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And throw down turnpikes, where we pay
For stuff, which never mends the way ;
And tythes, a Jewish tax, reduce,
And frank the gospel for our use.
They fable standing armies break;
But the militia useful make :
Since all unhir'd may preach and pray,
Taught by these rules as well as they ;
Rules, which, when truths themselves reveal,
Bid us to follow what we feel.
The world can't hear the small still voice,
Such is its bustle and its noise;
Reafon the proclamation reads,
But not one riot passion heeds.
Wealth, honour, power the graces are,
Which here below our homage share:
They, if one votary they find
To mistress more divine inclin'd,
In truth's pursuit to cause delay
Throw golden apples in his way.
Place me, O heav’n, in some retreat,
There let the serious death-watch beat,
There let me self in silence shun,
To feel thy will, which should be done.
Then comes the Spirit to our hut,
When fast the senses' doors are shut;
For fo divine and pure a guest
The emptiest rooms are furnish'd best.
O Contemplation ! air serene
From damps of sense, and fogs of spleen!
Pure mount of thought! thrice holy ground,
Where grace, when waited for, is found.
Here 'tis the soul feels sudden youth,
And meets exulting, virgin Truth ;
Here, like a breeze of gentlest kind,
Impulses rustle through the mind;
Here shines that light with glowing face,
The fuse divine, that kindles grace;
Which, if we trim our lamps, will last,
'Till darkness be by dying past,
And then goes out at end of night,
Extinguish'd by superior light.
Ah me! the heats and colds of life,
Pleasure's and pain's eternal strife,
Breed stormy passions, which confind,
Shake, like th’ Æolian cave, the mind,
And raise despair ; my lamp can last,
Plac'd where they drive the furious blast.
False eloquence, big empty sound,
Like showers, that rush upon the ground,
Little beneath the surface goes,
All streams along and muddy flows.
This sinks, and swells the buried grain,
And fructifies like southern rain.
His art, well hid in mild discourse,
Exerts persuasion's winning force,
And nervates so the good design, -
That king Agrippa's case is mine.
Well-natur’d, happy shade, forgive !
Like you I think, but cannot live.
Thy scheme requires the world's contempt,
That, from dependence life exempt;
And constitution fram’d so strong,
This world's worst climate cannot wrong.
Not such my lot, not Fortune's brat,
I live by pulling off the hat ;
Compell’d by station every hour
To bow to images of power ;
And, in life's busy scenes immers’d,
See better things, and do the worst.
Eloquent Want, whose reasons sway,
And make ten thousand truths give way,
While I your scheme with pleasure trace,
Draws near, and stares me in the face.
Consider well your state, she cries,
Like others kneel, that you may rise ;
Hold doctrines, by no scruples vex’d,
To which preferment is annex’d,
Nor madly prove, where all depends,
Idolatry upon your friends.
See, how you like my rueful face,
Such you must wear, if out of place.
Crack'd is your brain to turn recluse
Without one farthing out at use.
They, who have lands, and safe bank-stock,
With faith so founded on a rock,
May give a rich invention ease,
And construe scripture how they please.
The honour'd prophet, that of old
Usd heav’n’s high counsels to unfold,
Did, more than courier angels, greet
The crows, that brought him bread and meat.
A PO E M,
Has quoniam cæli nondum dignamur honore,
Quas dedimus certè terras habitare finamus.
N OW had th' archangel trumpet, rais’d sublime
Above the walls of heav'n, begun to sound; All æther took the blast, and hell beneath Shook with celestial noise; th' almighty hoft Hot with pursuit, and reeking with the blood Of guilty cherubs smeard in sulphurous duft, Pause at the known command of sounding gold. At first they close the wide Tartarian gates, Th’impenetrable folds on brazen hinge Roll creaking horrible ; the din beneath