And, when accomplish'd in her wayward school,
Calls gentleman whom she has made a fool.
'Tis an unalterable fix'd decree,
That none could frame or ratify but she,
That Heaven and Hell, and righteousness and sin,
Snares in his path, and foes that lurk within,
God and his attributes (a field of day
Where 'tis an angel's happiness to stray,)
Fruits of his love and wonders of his might,
Be never named in ears esteem'd polite.
That he who dares, when she forbids, be grave,
Shall stand proscribed, a madman or a knave,
A close designer not to be believed,
Or, if excused that charge, at least deceived.
Oh folly worthy of the nurse's lap,
Give it the breast, or stop its mouth with pap!
Is it incredible, or can it seem
A dream to any, except those that dream,
That man should love his Maker, and that fire,
Warming his heart, should at his lips transpire?
Know then, and modestly let fall your eyes,
And veil your daring crest that braves the skies;
That air of insolence affronts your God,
You need his pardon, and provoke his rod :
Now in a posture that becomes you more
Than that heroic strut assumed before,
Know your arrears with every hour accrue
For mercy shown, while wrath is justly due.
The time is short, and there are souls on Earth,
Though future pain may serve for present mirth,
Acquainted with the woes, that fear or shame,
By Fashion taught, forbade them once to name,
And, having felt the pangs you deem a jest,
Have proved them truths too big to be express'd.
Go seek on revelation's hallow'd ground,
Sure to sueceed, the remedy they found;
Touch'd by that power that you have dared to mock,
That makes seas stable, and dissolves the rock,
Your heart shall yield a life-renewing stream,
That fools, as you have done, shall call a dream.

It happen'd on a solemn eventide, Soon after He that was our Surety died, Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined, The scene of all those sorrows left behind, Sought their own village, busied as they went In musings worthy of the great event: They spake of him they loved, of him whose life, Though blameless, had incurr'd perpetual strife, Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts, A deep memorial graven on their hearts. The recollection, like a vein of ore, The farther traced, enrich'd them still the more; They thought him, and they justly thought him, one Seat to do more than he appear’d to have done; To exalt a people, and to place them high Above all else, and wonder'd he should die. Ere yet they brought their journey to an end, A stranger join'd them, courteous as a friend, And ask'd them, with a kind, engaging air, What their affliction was, and begg'd a share. Inform’d, he gather'd up the broken thread, And, truth and wisdom gracing all he said Explain'd, illustrated, and search'd so well The tender theme, on which they chose to dwell, That reaching home, The night, they said, is néar, We must not now be parted, sojourn hereThe new acquaintance soon became a guest, And, made so welcome at their simple feast, He bless'd the bread, but vanish'd at the word, And left them both exclaiming, 'Twas the Lord ! Did not our hearts feel all he deign'd to say, Did they not burn within us by the way?

Now theirs was converse, such as it behoves Man to maintain, and such as God approves: Their views indeed were indistinct and dim, But yet successful, being aim'd at him. Christ and his character their only scope, Their object, and their subject, and their hope, They felt what it became them much to feel, And, wanting him to loose the sacred seal,

Found him as prompt, as their desire was true,
To spread the newborn glories in their view.
Well-what are ages and the lapse of time
Match'd agaiost truths, as lasting as sublime ?
Can length of years on God himself exact?
Or make that fiction, which was once a fact?
Nar marble and recording brass decay,
And like the graver's memory pass away ;
The works of man inherit, as is just,
Their author's frailty, and return to dust:
But truth divine for ever stands secure,
Its head is guarded, as its base is sure;
Fix'd in the rolling flood of endless years,
The pillar of the eternal plan appears,
The raving storm and dashing wave defies,
Built by that architect, who built the skies.
Ilearts may be found, that harbour at this hour
That love of Christ, and all its quickening power,
And lips vastain'd by folly or by strife,
Whose wisdom, drawn from the deep well of life,
Tastes of its healthful origin, and flows
A Jordan for the ablution of our woes.
O days of Heaven, and vights of equal praise,
Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days,
When souls drawn upwards in communion sweet,
Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat,
Discourse, as if released and safe at home,
Of dangers pass'd, and wonders yet to come,
And spread the sacred treasures of the breast
Upon the lap of covenanted Rest.

What, always dreaming aver heavenly things,
Like angel-heads in stone with pigeon-wings?
Canting and whiping out all day the word,
And half the night? fanatic and absurd !
Mine be the friend less frequent in his prayers,
Who makes no bustle with his soul's affairs,
Whose wit can brighten up a wintry day,
And chase the splenetic dull hours away;
Content on Earth in earthly things to shine,
Who waits for Heaven ere he becomes divine,

Leaves saints to enjoy those altitudes they teach, And plucks the fruit placed more within his reach.

Well spoken, Advocate of sin and shame, Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name. Is sparkling wit the World's exclusive right? The fix'd fee-simple of the vain and light? Can hopes of Heaven, bright prospects of an hour, That come to waft us out of Sorrow's power, Obscure or quench a faculty, that finds Its happiest soil in the serenest minds? Religion curbs indeed its wanton play, And brings the trifler under rigorous sway, But gives it usefulness unknown before, And, purifying, makes it shine the more. A Christian's wit is inoffensive light, A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight; Vigorous in age as in the Aush of youth, 'Tis always active on the side of truth; Temperance and peace insure its healthful state, And make it brightest at its latest date. Oh I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain, Ere life go down, to see such sights again) A veteran warrior in the Christian field, Who never saw the sword he could not wield; Grave without dulness, learned without pride, Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-eyed; A man that would ha foil'd at their own play A dozen would-be's of the modern day; Who, when occasion justified its use, Had wit as bright as ready to produce, Could fetch from records of an earlier age, Or from philosophy's enlighten'd page, His rich materials, and regale your ear With strains it was a privilege to hear : Yet above all his luxury supreme, And his chief glory, was the Gospel theme; There he was copious as old Greece or Rome, His happy eloquence seem'd there at home, Ambitious not to shine or to excel, But to treat justly what he loved so well.

It moves me more perhaps than folly ought, When some green heads, as void of wit as thought, Suppose themselves monopolists of sense, And wiser men's ability pretence. Though time will wear us, and we must grow old, Such men are not forgot as soon as cold, Their fragrant memory will outlast their tomb, Embalm'd for ever in its own perfume. And to say truth, though in its early prime, And when unstain'd with any grosser crime, Youth has a sprightliness and fire to boast, That in the valley of decline are lost, And Virtue with peculiar charms appears, Crown'd with the garland of life's blooming years; Yet Age, by long experience well inform’d, Well read, well temper'd, with religion warın'd, That fire abated, which impels rash Youth, Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth, As time improves the grape's authentic juice, Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use, And claims a reverence in its shortening day, That 'tis an honour and a joy to pay. The fruits of Age, less fair, are yet more sound, Than those a brighter season pours around; And, like the stores autumnal sun3 mature, Through wintry rigours unimpair'd endure,

What is fanatic frenzy, scorn'd so much, And dreaded more than a contagious touch? I grant it dangerous, and approve your fear, That fire is catching if you draw too near; But sage observers oft mistake the flame, And give true piety that odious name. To tremble (as the creature of an hour Ought at the view of an almighty power) Before his presence, at whose awful throne All tremble in all worlds, except our own, To supplicate his merey, love his ways, And prize them above pleasure, wealth, or praise, Though common sense, allow'd a casting voice, And free from bias, must approve the choice,