Free in his will to choose or to refuse,
Man may improve the crisis, or abuse ;
Else, on the fatalist's unrighteous plan,
Say to what bar amenable were man?
With naught in charge, he could betray no trust;
And, if he fell, would fall because he must;
If Love reward him, or if Vengeance strike,
His recompense in both unjust

alike.
Divine authority within his breast
Brings ev'ry thought, word, action, to the test;
Warns him or prompts, approves him or restrains,
As Reason, or as Passion, takes the reins.
Heav'n from above, and Conscience from within,
Cries in his startl'd ear --Abstain from sin !
The world around solicits his desire,
And kindles in his soul a treach’rous fire;
While, all his purposes and steps to guard,
Peace follows Virtue as its sure reward;
And Pleasure brings us surely in her train
Remorse, and Sorrow, and vindictive Pain.

Man, thus endu'd with an elective voice,
Must be supply'd with objects of his choice,
Where'er he turns, enjoyment and delight,
Or present, or in prospect, meet his sight;
Those open on the spot their honey'd store;
These call him loudly to pursuit of more.
His unexhausted mine the sordid vice
Avarice shows, and virtue is the price.
Her various motives his ambition raise-
Power,pomp, and splendour, and the thirst of praise ;
There Beauty wooes him with expanded arms;
E'en Bacchanalian madness has its charms.

Nor these alone, whose pleasures less refin'd
Might well alarm the most unguarded mind,
Seek to supplant his inexperienc'd youth,
Or lead him devious from the path of truth;
Hourly allurements on his passions press,
Safe in themselves, but dang'rous in th’excess.

Hark! how it floats upon the dewy air

!! 0, what a dying, dying close was there! 'Tis harmony from yon sequester'd bow'r, Sweet harmony, that soothes the midnight hour? Long ere the charioteer of day had run His morning course, th' enchantment was begun; And he shall gild yon mountain's height again, Ere yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain.

Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent, That Virtue points to ? Can a life thus spent Lead to the bliss she promises the wise, Detach the soul from Earth, and speed her to the skies? Ye devotees to your ador'd employ, Enthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy, Love makes the music of the blest above, Heav'n's harmony is universal love; And earthly sounds, tho' sweet and well combind, And lenient as soft opiates to the mind, Leave Vice and Folly unsubdu'd behind.

Gray dawn appears: the sportsman and his train Speckle the bosom of the distant plain; "T'is he, the Nimrod of the neighb'ring lairs; Save that his scent is less acute than theirs, For persevering chase, and headlong leaps, True beagle as the staunchest hound he keeps: Charg'd with the folly of his life's mad scene, He takes offence, and wonders what you mean; The joy, the danger and the toil o’erpaysTis exercise, and health, and length of days. Again impetuous to the field he flies; Leaps ev'ry fence but one, there falls and dics; Like a slain deer, the tumbrel brings him home, Unmiss'd but by his dogs and by his groom.

Ye Clergy, while your orbit is your place, ** Lights of the world, and stars of human race; But if eccentric ye forsake your sphere, be Prodigies ominous, and view'd with fear;

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The comet's baneful influence is a dream;
Yours, real and pernicious in the extreme.
What then?-

--are appetites and lusts laid down With the same ease that man puts on his gown? Will Av'rice and Concupiscence give place, Charm’d by the sounds---Your Rev'rence, or Your

Grace? No. But his own engagement binds him fast; Or, if it does not, brands him to the last, What atheists call him-a designing knave, A mere church juggler, hypocrite, and slave. Oh, laugh or mourn with me the rueful jes', A cassock'd huntsman, and a fiddling priest ! He from Italian songsters takes his cue: Set Paul to music, he shall quote him toc. He takes the field, the master of the pack Cries_Well done saint ! and claps him on the back. Is this the path of sanctity? Is this To stand a waymark in the road to bliss ? Himself a wand'rer from the narrow way, His silly sheep, what wonder if they stray ? Go, cast your orders at your Bishop's feet, Send your dishonour'd gown to Monmouth-street! The sacred function in your hands is made-Sad sacrilege! no function, but a trade!

Occiduus is a pastor of renown, When he has pray'd and preach'd the Sabbath down, With wire and catgut he concludes the day, Quav'ring and semiquav’ring care away. The full concerto swells upon your ear; All elbows shake. Look in, and you would swear The Babylonian tyrant with a nod Had summon’d them to serve his golden god. So well that thought th’employment seems to suit, Psalt'ry and sackbut, dulcimer and flute. Oh, fie! 'tis evangelical and pure : Observe each face, how sober and demure !

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