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Crush me ye rocks, ye falling mountains hide,
Or bury me in ocean's angry tide-

The fcrutiny of thofe all-feeing eyes

I dare not-and you need not, God replies;
The remedy you want I freely give,

The book fhall teach you, read, believe and live: 'Tis done-the raging ftorm 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 foul redeem'd demands a life of praise,
Hence the complexion of his future days,
Hence a demeanor holy and unfpeck'd,
And the world's hatred as its fure effect.

Some lead a life unblameable and just,
Their own dear virtue, their unshaken trust.
They never fin-or if (as all offend)

Some trivial flips their daily walk attend,

The

poor are near at hand, the charge is fmall,

A flight gratuity atones for all.

For though the Pope has loft his int'reft here,

And pardons' are not fold as once they were,

No Papist more defirous to compound,

Than fome

grave finners upon English ground

That plea refuted, other quirks they seek,
Mercy is infinite, and man is weak,

The future fhall obliterate the past,

And heav'n no doubt fhall be their home at last.
Come then-a ftill, fmall whifper in your ear,
He has no hope who never had a fear;
And he that never doubted of his state,
He may perhaps—perhaps he may—too late.
The path to blifs abounds with many a fnare,
Learning is one, and wit, however rare :

The Frenchman, firft in literary fame,

(Mention him if you pleafe-Voltaire? the fame) With fpirit, genius, eloquence fupplied,

Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily and died; The fcripture was his jeft-book, whence he drew

Bon mots to gall the Chriftian and the Jew:

An

An infidel in health, but what when fick?

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 fide,
He begs their flatt'ry with his latest breath,
And smother'd in't at laft, 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,
Juft earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down fecure, 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 fuch,
Toilfome and indigent) the renders much ;
Juft knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,

A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;

And

And in that charter reads with fparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the fkies.

Oh happy peasant! Oh unhappy bard!
His the mere tinfel, her's the rich reward;
He prais'd perhaps for ages yet to come,
She never heard of half a mile from home;
He loft in errors his vain heart prefers,
She fafe in the fimplicity of hers.

Not many wife, rich, noble, or profound··

In fcience, win one inch of heav'nly ground:
And is it not a mortifying thought

The poor fhould gain it, and the rich fhould not?

No-the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget

One pleasure loft, lofe 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 fuppofition is replete with fin,

And bears the brand of blafphemy burnt in.

Not

Not fo-the filver trumpet's heavenly call,

Sounds for the poor, but founds alike for all;
Kings are invited, and would king's obey,

No flaves on earth more welcome were than they :
But royalty, nobility, and state,

Are fuch a dead preponderating weight,

That endless blifs (how ftrange foe'er it seem)
In counterpoife, 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 difpute
And cavil at with eafe, but none refute.
Oh blefs'd effect of penury and want,
The feed fown there, how vigorous is the plant!
No foil like poverty for growth divine,
As leaneft land fupplies the richeft wine.
Earth gives too little, giving only bread,
To nourish pride or turn the weakest head:
To them the founding jargon of the fchools,
Seems what it is, a cap and bells for fools:

The

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