Why falls the Gospel like a gracious dew? 180 185 190 195 His life should prove that he perceives their force; The principle and motive all in all. 200 You have two servants-Tom, an arch, sly rogue, From top to toe the Geta now in vogue, Genteel in figure, easy in address, Moves without noise, and swift as an express, Reports a message with a pleasing grace, 205 Expert in all the duties of his place; Say, on what hinge does his obedience move? Has he a world of gratitude and love? No, not a spark-'tis all mere sharper's play; He likes your house, your housemaid, and your pay; Reduce his wages, or get rid of her, 211 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 ; 215 Richly rewarded if he can but please ; And, proud to make his firm attachment known, 220 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 Heav'n approves as honest and sincere, The work of gen'rous love, and filial fear; 225 But with averted eyes th' omniscient Judge Scorns the base hireling, and the slavish drudge. Where dwell these matchless saints ?-old Curio cries : 230 235 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, 240 Shakes it again and faster to the ground: Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play, Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away. 245 pace. 250 Think with what pleasure, safe, and at his ease, 255 While danger past is turn'd to present joy. 260 Arraigns him,-charges him with ev'ry wrong- 265 And, having well deserv'd, expects the worst. Crush me, ye rocks; ye falling mountains, hide 270 The scrutiny of those all-seeing 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, 275 Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore; Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand. Hence the complexion of his future days, 280 Some lead a life unblamable and just, Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust: They never sin—or if, (as all offend,) 285 Some trivial slips their daily walk attend, The poor are near at hand, the charge is small, For though the pope has lost his int'rest here, 290 Mercy is infinite, and man is weak; And Heav'n no doubt shall be their home at last. Come then-a still small whisper in your ear-. And he that never doubted of his state, 295 300 305 Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and died; Oh-then a text would touch him at the quick : 310 Surrounding throngs the demigod revere, And fum'd with frankincense on ev'ry side, 315 320 Receives no praise; but though her lot be such, 325 330 O happy peasant! Oh unhappy bard! His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward; Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound 335 The poor should gain it, and the rich should not. 340 No, the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget One pleasure lost, lose 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, 345 Or ought he does, is govern'd by caprice; And bears the brand of blasphemy burn'd in. Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all : 350 Kings are invited, and would kings obey, No slaves on earth morc welcome were than they; But royalty, nobility, and state, Are such a dead preponderating weight, That endless bliss, (how strange soe'er it seem,) 355 In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam. 'Tis open, and ye cannot enter,-why? Because ye will not, Conyers would replyAnd he says much that many may dispute And cavil at with ease, but none refute. 360 O bless'd effect of penury and want, The seed sown there, how vig'rous is the plant! No soil like poverty for growth divine, As leanest land supplies the richest wine. Earth gives too little, giving only bread, 365 |