Suppofe, unlook'd for in a scene so rude,
Long hid by interpofing hill or wood,
Some manfion, neat and elegantly drefs'd,
By some kind hofpitable heart poffefs'd,
Offer him warmth, fecurity, and reft;
Think with what pleasure, fafe, and at his ease,
He hears the tempeft howling in the trees;
What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ,
While danger paft is turn'd to present joy.
So fares it with the finner, when he feels
A growing dread of vengeance at his heels:
His conscience, like a glaffy lake before,
Lash'd into foaming waves, begins to roar;
The law, grown clamorous, though filent long,
Arraigns him-charges him with ev'ry wrong-
Afferts the rights of his offended Lord;
And death, or reftitution, is the word:

The last impoffible, he fears the first,
And, having well deferv'd, expects the worst.
Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home;
Oh for a fhelter from the wrath to come!

Crush me, ye rocks; ye falling mountains, hide

Or bury me in ocean's angry tide.

The fcrutiny of those all-feeing eyes

I dare not-And you need not, God replies;
The remedy you want I freely give:

The book shall teach you-read, believe, and live! 'Tis done-the raging storm is heard no more, Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore;

And Justice, guardian of the dread command,
Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand.
A foul redeem'd demands a life of praise;
Hence the complexion of his future days.
Hence a demeanour holy and unfpeck'd,
And the world's hatred, as its fure effect.

Some lead a life unblameable and just,
Their own dear virtue their unshaken truft:
They never fin-or, if (as all offend)

Some trivial flips their daily walk attend,

The poor are near at hand, the charge is small,
A flight gratuity atones for all!

For, though the pope has loft his int'reft here,

And pardons are not fold as once they were,
No papist more defirous to compound,

Than some grave finners upon English ground.
That plea refuted, other quirks they seek→
Mercy is infinite, and man is weak;

The future fhall obliterate the past,

And heav'n, no doubt, shall be their home at last.
Come, then-a ftill, fmall whifper in your ear-
He has no hope who never had a fear;
And he that never doubted of his state,

He may, perhaps perhaps he may-too late.
The path to blifs abounds with many a fnare;
Learning is one, and wit, however rare.

The Frenchman, firft in literary fame,

(Mention him, if you please. Voltaire?--The fame.) With fpirit, genius, eloquence, fupplied,

Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and died, The fcripture was his jeft-book, whence he drew

Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew.

An infidel in health, but what when fick?

Oh-then a text would touch him at the quick.
View him at Paris, in his last career:

Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere;
Exalted on his pedestal of pride,

And fum'd with frankincense on ev'ry side,
He begs their flatt'ry with his latest breath;
And, fmother'd in't at laft, is prais'd to death!
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little ftore;

Content, though mean; and cheerful, if not gay;
Shuffling her threads about the live-long day,
Just earns a scanty pittance; and at night'
Lies down fecure, her heart and pocket light:
Shej for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit,

Receives no praife; but, though her lot be fuch, (Toilfome and indigent) the renders much;

Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible trueA truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;

And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

Oh, happy peasant! Oh, unhappy bard!
His the mere tinfel, her's the rich reward;
He prais'd, perhaps, for ages yet to come;
She never heard of half a mile from home:
He, lost in errors, his vain heart prefers;
She, fafe in the fimplicity of her's.

Not many wife, rich, noble, or profound
In fcience, win one inch of heav'nly ground.
And is it not a mortifying thought

The poor should gain it, and the rich should not?
No-the volupt'aries, who ne'er forget

One pleafure loft, lofe heav'n without regret;

Regret would rouse them, and give birth to pray'r;

Pray'r would add faith, and faith would fix them there.
Not that the Former of us all in this,

Or aught he does, is govern'd by caprice;
The fuppofition is replete with fin,

And bears the brand of blafphemy burnt in.