All zeal for a reform, that gives offence
Το 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 fought 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 ftroke wit flashes in our eyes;
The turns are quick, the polifh'd points furprife,
But fhine with cruel and tremendous charms,
That, while they please, poffefs us with alarms:
So have I feen, (and haften'd to the fight
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, fwords, and piftols, great and small,
In ftarry forms difpos'd upon the wall.
We wonder, as we gazing stand below,
That brafs and fteel fhould make fo fine a fhow;
But, though we praise th' exact designer's skill,
Account them implements of mischief still.
No works fhall find acceptance, in that day When all disguifes fhall be rent away, That fquare not truly with the fcripture plan, Nor fpring from love to God, or love to man. As he ordains things, fordid in their birth, To be refolv'd into their parent earth; And, though the foul fhall feek fuperior orbs, Whate'er this world produces, it absorbs; So felf ftarts nothing but what tends apace Home to the goal where it began the race. Such as our motive is our aim muft be; If this be fervile, that can ne'er be free: If felf employ us, whatfo'er is wrought, We glorify that felf, not him we ought. Such virtues had peed 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 its unfading green;
Exub'rant is the fhadow it fupplies;
Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies. To look at him, who form'd us and redeem'd; So glorious now, though once fo difesteem'd;
To fee a God ftretch forth his human hand,
T' uphold the boundless scenes of his command; To recollect that, in a form like our's,
He bruis'd beneath his feet th' infernal pow'rs,
Captivity led captive, rofe to claim
The wreath he won fo dearly in our name;
That, thron'd above all height, he condescends
To call the few that truft in him his friends;
That, in the heav'n of heav'ns, that space he deems
Too fcanty for th' exertion of his beams,
And fhines, as if impatient to bestow
Life and a kingdom upon worms below;
That fight imparts a never-dying flame,
Though feeble in degree, in kind the fame.
Like him, the foul, thus kindled from above,
Spreads wide her arms of univerfal love;
And, ftill enlarg'd as the receives the grace,
Includes creation in her clofe embrace.
Behold a Chriftian!—and, without the fires
The founder of that name alone infpires,
Though all accomplishment, all knowledge meet,
To make the fhining prodigy complete,
Whoever boafts that name-behold a cheat!
Were love, in thefe the world's laft doting years,
As frequent as the want of it appears,
The churches warm'd, they would no longer hold
Such frozen figures, ftiff as they are cold;
Relenting forms would lose their pow'r, or cease;
And ev'n the dipt and sprinkled live in peace:
Each heart would quit its prison in the breast,
And flow in free communion with the reft.
The statesman, fkill'd in projects dark and deep,
Might burn his ufelefs Machiavel, and fleep;
His budget, often fill'd, yet always poor,
Might fwing at eafe behind his ftudy door,
No longer prey upon our annual rents,
Or scare the nation with its big contents:
Disbanded legions freely might depart,
And flaying man would cease to be an art.
No learned difputants would take the field,
Sure not to conquer, and fure not to yield;
Both fides deceiv'd, if rightly understood,
Pelting each other for the public good.
Did charity prevail, the prefs would prove
A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love;
And I might spare myself the pains to show
What few can learn, and all fuppofe they know.
Thus have I fought to grace a ferious lay
With many a wild, indeed, but flow'ry spray,
In hopes to gain, what else I must have loft,
Th' attention pleasure has so much engross'd.
But if, unhappily deceiv'd, I dream,
And prove too weak for fo divine a theme,
Let Charity forgive me a mistake
That zeal, not vanity, has chanc'd to make,
And spare the poet for his fubject's fake.
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