But if the wanderer his mistake discern,
Judge his own way and sigh for a return,
Bewilder'd once, must he bewail his loss
For ever and for ever? No-the cross!
There and there only (though the deist rave,
And atheist, if Earth bears so base a slave);
There and there only is the power to save,
There no delusive hope invites despair;
No mockery meets you, no deception there.
The spells and charms, that blinded you before,
All vanish there and fascinate no more.

I am no preacher, let this hint suffice-
The cross, once seen, is death to every vice:
Else he that hung there suffer'd all his pain,
Bled, groaned, and agonized, and died, in vain.

TRUTH.

Pensantur trutina. HoR. Lib. ii. Epist. 1.

MAN, on the dubious waves of error toss'd,
His ship half founder'd and his compass lost,
Sees, far as human optics may command,
A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land:
Spreads all his canvas, every sinew plies;
Pants for 't, aims at it, enters it, and dies!
Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes,
His well-built systems, philosophic dreams;
Deceitful views of future bliss farewell!-
He reads his sentence at the flames of Hell.
Hard lot of man-to toil for the reward
Of virtue, and yet lose it! Wherefore hard?-
He that would win the race must guide his horse
Obedient to the customs of the course;

Else, though unequall'd to the goal he flies,
A meaner than himself shall gain the prize.
Grace leads the right way: if you choose the wrong,

Take it and perish; but restrain your tongue;

Charge not, with light sufficient, and left free,
Your wilful suicide on God's decree.

O how unlike the complex works of man,
Heaven's easy, artless, unincumber'd plan!
No meretricious graces to beguile,

No clustering ornaments to clog the pile;
From ostentation as from weakness free,
It stands like the cerulean arch we see,
Majestic in its own simplicity.
Inscribed above the portal, from afar
Conspicuous as the brightness of a star,
Legible only by the light they give,

Stand the soul-quickening words-Believe and live. Too many shock'd at what would charm them most, Despise the plain direction, and are lost.

Heaven on such terms! (they cry with proud disdain)

Incredible, impossible, and vain!—

Rebel, because 'tis easy to obey;

And scorn, for its own sake, the gracious way.
These are the sober, in whose cooler brains
Some thought of immortality remains ;
The rest, too busy or too gay to wait
On the sad theme, their everlasting state,
Sport for a day, and perish in a night,
The foam upon the waters not so light.

Who judged the Pharisee? What odious cause
Exposed him to the vengeance of the laws?
Had he seduced a virgin, wrong'd a friend,
Or stabb'd a man to serve some private end?
Was blasphemy his sin? Or did he stray
From the strict duties of the sacred day?
Sit long and late at the carousing board?

(Such were the sins with which he charged his Lord.)
No-the man's morals were exact; what then?
'Twas his ambition to be seen of men ;

His virtues were his pride; and that one vice
Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price;
He wore them as fine trappings for a show,
A praying, synagogue-frequenting beau.

The self-applauding bird, the peacock, see-
Mark what a sumptuous Pharisee is he!
Meridian sunbeams tempt him to unfold
His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold :
He treads as if, some solemn music near,
His measured step were govern'd by his ear;
And seems to say-Ye meaner fowl, give place,
I am all splendour, dignity, and grace.

Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes,
Though he too has a glory in his plumes.
He, christian-like, retreats with modest mien
To the close copse, or far-sequester'd green,
And shines without desiring to be seen.
The plea of works, as arrogant and vain,
Heaven turns from with abhorrence and dis-
dain ;

Not more affronted by avow'd neglect,

Than by the mere dissembler's feign'd respect.
What is all righteousness that men devise?
What-but a sordid bargain for the skies?
But Christ as soon would abdicate his own,
As stoop from Heaven to sell the proud a throne.
His dwelling a recess in some rude rock,
Books, beads, and maple-dish his meagre stock;
In shirt of hair and weeds of canvas dress'd,
Girt with a bell-rope that the pope has bless'd;
Adust with stripes told out for every crime,
And sore tormented long before his time;

His
prayer preferr'd to saints that cannot aid;
His praise postponed, and never to be paid;
See the sage hermit, by mankind admired,
With all that bigotry adopts inspired,
Wearing out life in his religious whim,
Till his religious whimsey wears out him.
His works, his abstinence, his zeal allow'd,
You think him humble-God accounts him proud;
High in demand, though lowly in pretence,
Of all his conduct this the genuine sense-
My penitential stripes, my streaming blood,
Have purchased Heaven, and prove my title good.

Turn eastward now, and Fancy shall apply Το your weak sight her telescopic eye. The bramin kindies on his own bare head The sacred fire, self-torturing his trade: His voluntary pains, severe and long, Would give a barbarous air to British song: No grand inquisitor could worse invent, Than he contrives to suffer, well content. Which is the saintlier worthy of the two? Past all dispute, yon anchorite, say you. Your sentence and mine differ. What's a name? I say the bramin has the fairer claim. If sufferings Scripture no where recommends, Devised by self to answer selfish ends, Give saintship, then all Europe must agree Ten starveling hermits suffer less than he. The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear, And prejudice have left a passage clear), Pride has attain'd its most luxuriant growth, And poison'd every virtue in them both.

Pride may be pamper'd while the flesh grows lean; Humility may clothe an English dean;

That grace was Cowper's-his, confess'd by all-
Though placed in golden Durham's second stall.
Not all the plenty of a bishop's board,

His palace, and his lacqueys, and "My Lord,"
More nourish pride, that condescending vice,
Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice;
It thrives in misery, and abundant grows:
In misery fools upon themselves impose.
But why before us protestants produce
An Indian mystic, or a French recluse ?
Their sin is plain; but what have we to fear,
Reform'd and well-instructed? You shall hear.

Yon ancient prude, whose wither'd features show
She might be young some forty years ago,
Her elbows pinion'd close upon her hips,
Her head erect, her fan upon her lips,

Her eyebrows arch'd, her eyes both gone astray
To watch yon amorous couple in their play,

With bony and unkerchief'd neck defies
The rude inclemency of wintry skies,
And sails, with lappet-head and mincing airs,
Duly at chink of bell to morning prayers.
To thrift and parsimony much inclined,
She yet allows herself that boy behind;
The shivering urchin, bending as he goes,
With slipshod heels, and dewdrop at his nose;
His predecessor's coat advanced to wear,
Which future pages yet are doom'd to share,
Carries her Bible tuck'd beneath his arm,
And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm.
She, half an angel in her own account,
Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount,
Though not a grace appears on strictest search,
But that she fasts, and item, goes to church.
Conscious of age she recollects her youth,
And tells, not always with an eye to truth,
Who spann'd her waist, and who, where'er he came,
Scrawl'd upon glass Miss Bridget's lovely name;
Who stole her slipper, fill'd it with tokay,
And drank the little bumper every day.

Of temper as envenom'd as an asp,
Censorious, and her every word a wasp;

In faithful memory she records the crimes,
Or real or fictitious, of the times;

Laughs at the reputations she has torn,

And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn.

Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride,

Of malice fed while flesh is mortified:

Take, madam, the reward of all your prayers,

Where hermits and where bramins meet with theirs;
Your portion is with them.-Nay, never frown,
But if you please, some fathoms lower down.
Artist attend-your brushes and your paint-
Produce them-take a chair-now draw a saint.
Oh sorrowful and sad! the streaming tears
Channel her cheeks-a Niobe appears!
Is this a saint? throw tints and all away-
True piety is cheerful as the day,