Not fo the pheasant on his charms prefumes,
Though he too has a glory in his plumes.
He, chriftian like, retreats with modeft mien
To the clofe copfe, or far fequeftered green,
And shines without defiring to be seen.
The plea of works, as arrogant and vain,
Heaven turns from with abhorrence and difdain;
Not more affronted by avowed neglect,
Than by the mere diffembler's feigned respect.
What is all righteousness that men devife?
What-but a fordid bargain for the skies?
But Chrift as foon would abdicate his own,
As ftoop from heaven to fell the proud a throne.
His dwelling a recefs in fome rude rock,
Book, beads, and maple-dish, his meagre ftock;
In fhirt of hair and weeds of canvafs dreffed,
Girt with a bell-rope that the pope has blessed;
Aduft with ftripes told out for every crime,
And fore tormented long before his time;
His prayer preferred to faints that cannot aid ;
His praise poftponed, and never to be paid ;.
See the fage hermit, by mankind admired,
With all that bigotry adopts inspired,
Wearing out life in his religious whim,
Till his religious whimfy wears out him.
His works, his abftinence, his zeal allowed,
You think him humble-God accounts him proud;
High in demand, though lowly in pretence,
Of all his conduct, this the genuine fenfe-
My penitential ftripes, my ftreaming blood,
Have purchased heaven, and prove my title good.
Turn eastward now, and fancy shall apply
To your weak fight her telescopic eye.
The bramin kindles on his own bare head
The facred fire, felf-torturing his trade,
His voluntary pains, fevere and long,
Would give a barbarous air to British song;
No grand inquifitor could worse invent,
Than he contrives to fuffer, well content.
Which is the faintlier worthy of the two?
Paft all difpute, yon anchorite fay you.
Your fentence and mine differ. What is a name?
I fay the bramin has the fairer claim.
If fufferings, fcripture no where recommends,
Devised by self to answer selfish ends,
Give faintship, then all Europe must agree
Ten ftarveling hermits fuffer less than he.
The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear,
And prejudice have left a paffage clear)
Pride has attained its moft luxuriant growth,
And poifoned every virtue in them both.
Pride may be pampered while the flesh grows lean ; Humility may clothe an English dean;
That grace was Cowper's-his, confeffed by all-
Though placed in golden Durham's fecond stall.
Not all the plenty of a bishop's board,
His palace, and his lacqueys, and "My Lord,"
More nourish pride, that condescending vice,
Than abftinence, and beggary, and lice;
It thrives in mifery, and abundant grows
In mifery, fools upon themselves impose.
But why before us proteftants produce
An Indian mystic, or a French reclufe?
Their fin is plain; but what have we to fear,
Reformed and well inftructed? You fhall hear.
Yon ancient prude, whofe withered features fhow
She might be young fome forty years ago,
Her elbows pinioned close upon her hips,
Her head erect, her fan upon her lips,
Her eye-brows arched, her eyes both gone aftray
To watch yon amorous couple in their play,
With bony and unkerchiefed neck defies
The rude inclemency of wintry skies,
And fails with lappet-head and mincing airs
Duly at chink of bell to morning prayers.
To thrift and parfimony much inclined,
She yet allows herself that boy behind;
The shivering urchin, bending as he goes,
With flip-fhod heels, and dew-drop at his nofe;
His predeceffor's coat advanced to wear,
Which future pages yet are doomed to share,
Carries her bible tucked beneath his arm,
And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm.
She, half an angel in her own account,
Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount,
Though not a grace appears on ftricteft search,
But that the fafts, and item, goes to church.
Conscious of age the recollects her youth,
And tells, not always with an eye to truth,
Who spanned her waift, and who, wherever he came,
Scrawled upon glass mifs Bridget's lovely name;
Who ftole her flipper, filled it with tokay,
And drank the little bumper every day.
Of temper as envenomed as an asp,
Cenforious, and her every word a wasp;
In faithful memory fhe records the crimes
Or real, or fictitious, of the times;
Laughs at the reputations she has torn,
And holds them dangling at arms length in fcorn..
Such are the fruits of fanctimonious pride,
Of malice fed while flesh is mortified :
Take, Madam, the reward of all your prayers,
Where hermits and where bramins meet with theirs;
Your portion is with them.-Nay, never frown, But, if you please, fome fathoms lower down.
Artist attend-your brushes and your paintProduce them-take a chair-now draw a Saint. Oh forrowful and fad! the ftreaming tears Channel her cheeks-a Niobe appears! Is this a Saint? Throw tints and all awayTrue piety is cheerful as the day,
weep indeed and heave a pitying groan For others' woes, but smiles upon her own. What purpose has the King of faints in view? Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew? To call up plenty from the teeming earth, Or curfe the defart with a tenfold dearth? Is it that Adam's offspring may be faved From fervile fear, or be the more enslaved? To loose the links that galled mankind before, Or bind them fafter on, and add still more? The freeborn Chriftian has no chains to prove,, Or, if a chain, the golden one of love : No fear attends to quench his glowing fires, What fear he feels his gratitude inspires. Shall he for fuch deliverance freely wrought, Recompenfe ill? He trembles at the thought. His mafter's intereft and his own combined Prompt every movement of his heart and mind:
|