Take, if ye can, ye careless and supine!
Counsel and caution from a voice like mine;
Truths that the theorift could never reach,
And obfervation taught me, I would teach.
Not all whofe eloquence the fancy fills,
Mufical as the chime of tinkling rills,
Weak to perform, though mighty to pretend,
Can trace her mazy windings to their end;
Difcern the fraud beneath the fpecious lure,
Prevent the danger, or prefcribe the cure.
The clear harangue, and cold as it is clear,
Falls foporific on the liftlefs ear;
Like quickfilver, the rhet'ric they display,
Shines as it runs, but grafp'd at, flips away.
Plac'd for his trial on this bustling stage,
From thoughtless youth to ruminating age,
Free in his will to chufe or to refuse,
Man may improve the crifis, or abuse;
Elfe, on the fatalifts unrighteous plan,
Say, to what bar amenable were man?
With nought in charge, he could betray no trust,
And if he fell, would fall because he must;
If love reward him, or if vengeance strike,
His recompence in both, unjust alike.
Divine authority within his breast
Brings every thought, word, action, to the teft,
Warns him or prompts, approves him or restrains,
As reafon, or as paffion, takes the reins.
Heav'n from above, and confcience from within,
Cries in his startled ear, abstain from sin,
The world around folicits his defire,
And kindles in his foul a treach'rous fire,
While all his purposes and steps to guard,
Peace follows virtue as its fure reward
And pleasure brings as furely in her train,
Remorfe and forrow and vindictive pain.
Man thus endued with an elective voice,
Must be supplied with objects of his choice.
Where'er he turns, enjoyment and delight,
Or prefent, or in prospect, meet his fight;
These open on the spot their honey'd ftore,
Those call him loudly to purfuit of more.
His unexhaufted mine, the fordid vice
Avarice fhows, and virtue is the price.
Here, various motives his ambition raise,
Pow'r, pomp, and fplendor, and the thirst of praise;
There beauty wooes him with expanded arms,
E'en Bacchanalian madness has its charms.
Nor these alone, whofe pleasures lefs refin'd,
Might well alarm the most unguarded mind,
Seek to fupplant his unexperienc'd youth,
Or lead him devious from the path of truth;
Hourly allurements on his paffions prefs
Safe in themfelves, but dang'rous in th' excess.
Hark! how it floats upon the dewy air,
O what a dying, dying clofe was there!
'Tis harmony from yon fequefler'd bow'r,
Sweet harmony that foothes the midnight hour;
Long ere the charioteer of day had run
His morning course, the enchantment was begun,
And he fhall gild yon mountains height again,
Ere yet the pleafing toil becomes a pain.
Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent
That virtue points to? Can a life thus spent
Lead to the blifs fhe promises the wife,
Detach the foul from earth, and speed her to the fkies? Ye devotees to your ador'd employ,
Enthufiafts, drunk with an unreal joy,
Love makes the mufic of the bleft above,
Heav'ns harmony is univerfal love;
And earthly founds, though fweet and well combin'd,
And lenient as foft opiates to the mind,
Leave vice and folly unfubdu'd behind.
Grey dawn appears, the fportfman and his train
Speckle the bofom of the diftant plain,
'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighb'ring lairs,
Save that his fcent is lefs acute than their's;
For perfevering chace, and headlong leaps,
True beagle as the staunchest hound he keeps,
Charg'd with the folly of his life's mad scene,
He takes offence, and wonders what you mean;
The joy, the danger and the toil o'erpays,
'Tis exercife, and health and length of days;
Again impetuous to the field he flies,
Leaps ev'ry fence but one, there falls and dies
Like a flain deer, the tumbrel brings him home,
Unmifs'd but by his dogs and by his groom.
Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place,
Lights of the world, and ftars of human race;
But if eccentric ye forfake your sphere,
Prodigies, ominous, and view'd with fear;
The comet's baneful influence is a dream,
Your's real and pernicious in th' extreme.
What then-are appetites and lufts laid down,
With the fame eafe that man puts on his gown ?
Will av'rice and concupifcence give place,
Charm'd by the founds, your rev'rence or your grace?
No. But his own engagement binds him fast,
Or if it does not, brands him to the last
What atheists call him, a defigning knave,
A mere church juggler, hypocrite and flave.
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