And strain'd to the last screw that he can bear,

Yield only discord in his Maker's ear:

Once the blest residence of truth divine,

Glorious as Solyma's interior shrine,

Where, in his own oracular abode,

Dwelt visibly the light-creating God;

But made long since, like Babylon of old,
A den of mischiefs never to be told:

391

And she, once mistress of the realms around,
Now scatter'd wide and no where to be found,
As soon shall rise and reascend the throne,
By native pow'r and energy her own,
As Nature at her own peculiar cost,
Restore to man the glories he has lost.
Go-bid the winter cease to chill the year,
Replace the wand'ring comet in his sphere,
Then boast (but wait for that unhop'd for hour)
The self-restoring arm of human pow'r.
But what is man in his own proud esteem?
Hear him-himself the poet and the theme:

400

A monarch cloth'd with majesty and awe,
His mind his kingdom, and his will his law,
Grace in his mien, and glory in his eyes,
Supreme on Earth, and worthy of the skies,
Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod,
And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God!

410

So sings he, charm'd with his own mind and form,
The song magnificent-the theme a worm!
Himself so much the source of his delight,
His Maker has no beauty in his sight.

See where he sits contemplative and fix'd,
Pleasure and wonder in his features mix'd;
His passions tam'd and all at his control,
How perfect the composure of his soul!
Complacency has breath'd a gentle gale

easy sail:

O'er all his thoughts, and swell'd his
His books well trimm'd and in the gayest style,

Like regimented coxcombs rank and file,

Adorn his intellects as well as shelves,

And teach him notions splendid as themselves:

419

The Bible only stands neglected there,
Though that of all most worthy of his care;
And, like an infant troublesome awake,

Is left to sleep for peace and quiet sake.
What shall the man deserve of humankind,
Whose happy skill and industry combin'd

Shall prove (what argument could never yet)

430

The Bible an imposture and a cheat?

The praises of the libertine profess'd,

The worst of men, and curses of the best.
Where should the living, weeping o'er his woes,
The dying, trembling at the awful close,
Where the betray'd, forsaken, and oppress'd,
The thousands whom the world forbids to rest,

Where should they find, (those comforts at an end
The Scripture yields) or hope to find, a friend?
Sorrow might muse herself to madness then,
And, seeking exile from the sight of men,

Bury herself in solitude profound,

441

Grow frantic with her pangs, and bite the ground,

Thus often Unbelief, grown sick of life,

Flies to the tempting pool, or felon knife.

The jury meet, the coroner is short,

And lunacy the verdict of the court;

Reverse the sentence, let the truth be known,

Such lunacy is ignorance alone:

450

They knew not, what some bishops may not know,
That Scripture is the only cure of wo;

That field of promise, how it flings abroad
It's odour o'er the Christian's thorny road!
The soul, reposing on assur'd relief,

Feels herself happy amidst all her grief,

Forgets her labour as she toils along,

Weeps tears of joy, and bursts into a song.

But the same word, that, like the polish'd share,

Ploughs up the roots of a believer's care,

Kills too the flow'ry weeds, where'er they grow,

That bind the sinner's Bacchanalian brow.

O that unwelcome voice of heav'nly love,

Sad messenger of mercy from above!

460

How does it grate upon his thankless ear,

Crippling his pleasures with the cramp of fear!
His will and judgment at continual strife,
That civil war imbitters all his life:

470

In vain he points his pow'rs against the skies,
In vain he closes or averts his eyes,
Truth will intrude- she bids him yet beware;
And shakes the sceptic in the scorner's chair.
Though various foes against the truth combine,
Pride above all opposes her design;

Pride, of a growth superior to the rest,
The subtlest serpent with the loftiest crest,
Swells at the thought, and, kindling into rage,
Would hiss the cherub Mercy from the stage.

And is the soul indeed so lost?-she cries,
Fall'n from her glory and too weak to rise?
Torpid and dull beneath a frozen zone,

480

Has she no spark that may be deem'd her own? Grant her indebted to what zealots call

Grace undeserv'd, yet surely not for all