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Some price, that bears proportion, must be paid,
And infinite with infinite be weigh❜d.
See then the Deist lost: remorse for vice,
Not paid, or paid inadequate in price:
What farther means can Reason now direct,
Or what relief from human wit expect?
That shows us sick; and sadly are we sure
Still to be sick, 'till Heav'n reveal the cure.
If then Heav'n's will must needs be understood,
(Which must, if we want cure, and Heaven be
good,)

Let all records of will reveal'd be shown,
With Scripture all in equal balance thrown,
And our one sacred Book will be that one.

Proof needs not here, for whether we compare
That impious, idle, superstitious ware
Of rites, lustrations, offerings (which before
In various ages various countries bore,)
With Christian faith and virtues, we shall find
None answering the great ends of human kind
But this one rule of life: that shews us best
How GOD may be appeased, and mortals blest.
Whether from length of time its worth we draw,
The world is scarce more ancient than the Law.
Heav'n's early care prescrib'd for every age,
First in the soul, and after in the page.
Or, whether more abstractedly we look
Or on the writers, or the written Book,

Whence, but from Heav'n, could men unskill'd in arts,

In several ages born, in several parts,

Weave such agreeing truths? or how, or why
Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie?
Unask'd their pains, ungrateful their advice,
Starving their gain, and martyrdom their price?

If on the Book itself we cast our view,
Concurrent heathens prove the story true;
The doctrine, miracles, which must convince,
For Heav'n in them appeals to common sense;
And though they prove not, they confirm the cause,
When what is taught agrees with nature's laws.

Then for the style, majestie and divine,
It speaks no less than GOD in ev'ry line:
Commanding words; whose face is still the same
As the first fiat that produc'd our frame.
All faiths beside, or did by arms ascend,
Or sense indulg'd has made mankind their friend:
This only doctrine does our lusts oppose;
Unfed by nature's soil in which it grows ;
Cross to our int'rests, curbing sense and sin,
Oppress'd without, and undermin'd within,
It thrives through pain, its own tormentors tires,
And with a stubborn patience still aspires.

To what can reason such effects assign
Transcending nature, but to laws divine ?
Which in that sacred Volume are contain'd;
Sufficient, clear, and for that use ordain'd.

THE CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON.-
Imitated from Chaucer.

A parish priest was of the pilgrim-train,
An awful, reverend, and religious man;
His eyes diffused a venerable grace,
And charity itself was in his face.

Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor;
(As God had clothed His own ambassador ;)
For such, on earth, His blessed REDEEMER bore..
Of sixty years he seemed, and well might last
To sixty more, but that he lived too fast;
Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense;
'And made almost a sin of abstinence.
Yet had his aspect nothing of severe,
But such a face as promised him sincere.
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see,
But sweet regards and pleasing sanctity;
Mild was his accent, and his action free.
With eloquence innate his tongue was armed;
Tho' harsh the precept, yet the preacher charmed:
For, letting down the golden chain from high,
He drew his audience upward to the sky;
And oft with holy hymns he charmed their ears,
(A music more melodious than the spheres.)
For David left him, when he went to rest,
His lyre; and after him, he sung the best..
He bore his great commission in his look,
But sweetly tempered awe, and softened all he spoke.

He preached the joys of heaven, and pains of hell,
And warned the sinner with becoming zeal,
But on eternal mercy loved to dwell.

He taught the Gospel rather than the Law,
And forced himself to drive; but loved to draw.
For fear but freezes minds; but love, like heat,
Exhales the soul sublime, to seek her native seat.
To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard,
Wrapped in his crimes, against the storm prepared ;
But, when the milder beams of mercy play,
He melts, and throws his cumb'rous cloak away.
Lightnings and thunder (Heaven's artillery)
As harbingers before th' ALMIGHTY fly:
Those but proclaim his stile, and disappear;
The stiller sound succeeds, and GOD is there.

The tythes, his parish freely paid, he took;
But never sued, or cursed with bell and book.
With patience bearing wrong, but off'ring none,
Since ev'ry man is free to lose his own.
The country-churls, according to their kind,
(Who grudge their dues, and love to be behind,)
The less he sought his off'rings, pinched the more,
And praised a priest contented to be poor.

Yet, of his little he had some to spare,
To feed the famished, and to clothe the bare ;
For mortified he was to that degree,

A poorer than himself he would not see.
True priests, he said, and preachers of the word,
Were only stewards of their sov'reign LORD;
Nothing was their's, but all the public store:
Intrusted riches, to relieve the poor.

Who, should they steal for want of his relief,
He judged himself accomplice with the thief.

Wide was his parish; not contracted close
In streets, but here and there a straggling house;
Yet still he was at hand, without request,
To serve the sick, to succour the distressed:
Tempting on foot, alone, without affright,
The dangers of a dark tempestuous night.

All this the good old man performed alone,
Nor spared his pains; for curate he had none,
Nor durst he trust another with his care;
Nor rode himself to Paul's, the public fair :
But duly watched his flock, by night and day,
And from the prowling wolf redeemed the prey,
And hungry sent the wily fox away.

The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheer'd,
Nor to rebuke the rich offender fear'd.
His preaching much, but more his practice, wrought;
(A living sermon of the truths he taught ;)
For this by rules severe his life he squar'd,
That all might see the doctrine which they heard.
For priests, he said, are patterns for the rest,
The gold of Heaven, who bear the GOD imprest;
But when the precious coin is kept unclean,
The Sov'reign's image is no longer seen.
If they be foul, on whom the people trust,
Well may the baser brass contract a rust.

The prelate, for his holy life, he priz'd;
The worldly pomp of prelacy despis'd.

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