Such was the portrait an apoftle drew, The bright original was one he knew, Heav'n held his hand, the likeness must be true. When one that holds communion with the fkies, Has filled his urn where thefe pure waters rife, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis ev'n as if an angel fhook his wings; Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide, That tells us whence his treasures are fupplied. So when a fhip well freighted with the stores The fun matures on India's fpicy fhores, Has dropt her anchor and her canvass furl'd, In fome fafe haven of our western world, 'Twere vain enquiry to what port she went, The gale informs us, laden with the scent.
Some feek, when queafy confcience has its qualms,.
To lull the painful malady with alms;
But charity not feign'd, intends alone
Another's good-theirs centres in their own :
And too fhort liv'd to reach the realms of peace,
Muft ceafe for ever when the poor fhall cease.
Flavia, most tender of her own good name,
Is rather careless of a fifter's fame,
Her fuperfluity the poor fupplies,
But if the touch a character, it dies.
The feeming virtue weigh'd against the vice,
She deems all fafe, for fhe has paid the price;
No charity but alms aught values the,
Except in porcelain on her mantle-tree.
How many deeds with which the world has rung,
From pride, in league with ignorance have sprung?
But God o'erules all human follies ftill,
And bends the tough materials to his will.
A conflagration or a wintry flood,
Has left fome hundreds without home or food,
Extravagance and av'rice fhall fubfcribe,
While fame and felf-complacence are the bribe.
'The brief proclaim'd, it vifits ev'ry pew,
But first the Squire's, a compliment but due:
With flow deliberation he unties
His glitt'ring purse, that envy of all eyes,
And while the clerk just puzzles out the pfalm,
Slides guinea behind guinea in his pal.n,
'Till finding what he might have found before,
A fmaller piece amidst the precious store,
Pinch'd close between his finger and his thumb,
He half exhibits, and then drops the fum;
Gold to be fure!-throughout the town 'tis told
How the good Squire gives never less than gold.
From motives fuch as his, though not the best,
Spring in due time fupply for the diftrefs'd,
Not lefs effectual than what love bestows,
Except that office clips it as it goes.
But left. I seem to fin against a friend,
And wound the grace I mean to recommend,
(Though vice derided with a just design
Implies no trefpafs against love divine)
Once more I would adopt the graver style,
A teacher should be sparing of his smile.
Unless a love of virtue light the flame,
Satyr is more than those he brands, to blame;
He hides behind a magifterial air
His own offences, and ftrips others bare;
Affects indeed a moft humane concern,
That men if gently tutor'd will not learn,
That mulifh folly not to be reclaim'd
By fofter methods, must be made afham'd,
But (I might inftance in St. Patrick's Dean)
Too often rails to gratify his fpleen.
Moft fatʼrifts are indeed a public fcourge,
Their mildest phyfic is a farrier's purge,
Their acrid temper turns, as foon as stirr'd,
The milk of their good purpose all to curd,
Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse,
By lean despair upon an empty purse;
The wild affaffins ftart into the street,
Prepar'd to poignard whomfoe'er they meet;
No skill in fwordsmanship, however just,
Can be fecure against a madman's thrust,
And even virtue fo unfairly match'd,
Although immortal, may be prick'd or scratch'd.
When scandal has new minted an old lie,
Or tax'd invention for a fresh supply,
'Tis called a fatyr, and the world appears
Gath'ring around it with erected ears;
A thousand names are tofs'd into the croud,
Some whisper'd foftly, and fome twang'd aloud,
Juft as the fapience of an author's brain,
Suggests it fafe or dang'rous to be plain.
Strange! how the frequent interjected dash,
Quickens a market and helps off the trash,
Th' important letters that include the rest,
Serve as a key to those that are fuppress'd,
Conjecture gripes the victims in his
The world is charm'd, and Scrib. escapes the law.
So when the cold damp fhades of night prevail,
Worms may be caught by either head or tail,
Forcibly drawn from many a close recefs,
They meet with little pity, no redress;
Plung'd in the stream they lodge upon the mud,
Food for the famifh'd rovers of the flood.
All zeal for a reform that gives offence
To peace and charity, is mere pretence:
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