Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies,

Which aim'd at him, have pierc'd the offended skies;
And say, Blot out my sin, confess'd, deplored,
Against thine image in thy saint, O Lord!
No blinder bigot, I maintain it still,

Than he who must have pleasure, come what will:
He laughs, whatever weapon truth may draw,
And deems her sharp artillery mere straw.
Scripture indeed is plain, but God and he
On Scripture ground are sure to disagree;
Some wiser rule must teach him how to live,
Than that his Maker has seen fit to give,
Supple and flexible as Indian cane,
To take the bend his appetites ordain,
Contriv'd to suit frail Nature's crazy case,
And reconcile his lusts with saving grace.
By this with nice precision of design,
He draws upon life's map a zigzag line,
That shews how far 'tis safe to follow sin,
And where his danger and God's wrath begin.
By this he forms, as pleased he sports along,
His well-pois'd estimate of right and wrong;
And finds the modish manners of the day,
Though loose, as harmless as an infant's play.
Build by whatever plan caprice decrees,
With what materials, on what ground you please,
Your hope shall stand unblamed, perhaps admired
If not that hope the Scripture has required:
The strange conceits, vain projects, and wild dreams,
With which hypocrisy for ever teems,
(Though other follies strike the public eye
And raise a laugh,) pass unmolested by;
But if, unblameable in word and thought,
A MAN arise, a man whom God has taught,
With all Elijah's dignity of tone,

And all the love of the beloved John,
To storm the citadels they build in air,

And smite the untemper'd wall, 'tis death to spare,
To sweep away all refuges of lies,

And place, instead of quirks themselves devise,
LAMA SABACHTHANI before their eyes,-

To prove that without Christ all gain is loss,
All hope despair, that stands not on His cross,-
Except the few his God may have impress'd,
A tenfold frenzy seizes all the rest.

Throughout mankind, the Christian kind at least,
There dwells a consciousness in every breast,
That folly ends where genuine hope begins.

And he that finds his heaven must lose his sins.
Nature opposes with her utmost force
This riving stroke, this ultimate divorce,
And while Religion seems to be her view,
Hates with a deep sincerity the true :
For this, of all that ever influenced man,
Since Abel worshipp'd, or the world began,
This only spares no lust, admits no plea,
But makes him, if at all, completely free;
Sounds forth the signal, as she mounts her car,
Of an eternal, universal war;

Rejects all treaty, penetrates all wiles,

Scorns with the same indifference frowns and smiles,
Drives through the realms of Sin, where Riot reels,
And grinds his crown beneath her burning wheels!
Hence all that is in man-pride, passion, art,
Powers of the mind, and feelings of the heart,
Insensible of Truth's almighty charms,

Starts at her first approach, and sounds to arms!
While Bigotry, with well-dissembled fears,
His eyes shut fast, his fingers in his ears,
Mighty to parry and push by God's word
With senseless noise, his argument the sword,
Pretends a zeal for godliness and grace,
And spits abhorrence in the Christian's face.

Parent of Hope, immortal Truth, make known Thy deathless wreaths and triumphs all thine own! The silent progress of thy power is such,

Thy means so feeble, and despised so much,

That few believe the wonders thou hast wrought,

And none can teach them but whom thou hast taught. Oh! see me sworn to serve thee, and command

A painter's skill into a poet's hand;

That while I trembling trace a word divine,
Fancy may stand aloof from the design,

And light and shade and every stroke be thine.
If ever thou hast felt another's pain,

If ever when he sigh'd, hast sigh'd again,

If ever on thy eyelid stood a tear

That pity had engender'd, drop one here.

This man was happy, had the world's good word,
And with it every joy it can afford;

Friendship and love seem'd tenderly at strife,
Which most should sweeten his untroubled life;
Politely learn'd, and of a gentle race,

Good breeding and good sense gave all a grace,
And whether at the toilet of the fair

He laughed and trifled, made him welcome there;

Or if in masculine debate he shared,
Ensured him mute attention and regard.
Alas, how changed! Expressive of his mind,
His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head reclined;
Those awful syllables-hell, death, and sin,
Though whispered, plainly tell what works within,
That conscience there performs her proper part,
And writes a doomsday sentence on his heart,
Forsaking, and forsaken of all friends,

