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Or if some stripes from Providence we feel,
He strikes with pity, and but wounds to heal;
Kindly perhaps sometimes afflicts us here,
To guide our views to a sublimer sphere,
In more exalted joys to fix our taste,

And wean us from delights that cannot last.
Our present good the easy task is made,
To earn superior bliss, when this shall fade;
For, soon as e'er these mortal pleasures cloy,
His hand shall lead us to sublimer joy;
Snatch us from all our little sorrows here,
Calm every grief, and dry each childish tear ;
Waft us to regions of eternal peace,

Where bliss and virtue grow with like increase; From strength to strength our souls for ever guide, Through wond'rous scenes of being yet untry'd, Where in each stage we shall more perfect grow, And new perfections, new delights bestow.

Oh! would mankind but make these truths their guide,

And force the helm from prejudice and pride,
Were once these maxims fix'd, that God's our friend,
Virtue our good, and happiness our end,

How soon must reason o'er the world prevail,
And error, fraud, and superstition fail!

None would hereafter then with groundless fear Describe th' Almighty cruel and severe,

Predestinating some without pretence

To heav'n, and some to hell for no offence;
Inflicting endless pains for transient crimes,
And fav'ring sects or nations, men or times.
To please him, none would foolishly forbear,
Or food, or rest, or itch in shirts of hair,
Or deem it merit to believe, or teach,
What reason contradicts, or cannot reach;
None would fierce zeal for piety mistake,
Or malice for whatever tenet's sake,
Or think salvation to one sect confin❜d,
And heav'n too narrow to contain mankind.

No more then nymphs, by long neglect grown nice,

Would in one female frailty sum up vice,
And censure those, who nearer to the right,
Think Virtue is but to dispense delight.

No servile tenets would admittance find,
Destructive of the rights of human-kind;
Of pow'r divine, hereditary right,

And non-resistance to a tyrant's might:
For sure that all should thus for one be curs'd,
Is but great nature's edict just revers❜d.

No moralists then, righteous to excess,

Would show fair Virtue in so black a dress,
That they, like boys, who some feign'd spright array,
First from the spectre fly themselves away;

No preachers in the terrible delight,

But choose to win by reason, not affright;
Not conj'rers like, in fire and brimstone dwell,
And draw each moving argument from hell.

No more our sage interpreters of laws Would fatten on obscurities, and flaws, But rather, nobly careful of their trust, Strive to wipe off the long-contracted dust, And be, like HARDWICKE, guardians of the just.

No more applause would on ambition wait, And laying waste the world be counted great; But one good-natur'd act more praises gain, Than armies overthrown, and thousands slain : No more would brutal rage disturb our peace, But envy, hatred, war, and discord cease; Our own and others' good each hour employ, And all things smile with universal joy; Virtue with Happiness her consort join'd, Would regulate and bless each human mind, And man be what his Maker first design'd.







Meo quidem judicio neuter culpandus, alter dum expetit debitos titulos, dum alter mavult videri contempsisse.

Plin. Ep.

YES, you condemn those sages too refin'd,
That gravely lecture ere they know mankind;
Who whilst ambition's fiercer fires they blame,
Would damp each useful spark that kindles fame.
'Tis in false estimates the folly lies;

The passion's blameless, when the judgment 's wise.
In vain philosophers with warmth contest,
Life's secret shade, or open walk is best :

Each has its separate joys, and each its use :
This calls the Patriot forth, and that the Muse.
Hence not alike to all the species, Heav'n
An equal thirst of public fame has givʼn :
Patrius it forms to shine in action great;
While Decio's talents best adorn retreat.

If where Pierian Maids delight to dwell,

The haunts of silence, and the peaceful cell,
Had, fair Astraea! been thy Talbot's choice,
Could list'ning crowds now hang upon his voice?
And thou, blest Maid, might'st long have wept in

The distant glories of a second reign,
In exile doom'd yet ages to complain.

Where high ambition still the power confess'd
That rul'd with equal sway in every breast,
Say where the glories of the sacred Nine ?

Where Homer's verse sublime, or, Milton, thine?
Nor thou, sweet Bard! who "turn'dst the tuneful art,
"From sound to sense, from fancy to the heart,"
Thy lays instructive to the world hadst giv❜n,
Nor greatly justify'd the laws of heav'n.

Let satire blast with every mark of hate,.

The vain aspirer, or dishonest Great,

Whom love of wealth, or wild ambition's sway
Push forward, still regardless of the way;

High, and more high, who aim with restless pride,
Where neither reason nor fair virtue guide:
And him, the wretch, who labors on with pain,
For the low lucre of an useless gain,
(Wise but to get, and active but to save)
May scorn deserv'd still follow to the grave.
But, he, who fond to raise a splendid name,
On life's ambitious height would fix his fame,

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