Say, on what hinge does his obedience move
Has he a world of gratitude and love?

No, not a spark-'tis all mere sharper's play;

He likes your house, your housemaid, and your

pay;

Reduce his wages, or get rid of her,

Tom quits you, with-Your most obedient, Sir.
The dinner serv'd, Charles takes his usual stand,
Watches your eye, anticipates command;
Sighs if perhaps your appetite should fail;
And if he but suspects a frown, turns pale;
Consults all day your int'rest and your ease,
Richly rewarded if he can but please;

And, proud to make his firm attachment known,
To save your life would nobly risk his own.

Now which stands highest in your serious thought?

Charles, without doubt, say you-and so he ought; One act, that from a thankful heart proceeds, Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds.

Thus Heav'n approves as honest and sincere The work of gen'rous love and filial fear; But with averted eyes th' omniscient Judge Scorns the base hireling, and the slavish drudge.

Where dwell these matchless saints?-old Curio

cries.

Ev'n at your side, Sir, and before your eyes,
The favour'd few-th' enthusiasts you despise.
And pleas'd at heart because on holy ground
Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found,
Reproach a people with his single fall,
And cast his filthy raiment at them all.
Attend!—an apt similitude shall show
Whence springs the conduct that offends you so.
See where it smokes along the sounding plain,
Blown all aslant, a driving dashing rain,

Peal upon peal redoubling all around,
Shakes it again and faster to the ground;
Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play,
Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away.
Ere yet it came the trav❜ller urg'd his steed,
And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed;
Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his case,
He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace.
Suppose, unlook'd for in a scene so rude,
Long hid by interposing hill or wood,
Some mansion, neat and elegantly dress'd,
By some kind hospitable heart possess'd,
Offer him warmth, security, and rest;

Think with what pleasure, safe and at his ease,
He hears the tempest howling in the trees;
What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ,
While danger past is turn'd to present joy.

So fares it with the sinner, when he feels
A growing dread of vengeance at his heels:
His conscience, like a glassy lake before,
Lash'd into foaming waves begins to roar;
The law grown clamorous, though silent long,
Arraigns him-charges him with ev'ry wrong—
Asserts the rights of his offended Lord,
And death or restitution is the word:
The last impossible, he fears the first,
And, having well deserv'd, expects the worst.
Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home;
Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come!
Crush me ye rocks; ye falling mountains hide,
Or bury me in ocean's angry tide.-
The scrutiny of those all-seeing eyes

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

The book shall teach you-read, believe, and live! "Tis done-the raging storm 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 soul redeem'd demands a life of praise;
Hence the complexion of his future days,
Hence a demeanour holy and unspeck'd,
And the world's hatred, as it's sure effect.
Some lead a life unblamable and just,
Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust:
They never sin-or if (as all offend)

Some trivial slips their daily walk attend,
The poor are near at hand, the charge is small,
A slight gratuity atones for all.

For though the pope has lost his int'rest here,
And pardons are not sold as once they were,
No papist more desirous to compound,
Than some grave sinners upon English ground.
That plea refuted, other quirks they seek
Mercy is infinite, and man is weak;

The future shall obliterate the past,

And Heav'n no doubt shall be their home at last.
Come then-a still, small whisper 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 bliss abounds with many a snare; Learning is one, and wit, however rare.

The Frenchman, first in literary fame,

(Mention him if you please.

same.)

Voltaire?-The

With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied,

Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and died;
The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew
Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew;
An infidel in health, but what when sick?
Oh-then a text would touch him at the quick:
View him at Paris in his last career,
Surrounding throngs the demigod revere,
Exalted on his pedestal of pride,

And fum'd with frankincense on ev'ry side,
He begs their flatt'ry with his latest breath,
And smother'd in't at last, is prais'd to death.

Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store;
Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;