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what, while I trembling trace a work divine,
Fancy ay stand aloof from the design, *And light, and shade, and ev'ry stroke be thine. )
ever thou hast felt another's pain, If ever when he sigh'd hast sigh'd again, If ever on thy eyelid stood the tear, That pity had engender’d, drop one here. This man was happy-had the World's good word, And with it ev'ry joy it can afford; Friendship and love seem'd tenderly at strife, Which most should sweeten his untroubled life; Politely learn'd, and of a gentle race, Good breeding and good sense gave all a grace, And whether at the toilette of the fair He laugh'd and trifled, made him welcome there, Or if in masculine debate he shar'd, Ensur’d him mute attention and regard. Alas how chang’d! Expressive of his mind, His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head reclin'd; Those awful syllables, Hell, death, and sin, Though whisper’d, plainly tell what works within ; That Conscience there performs her proper part, And writes a doomsday sentence on his heart; Forsaking, and forsaken of all friends, He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends;
Hard task! for one who lately knew no care,
Now let the bright reverse be known abroad; Say inan's a worm, and pow'r belongs to God,
As when a felon, whom his country's laws
The warder at the door his key applies,
These are thy glorious works, eternal Truth, The scoff of wither'd age and beardless youth; .
. These move the censure and illib'ral grin' Of fools, that hate thee and delight in sin: But these shall last when night has quench’d the ... pole, And Heav'n is all departed as a scroll. And when, as Justice has long since decreed, This Earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed, Then these thy glorious works, and they who share That hope, which can alone exclude despair, Shall live exempt from weakness and decay, The brightest wonders of an endless day.
Happy the bard, (if that fair name belong To him, that blends no fable with his song) Whose lines uniting, by an honest art, The faithful monitor's and poet's part, Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind, And while they captivate, inform the mind: Still happier, if he till a thankful soil, And fruit reward his honourable toil: But happier far, who comfort those, that wait To hear plain truth at Judah’s hallow'd gate: Their language simple, as their manners meek, No shining ornaments have they to seek; Nor labour they, nor time nor talents waste, In sorting flow'rs to suit a fickle taste;