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The full-gorged favage at his naufeous feast,

Spent half the darkness, and fnor'd out the rest,

Was one, whom juftice on an equal plan,

Denouncing death

upon

the fins 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 fufpicions there:

The wretch who once fang wildly, danc'd and laugh'd, And fuck'd in dizzy madness with his draught,

Has wept a filent flood, revers'd his ways,

Is fober, meek, benevolent, and prays;
Feeds fparingly, communicates his store,
Abhors the craft he boasted of before,

And he that ftole has learn'd to steal no more.

Well fpake the prophet, let the defart fing,

Where fprang the thorn, the spiry fir thall spring,

And where unfightly 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 felf-exalting claims be turn'd adrift,
And grace be grace indeed, and life a gift;
The poor reclaim'd inhabitant, his eyes
Glift'ning at once with pity and furprise,
Amaz'd that shadows fhould obfcure the fight,
Of one whose birth was in a land of light,

Shall anfwer, Hope, fweet Hope, has fet me free,
And made all pleasures elfe, mere drofs to me.
Thefe, amidst fcenes as wafte as if denied
The common care that waits on all befide,
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 fee his love, though fecret evil lurks
In all we touch, ftamp'd plainly on his works;
Deem life a bleffing with its num❜rous woes,
Nor fpurn away a gift a God beftows.

Hard task indeed, o'er arctic feas to roam!

Is hope exotic? grows it not at home?

Yes,

Yes, but an object bright as orient morn,
May prefs the eye too closely to be borne,
A diftant virtue we can all confefs,

It hurts our pride and moves our envy lefs.
Leuconomus (beneath well-founding Greek
I flur a name a poet muft not speak)
Stood pilloried on infamy's high stage,
And bore the pelting fcorn of half an age,

The

very butt of flander, and the blot

For ev'ry dart that malice ever fhot.

The man that mentioned him, at once dismiss'd
All mercy from his lips, and fneer'd and hifs'd;
His crimes were fuch as Sodom never knew,
And perjury stood up to swear all true;
His aim was mifchief, and his zeal pretence,
His fpeech rebellion against common fenfe;
A knave when tried on honesty's plain rule,
And when by that of reafon, a mere fool;
The world's best comfort was, his doom was pafs'd,
Die when he might, he must be damn'd at last.

Now

Now truth perform thine office, waft afide
The curtain drawn by prejudice and pride,
Reveal (the man is dead) to wond'ring eyes,
This more than monster in his proper guife.

He lov'd the world that hated him: the tear
That dropped upon his Bible was fincere:
Affail'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 intereft in his heart.

Paul's love of Christ, and steadiness unbrib'd,
Were copied close in him, and well transcribed;
He followed Paul: his zeal a kindred flame,
His apoftolic charity the fame,

Like him, crofs'd chearfully tempeftuous feas,
Forfaking country, kindred, friends, and ease;
Like him he labour'd, and like him, content
To bear it, fuffer'd shame where'er he went.

Blush calumny! and write upon his tomb,

If honeft eulogy can fpare thee room,

Thy

Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies,

Which aim'd at him, have pierc'd th' offended skies,
And fay, blot out my fin, confefs'd, deplor'd,

Against thine image in thy faint, oh Lord!

No blinder bigot, I maintain it ftill,

Than he who must have pleasure, come what will:
He laughs, whatever weapon truth may draw,
And deems her sharp artillery mere ftraw.
Scripture indeed is plain, but God and he,
On fcripture-ground, are fure to disagree;
Some wifer rule muft teach him how to live,
Than this his Maker has feen fit to give;
Supple and flexible as Indian cane,

To take the bend his appetites ordain;
Contriv'd to fuit frail nature's crazy case,
And reconcile his lufts with faving grace.
By this, with nice precifion of defign,
He draws upon life's map, a zig-zag line,
That fhows how far 'tis fafe to follow fin,
And where his danger and God's wrath begin:

By

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