TO Dr. SHERLOCK, ON HIS PRACTICAL DISCOURSE Concerning Death.

Forgive the Muse, who in unhallow'd Strains
 The Saint one Moment from his GOD detains:
 For sure, whate'er You do, where-e'er You are,
 'Tis all but one good Work, one constant Pray'r:
 Forgive Her; and intreat That GOD, to Whom
 Thy favour'd Vows with kind Acceptance come,
 To raise her Notes to that sublime Degree,
 Which suits a Song of Piety and Thee. 

Wond'rous good Man! whose Labours may repel
 The Force of Sin, may stop the Rage of Hell:
 Thou, like the Baptist, from thy GOD wast sent
 The crying Voice, to bid the World repent. 

Thee Youth shall study; and no more engage
 Their flatt'ring Wishes for uncertain Age;
 No more with fruitless Care, and cheated Strife
 Chace fleeting Pleasure thro' this Maze of Life;
 Finding the wretched All They here can have,
 But present Food, and but a future Grave:
 Each, great as Philip's Victor Son, shall view
 This abject World, and weeping, ask a New. 

Decrepit Age shall read Thee, and confess,
 Thy Labours can asswage, where Med'cines cease:
 Shall bless thy Words, their wounded Souls Relief,
 The Drops that sweeten their last Dregs of Life:
 Shall look to Heav'n, and laugh at all beneath;
 Own Riches gather'd, Trouble; Fame, a Breath;
 And Life an Ill, whose only Cure is Death. 

Thy even Thoughts with so much Plainness flow;
 Their Sense untutor'd Infancy may know:
 Yet to such height is all That Plainness wrought;
 Wit may admire, and letter'd Pride be taught:
 Easie in Words thy Style, in Sense sublime:
 On it's blest Steps each Age and Sex may rise:
 'Tis like the Ladder in the Patriarch's Dream,
 It's Foot on Earth, it's Height above the Skies. 
Diffus'd it's Virtue, boundless is it's Pow'r:
 'Tis Publick Health, and Universal Cure:
 Of Heav'nly Manna, 'tis a second Feast,
 A Nation's Food, and all to ev'ry Taste. 

To it's last Height mad Britain's Guilt was rear'd:
 And various Death for various Crimes She fear'd:
 With your kind Work her drooping Hopes revive:
 You bid Her read, repent, adore, and live:
 You wrest the Bolt from Heav'ns avenging Hand;
 Stop ready Death, and save a sinking Land. 

O! save Us still; still bless Us with thy Stay:
 O! want thy Heav'n, 'till We have learnt the Way:
 Refuse to leave thy destin'd Charge too soon:
 And for the Church's Good, defer thy own. 
O! live; and let thy Works urge our Belief;
 Live to explain thy Doctrine by thy Life;
 'Till future Infancy, baptiz'd by Thee,
 Grow ripe in Years, and old in Piety;
 'Till Christians, yet unborn, be taught to die. 

Then in full Age, and hoary Holiness
 Retire, great Teacher, to thy promis'd Bliss:
 Untouch'd thy Tomb, uninjur'd be thy Dust,
 As thy own Fame among the future Just;
 'Till in last Sounds the dreadful Trumpet speaks:
 'Till Judgment calls; and quick'ned Nature wakes:
 'Till thro' the utmost Earth, and deepest Sea
 Our scatter'd Atoms find their destin'd Way,
 In haste to cloath their Kindred Souls again;
 Perfect our State, and build immortal Man:
 Then fearless Thou, who well sustain'dst the Fight,
 To Paths of Joy, and Tracts of endless Light
 Lead up all those who heard Thee, and believ'd:
 'Midst thy own Flock, great Shepherd, be receiv'd;
 And glad all Heav'n with Millions Thou hast sav'd.