His Master's interest and his own, combin'd, Man's obligations infinite, of course His life should prove that he perceives their force ş You have two servants-Tom, an arch, sly rogue, Genteel in figure, easy in address, Moves without noise, and swift as an express, Reports a message with a pleasing grace, Expert in all the duties of his place : Say, on what hinge does his obedience move? No, not a spark-'tis all mere sharper's play; Tom quits you with-Your most obedient, Sir. The dinner serv'd, Charles takes his usual stand, Watches your eye, anticipates command; Sighs, if, perhaps, your appetite should fail ; And, if he but suspects a frown, turns pale; Consults, all day, your interest and your ease, Richly rewarded, if he can but please ; And, proud to make his firm attachment known, To save your life, would nobly risk his own. Now which stands highest in your serious thought? Charles, without doubt, say you-and so he ought; One act, that from a thankful heart proceeds, Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds. Thus Heaven approves, as honest and sincere, The work of generous love and filial fear; But, with averted eyes, th' omniscient Judge Scorns the base hireling, and the slavish drudge. Where dwell these matchless saints? old Curio cries. Even at your side, Sir, and before your eyes, The favour'd few-th' enthusiasts you despise, And pleas'd at heart, because, on holy ground Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found, Reproach a people with his single fall, And cast his filthy raiment at them all. Attend! —an apt similitude shall show Whence springs the conduct that offends you so, See where it smokes along the sounding plain, Blown all aslant, a driving, dashing rain, Peal upon peal redoubling all around, Shakes it again, and faster, to the ground; Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play, Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away. Ere yet it came, the traveller urg'd his steed, And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed; Now, drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his case, He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace. Suppose, unlook'd-for in a scene so rude, Long hid by interposing hill or wood, Some mansion, neat and elegantly dress'd, } Think with what pleasure, safe, and at his ease, I dare not-And you need not, God replies; The book shall teach you-read, believe, and live! A soul, redeem'd, demands a life of praise; Some lead a life unblameable and just, Some trivial slips their daily walk attend, For, though the pope has lost his interest here, Than some grave sinners upon English ground. The future shall obliterate the past, And heaven, no doubt, shall be their home at last. Come, then-a still, small whisper in your earHe has no hope who never had a fear; And he that never doubted of his state, The path to bliss abounds with many a snare ; The Frenchman, first in literary fame, (Mention him, if you please. Voltaire ?—The same.) With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied, Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartly, and died. The scripture was his jest book, whence he drew An infidel in health, but what when sick? And fum'd with frankincense on every side, Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, Receives no praise; but, though her lot be such, Oh, happy peasant! Oh unhappy bard! |