From the Merchant of Venice.
Por. Tit droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven HE quality of Mercy is not ftrain'd;
Upon the place beneath: It is twice blefs'd;
It bleffeth him that gives, and him that takes :
'Tis mightiest in the mightieft; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown :
His fceptre fhews the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth fit the dread and fear of kings;
But Mercy is above this fceptred sway,
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then fhew likeft God's,
When Mercy seasons juftice: Therefore, Jew,
Though juftice be thy plea, confider this-
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should fee falvation: We do pray for Mercy;
And that fame prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of Mercy.-
UT all our praifes why fhould lords engross? Rife, honeft Mufe! and fing the Man of Rofs: Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarfe applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns, tofs'd,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft;
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the fwain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with fhady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose?
Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise?
"The Man of Rofs," each lifping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erfpread!
The Man of Rofs divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state,
Where Age and Want fit smiling at the gate;
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans, bleft,
The young who labour, and the old who reft.
Is any fick? the Man of Rofs relieves,
Prefcribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives.
Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Baulk'd are the courts, and conteft is no more.
Defpairing quacks with curfes fled the place,
And vile attornies, now an useless race.
Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all fo wifh, but want the power to do!
Oh fay what fums that gen'rous hand supply?
What mines to fwell that boundless charity?
Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man poffefs'd-five hundred pounds a year. Blush, Grandeur, blufh! proud Courts, withdraw your blaze!
Ye little Stars, hide your diminish'd rays!
And what! no monument, infcription, ftone!
His race, his form, his name almost unknown!
Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame,
Will never mark the marble with his name:
Go, search it there, where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor, makes all the history;
Enough that virtue fill'd the fpace between;
Prov'd, by the ends of being, to have been.
On the Being of a God.
The world fhut out;
thoughts call home;
Imagination's airy wing repress;
Lock up thy fenfes ;-Let no paffion ftir;-
Wake all to Reafon-Let her reign alone ;-
Then, in thy foul's deep filence, and the depth
Of Nature's filence, midnight, thus enquire,
As I have done.-
What am I? and from whence ?-I nothing know, But that I am; and, fince I am, conclude
Something eternal; had there e'er been nought,
Nought ftill had been: Eternal there must be.-
But what eternal?-Why not human race?
And Adam's ancestors without an end?—
That's hard to be conceiv'd; fince every link
Of that long-chain'd fucceffion is fo frail;
Can ev'ry part depend, and not the whole?
Yet grant it true; new difficulties rife ;
I'm ftill quite out at fea; nor fee the fhore.
Whence earth, and these bright orbs?-Eternal too?
Grant matter was eternal; ftill these orbs
Would want fome other father:-Much defign
Is feen in all their motions, all their makes;
Design implies intelligence, and art:
That can't be from themselves
or man; that art
Man scarce can comprehend, could man beftow?
And nothing greater, yet allow'd, than man.-
Who motion, foreign to the fmallest grain,
Shot thro' vaft maffes of enormous weight!
Who bid brute matter's reftive lump affume
Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly?
Has matter innate motion? Then each atom,
Afferting its indisputable right
To dance, would form an universe of duft:
Has matter none? Then whence thefe glorious forms, And boundless flights, from fhapeless and repos'd?
Has matter more than motion? Has it thought,
Judgment, and genius? Is it deeply learn'd
In mathematics! Has it fram'd fuch laws,
Which, but to guefs, a Newton made immortal?
If art, to form; and counfel, to conduct;
And that with greater far than human skill,
Refides not in each block;-a GODHEAD reigns:
And, if a GOD there is, that GOD how great!
The Country Clergyman.
EAR yonder copfe, where once the garden fmil'd,
And still where many a garden flower grows
wild;
There, where a few torn fhrubs the place difclofe,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was, to all the country dear,
And paffing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly, race,
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wifh'd to change his place;
Unpractis'd he to fawn, or feek for power,
By doctrines, fafhion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize;
More fkill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.
His houfe was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their, wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain,
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard defcending fwept his aged breaft;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claim allow'd;
The broken foldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of forrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guefts, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings lean'd to Virtue's fide;
But in his duty prompt, at every call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd, and felt for all.
And as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies;
He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Befide the bed where parting life was laid,
And forrow, guilt, and pain, by turns difmay'd,
The reverend champion ftood. At his controul,
Defpair and anguish fled the struggling foul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his laft faultering accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double fway,
And fools, who came to fcoff, remain'd to pray.
The service paft, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown to fhare the good man's fmile.
His ready fmile a parent's warmth exprest,
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares diftreft;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had reft in Heaven.
As fome tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are fpread, Eternal funshine settles on its head.
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