
ever
on
thine
eye-lid
stood
the
tear
That
pity
had
engender'd
,
drop
one
here
.
This
man
was
happy
—
had
the
world's
good
word
,
And
with
it
ev'ry
joy
it
can
afford
;
Friendship
and
love
seem'd
tenderly
at
strife
,
Which
most
should
sweeten
his
untroubl'd
life
;
Politely
learn'd
,
and
of
a
gentle
race
,
Good-breeding
and
good
sense
gave
all
a
grace
,
And
whether
at
the
toilette
of
the
fair
He
laugh'd
and
trifled
,
made
him
welcome
there
;
Or
,
if
in
masculine
debate
he
shar'd
,
Insur'd
him
mute
attention
and
regard
.
Alas
how
chang'd
!
expressive
of
his
mind
,
His
eyes
are
sunk
,
arms
folded
,
head
reclind
,
Those
awful
syllables
,
hell
,
death
,
and
sin
,
Though
whisper'd
,
plainly
tell
what
works
within
,
That
conscience
there
performs
her
proper
part
,
And
writes
a
doomsday
sentence
on
his
heart
;
Forsaking
,
and
forsaken
of
all
friends
,
He
now
perceives
where
earthly
pleasure
ends
,
Hard
task
!
for
one
who
lately
knew
no
care
,
And
harder
still
as
learnt
beneath
despair
:
His
hours
no
longer
pass
unmark'd
away
,
A
dark
importance
saddens
every
day
,
He
hears
the
notice
of
the
clock
,
perplex'd
,
And
cries
,
perhaps
eternity
strikes
next
:
Sweet
music
is
no
longer
music
here
,
And
laughter
sounds
like
madness
in
his
ear
,
His
grief
the
world
of
all
her
pow'r
disarms
,
Wine
has
no
taste
,
and
beauty
has
no
charms
:
God's
holy
word
,
once
trivial
in
his
view
,
Now
by
the
voice
of
his
experience
,
true
,
Seems
,
as
it
is
,
the
fountain
whence
alone
Must
spring
that
hope
he
pants
to
make
his
own
.
Now
let
the
bright
reverse
be
known
abroad
,
Say
,
man's
a
worm
,
and
pow'r
belongs
to
God
.
As
when
a
felon
whom
his
country's
laws
Have
justly
doom'd
for
some
atrocious
cause
,
Expects
in
darkness
and
heart-chilling
fears
,
The
shameful
close
of
all
his
mispent
years
,
If
chance
,
on
heavy
pinions
slowly
borne
,
A
tempest
usher
in
the
dreaded
morn
,
Upon
his
dungeon
walls
the
lightnings
play
,
The
thunder
seems
to
summon
him
away
,
The
warder
at
the
door
his
key
applies
,
Shoots
back
the
bolt
,
and
all
his
courage
dies
:
If
then
,
just
then
,
all
thoughts
of
mercy
lost
,
When
Hope
,
long
ling'ring
,
at
last
yields
the
ghost
,
The
sound
of
pardon
pierce
his
startled
ear
,
He
drops
at
once
his
fetters
and
his
fear
,
A
transport
glows
in
all
he
looks
and
speaks
,
And
the
first
thankful
tears
bedew
his
cheeks
.
Joy
,
far
superior
joy
,
that
much
outweighs
The
comfort
of
a
few
poor
added
days
,
Invades
,
possesses
,
and
o'erwhelms
the
soul
Of
him
whom
hope
has
with
a
touch
made
whole
:
'Tis
heav'n
,
all
heav'n
descending
on
the
wings
Of
the
glad
legions
of
the
King
of
Kings
;
'Tis
more
—
'tis
God
diffus'd
through
ev'ry
part
,
'Tis
God
himself
triumphant
in
his
heart
.
Oh
welcome
now
,
the
sun's
once
hated
light
,
His
noon-day
beams
were
never
half
so
bright
,
Not
kindred
minds
alone
are
call'd
t'
employ
Their
hours
,
their
days
in
list'ning
to
his
joy
,
Unconscious
nature
,
all
that
he
surveys
,
Rocks
,
groves
and
streams
must
join
him
in
his
praise
.
These
are
thy
glorious
works
,
eternal
truth
,
The
scoff
of
wither'd
age
and
beardless
youth
,
These
move
the
censure
and
illib'ral
grin
Of
fools
that
hate
thee
and
delight
in
sin
:
But
these
shall
last
when
night
has
quench'd
the
pole
,
And
heav'n
is
all
departed
as
a
scroll
:
And
when
,
as
justice
has
long
since
decreed
,
This
earth
shall
blaze
,
and
a
new
world
succeed
,
Then
these
thy
glorious
works
,
and
they
that
share
That
Hope
which
can
alone
exclude
despair
,
Shall
live
exempt
from
weakness
and
decay
,
The
brightest
wonders
of
an
endless
day
.
Happy
the
bard
,
(
if
that
fair
name
belong
To
him
that
blends
no
fable
with
his
song
)
Whose
lines
uniting
,
by
an
honest
art
,
The
faithful
monitors
and
poets
part
,
Seek
to
delight
,
that
they
may
mend
mankind
,
And
while
they
captivate
,
inform
the
mind
.
Still
happier
,
if
he
till
a
thankful
soil
,
And
fruit
reward
his
honorable
toil
:
But
happier
far
who
comfort
those
that
wait
To
hear
plain
truth
at
Judah's
hallow'd
gate
;
Their
language
simple
as
their
manners
meek
,
No
shining
ornaments
have
they
to
seek
,
Nor
labour
they
,
nor
time
nor
talents
waste
In
sorting
flowers
to
suit
a
fickle
taste
;
But
while
they
speak
the
wisdom
of
the
skies
,
Which
art
can
only
darken
and
disguise
,
Th'
abundant
harvest
,
recompence
divine
,
Repays
their
work
—
the
gleaning
only
,
mine
.