How many deeds, with which the world has rung, And bends the tough materials to his will. Has left some hundreds without home or food; His glitt'ring purse, that envy of all eyes, Till finding, what he might have found before, But lest I seem to sin against a friend, And wound the grace I mean to recommend, His own offences, and strips others bare; No skill in swordmanship, however just, Although immortal, may be prick'd or scratch'd. A thousand names are toss'd into the crowd; Plung'd in the stream they lodge upon the mud, All zeal for a reform, that gives offence To peace and charity, is mere pretence: A bold remark, but which, if well applied, Would humble many a tow'ring poet's pride. Perhaps the man was in a sportive fit, And had no other play-place for his wit; Perhaps enchanted with the love of fame, He sought the jewel in his neighbour's shame; Perhaps whatever end he might pursue, The cause of virtue could not be his view. At ev'ry stroke wit flashes in our eyes; The turns are quick, the polish'd points surprise, But shine with cruel and tremendous charms, That, while they please, possess us with alarms: So have I seen, (and hasten'd to the sight On all the wings of holiday delight) Where stands that monument of ancient pow'r, Nam'd with emphatic dignity, the Tow'r, Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and small, In starry forms dispos'd upon the wall; We wonder, as we gazing stand below, That brass and steel should make so fine a show; But though we praise th' exact designer's skill, Account them implements of mischief still. No works shall find acceptance in that day, When all disguises shall be rent away, That square not truly with the Scripture plan, Nor spring from love to God, or love to man. As he ordains things sordid in their birth To be resolv'd into their parent earth; And, though the soul shall seek superior orbs, Whate'er this world produces, it absorbs; So self starts nothing, but what tends apace Home to the goal, where it began the race. Such as our motive is, our aim must be; If this be servile, that can ne'er be free: If self employ us, whatsoe'er is wrought, We glorify that self, not him we ought; Such virtues had need prove their own reward, The judge of all men owes them no regard. True Charity, a plant divinely nurs'd, Fed by the love, from which it rose at first, Thrives against hope, and in the rudest scene, Storms but enliven it's unfading green; Exub'rant is the shadow it supplies, It's fruit on earth, it's growth above the skies. To look at Him, who form'd us and redeem'd; So glorious now, though once so disesteem'd, |