Ere yet it came the traveller urg'd his steed,
And hurried, but with unfuccefsful fpeed,
Now drench'd throughout, and hopclefs of his
cafe,

He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace;
Suppofe, unlook'd for in a fcene fo rude,
Long hid by interpofing hill or wood,
Some mansion, neat and elegantly drefs'd,
By fome kind hofpitable heart poffefs'd,
Offer him warmth, security and rest;
Think with what pleasure, fafe and at his ease,
He hears the tempeft howling in the trees,
What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ,
While danger paft is turn'd to present joy.
So fares it with the finner when he feels,
A growing dread of vengeance at his heels,
His conscience, like a glaffy lake before,
Lafh'd into foaming waves begins to roar,
The law grown clamorous, though filent long,
Arraigns him, charges him with every wrong,
Afferts the rights of his offended Lord,
And death or reftitution is the word;
The laft impoffible, he fears the first,
And having well deferv'd, expects the worst.
Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home,
Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come!

Crush

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

The fcrutiny of thoie all-feeling 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 unspeck'd,
And the world's hatred as its fure effect.
Some lead a life unblameable and juft,
Their own dear virtue, their unfhaken truft.
They never fin-or if (as all offend)

Some trivial flips their daily walk attend,
The poor is 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

The future fhall obliterate the paft,

And heav'n no doubt fhall be their home at laft. Come then-a ftill, fmall whifper in your car, 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, first in literary fame,
(Mention him if you please-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 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 frankincenfe 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 cheerful, if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the live-long day,

Juft

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) fhe renders much;
Juft knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew ;
And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treafure in the skies.

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

The fuppofition is replete with fin,
And bears the brand of blafphemy burnt in
Not fo-the filver trumpet's heavenly call,
Sounds for the poor, but founds alike for all;
Kings are invited, and would kings obey,

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

Are fuch a dead preponderating weight,
That endless bliss (how strange 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 fays much that many may dispute
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 richest 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 bel's for fools:
The light they walk by, kindled from above,
Shews them the shortest way to life and love:
They, ftrangers to the controverfial field,

Where deifts always foil'd, yet fcorn to yield,
VOL. I.

E

And