The flirted fan, the bridle, and the toss,
All speakers, yet all language at a loss.
From stucco'd walls smart arguments rebound;
And beaux, adepts in ev'ry thing profound,
Die of disdain, or whistle off the sound.
Such is the clamour of rooks, daws, and kites
Th' explosion of the levell'd tube excites,
Where mould'ring abbey-walls o'erhang the glade,
And oaks coeval spread a mournful shade.
The screaming nations, hov'ring in mid air,
Loudly resent the stranger's freedom there,
And seem to warn him never to repeat
His bold intrusion on their dark retreat.
Adieu, Vinosa cries, ere yet he sips
The purple bumper trembling at his lips,
Adieu to all morality....if grace

Make works a vain ingredient in the case!
The Christian hope is.... Waiter, draw the cork!....
If I mistake not.... Blockhead! with a fork!....
Without good works, whatever some may boast,
Mere folly and delusion....Sir, your toast!....
My firm persuasion is, at least sometimes,

That heav'n will weigh man's virtues and his crimes
With nice attention, in a righteous scale,

And save or damn as these or those prevail.
I plant my foot upon this ground of trust,
And silence ev'ry fear with....God is just.
But if perchance, on some dull drizzling day,
A thought intrude that says, or seems to say,

If thus the important cause is to be tried,
Suppose the beam should dip on the wrong side;
I soon recover from these needless frights,
And, God is merciful....sets all to rights.
Thus, between justice, as my prime support,
And mercy, fled to as the last resort,

I glide and steal along with heav'n in view,
And....pardon me....the bottle stands with you.
I never will believe, the col'nel cries,
The sanguinary schemes that some devise,
Who make the good Creator, on their plan,
A being of less equity than man.

If appetite, or what divines call lust,

Which men comply with, e'en because they must,
Be punish'd with perdition, who is pure?
Then their's, no doubt, as well as mine, is sure.
If sentence of eternal pain belong

To ev'ry sudden slip and transient wrong,
Then heav'n enjoins the fallible and frail
An hopeless task, and damns them if they fail!
My creed (whatever some creed-makers mean
By Athanasian nonsense, or Nicene)
My creed is....he is safe that does his best,
And death's a doom sufficient for the rest.

Right, says an ensign; and, for aught I see,
Your faith and mine substantially agree;
The best of ev'ry man's performance here
Is to discharge the duties of his sphere.
A lawyer's dealings should be just and fair....
Honesty shines with great advantage there.

Fasting and pray'r sit well upon a priest....
A decent caution and reserve at least.
A soldier's best is courage in the field,
With nothing here that wants to be conceal'd:
Manly deportment, gallant, easy, gay;
An hand as lib'ral as the light of day.

The soldier thus endow'd, who never shrinks,
Nor closets up his thought, whate'er he thinks,
Who scorns to do an injury by stealth,

Must go to heav'n....and I must drink his health.
Sir Smug, he cries, (for lowest at the board....
Just made fifth chaplain of his patron lord,
His shoulders witnessing by many a shrug
How much his feelings suffered....sat Sir Smug)
Your office is to winnow false from true;
Come, prophet, drink, and tell us.... What think you?
Sighing and smiling as he takes his glass,

Which they that woo preferment rarely pass,
Fallible man, the church-bred youth replies,
Is still found fallible, however wise;

And diff'ring judgments serve but to declare
That truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where.
Of all it ever was my lot to read,

Of critics now alive, or long since dead,

The book of all the world that charm'd me most
Was....well-a-day, the title page was lost!

The writer well remarks, an heart that knows
To take with gratitude what heaven bestows,
With prudence always ready at our call
To guide our use of it, is all in all.

Doubtless it is.... To which, of my own store,
I superadd a few essentials more;
But these, excuse the liberty I take,
I wave just now, for conversation sake....
Spoke like an oracle, they all exclaim,

And add Right Rev'rend to Smug's honour'd name!
And yet our lot is giv'n us in a land
Where busy arts are never at a stand;
Where science points her telescopic eye,
Familiar with the wonders of the sky;
Where bold inquiry, diving out of sight,
Brings many a precious pearl of truth to light;
Where nought eludes the persevering quest,
That fashion, taste, or luxury, suggest.

But, above all, in her own light array'd,
See mercy's grand apocalypse display'd!
The sacred book no longer suffers wrong,
Bound in the fetters of an unknown tongue;
But speaks with plainness, art could never mend,
What simplest minds can soonest comprehend.
God gives the word....the preachers throng around,
Live from his lips, and spread the glorious sound:
That sound bespeaks salvation on her way,
The trumpet of a life-restoring day!

'Tis heard where England's eastern glory shines,
And in the gulphs of her Cornubian mines.
And still it spreads. See Germany send forth
Her sons to pour it on the farthest north;

The Moravian missionaries in Greenland. Vide Krantz.

Fir'd with a zeal peculiar, they defy
The rage and rigour of a polar sky,
And plant successfully sweet Sharon's rose
On icy plains, and in eternal snows.

Oh, blest within th' enclosure of your rocks,
Nor herds have ye to boast, nor bleating flocks;
No fertilizing streams your fields divide,
That show, revers'd, the villas on their side;
No groves have ye; no cheerful sound of bird,
Or voice of turtle, in your land is heard;
Nor grateful eglantine regales the smell
Of those that walk at ev'ning where ye dwell:
But winter, arm'd with terrors here unknown,
Sits absolute on his unshaken throne;

Piles up his stores amidst the frozen waste,
And bids the mountains he has built stand fast;
Beckons the legions of his storms away

From happier scenes, to make your
land a prey;
Proclaims the soil a conquest he has won,
And scorns to share it with the distant sun.
.... Yet truth is your's, remote, unenvied isle!
And peace, the genuine offspring of her smile;
The pride of letter'd ignorance that binds
In chains of errour our accomplish'd minds,
That decks, with all the splendour of the true,
A false religion, is unknown to you.
Nature indeed vouchsafes, for our delight,
The sweet vicissitudes of day and night;
Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer
Field, fruit, and flow'r, and ev'ry creature here;