He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends;
Hard task for one who lately knew no care,
And harder still as learnt beneath despair:
His hours no longer pass unmark'd away,
A dark importance saddens every day;
He hears the notice of the clock perplex'd,
And cries," Perhaps eternity strikes next!"
Sweet music is no longer music here,
And laughter sounds like madness in his ear;
His grief the world of all her power disarms,
Wine has no taste, and beauty has no charms :
God's holy word, once trivial in his view,
Now by the voice of his experience true,
Seems, as it is, the fountain whence alone
Must spring that hope he pants to make his own.
Now let the bright reverse be known abroad;
Say man's a worm, and power belongs to God.
As when a felon whom his country's laws
Have justly doom'd for some atrocious cause,
Expects in darkness and heart-chilling fears,
The shameful close of all his mis-spent years,
If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne,
A tempest usher in the dreaded morn,
Upon his dungeon walls the lightnings play,
The thunder seems to summon him away,
The warder at the door his key applies,
Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies:
If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost,
When hope, long lingering, at last yields the ghost,
The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear,
He drops at once his fetters and his fear,
A transport glows in all he looks and speaks,
And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks.
Joy, far superior joy, that much outweighs
The comfort of a few poor added days,
Invades, possesses, and o'erwhelms the soul
Of him whom Hope has with a touch made whole;
'Tis heaven, all heaven descending on the wings
Of the glad legions of the King of kings;

'Tis more, 'tis God diffused through every part,
"Tis God Himself triumphant in his heart.
Oh, welcome now the sun's once hated light,
His noon-day beams were never half so bright.
Not kindred minds alone are call'd to employ
Their hours, their days, in listening to his joy,
Unconscious nature, all that he surveys,

Rocks, groves, and streams, must join him in his praise.
These are thy glorious works, eternal Truth,

The scoff of wither'd age and beardless youth;
These move the censure and illiberal grin
Of fools that hate thee and delight in sin;

But these shall last when night has quench'd the pole,
And heaven is all departed as a scroll:

And when, as justice has long since decreed,
This earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed,
Then these thy glorious works, and they who share
That hope which can alone exclude despair,
Shall live exempt from weakness and decay,
The brightest wonders of an endless day.

Happy the bard (if that fair name belong
To him that blends no fable with his song)
Whose lines uniting by an honest art,
The faithful monitor's and poet's part,
Seek to delight that they may mend mankind,
And while they captivate, inform the mind;
Still happier, if he till a thankful soil,
And fruit reward his honourable toil:
But happier far who comfort those that wait
To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow'd gate:
Their language simple, as their manners meek,
No shining ornaments have they to seek;
Nor labour they, nor time nor talents waste,
In sorting flowers to suit a fickle taste;
But while they speak the wisdom of the skies,
Which art can only darken and disguise,
The abundant harvest, recompense divine,
Repays their work,-the gleaning only mine.

CHARITY.*

ARGUMENT.

Invocation to Charity-Social ties-Tribute to the humanity of Captain Cook-His character contrasted with that of Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico-Degradation of Spain-Purpose of commerce-Gifts of art-The slave-trade and slavery-Slavery unnatural and unchristian-The duty of abating the woes of that state, and of enlightening the mind of the slave, enforced-Apostrophe to Liberty-Charity of Howard-Pursuits of Philosophy Reason learns nothing aright without the lamp of Revelation-True charity the offspring of Divine truth-Supposed case of a blind nation and an optician-Portrait of Charity-Beauty of the Apostle's definition of it-Alms as the means of lulling conscience-Pride and ostentation-Character of satire-True charity inculcated--Christian charity should beuniversal-Happy effects that would result from universal charity.

* The following rhyming epistle from Cowper to Newton explains his views in writing 'Charity :"

July 12, 1781.

MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,-I am going to send, what when you have read, you may scratch your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody knows whether what I have got be verse or not ;--by the tune and the time, it ought to be rhyme, but if it be, did you ever see, of late or of yore, such a ditty before?

I have writ Charity, not for popularity, out as well as I could, in hopes to do good; and if the reviewer should say To be sure, the gentleman's muse wears Methodist shoes, you may know by his pace and talk about grace, that she and her bard have little regard for the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoydening play, of the modern day; and though she assume a borrowed plume, and now and then wear a tittering air, 'tis only her plan to catch if she can, the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a production on a new construction; she has baited her trap in hopes to snap all that may come with a sugar-plum." His opinion in this will not be amiss; 'tis what I intend, my principal end, and if I succeed, and folks should read, till a few are brought to a serious thought, I shall think I am paid for all I have said and all I have done, though I have run, many a time, after a rhyme, as far as from hence to the end of my sense, and by hook or by crook write another book, if I live and am here, another year.

I have heard before, of a room with a floor, laid upon springs and such like things, with so much art, in every part, that when you went in, you were forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and a grace, swimming about, now in and now out, with a deal of state, in a figure of eight, without pipe or string, or any such thing: and now I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and, as you advance, will keep you still, though against your will, dancing away, alert and gay, till you come to an end of what I have penned, which that you may do, ere madam and you are quite worn out with jigging about, I take my leave, and here you receive a bow profound, down to the ground, from your humble me.-W.C.