Remorse begets reform. His master-luft Falls first before his resolute rebuke, And seems dethron'd and vanquish'd. Peace enfues, But fpurious and fhort-liv'd, the puny child On fancied Innocence. Again he falls, "Hath God indeed giv'n appetites to man, "And stor'd the earth fo plenteously with means "To gratify the hunger of his wish, "And doth he reprobate and will he damn "So ftrict, that lefs than perfect must despair? "And gesture they propound to our belief? "May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, "The unequivocal authentic deed, "We find found argument, we read the heart.” Such reas'nings (if that name muft needs belong T'excufes in which reafon has no part) Serve Serve to compose a spirit well inclin'd To live on terms of amity with vice, And fin without disturbance. Often urg'd (As often as libidinous discourse Exhausted, he resorts to folemn themes Of theological and grave import) They gain at last his unreferv'd affent. Till harden'd his heart's temper in the forge Of luft, and on the anvil of despair, He flights the ftrokes of confcience. Nothing moves, Or nothing much, his conftancy in ill, Vain tamp'ring has but foster'd his disease, 'Tis defp'rate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. Charm the deaf ferpent wifely. Make him hear How lovely, and the moral-sense how fure, Directly, to the FIRST AND ONLY FAIR. Spend all the pow'rs Spare not in fuch a caufe. Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise : Grace makes the flave a freeman. 'Tis a change That turns to ridicule the turgid speech And stately tone of moralists, who boast, As if like him, of fabulous renown, They had indeed ability to smooth The fhag of favage nature, and were each An Orpheus, and omnipotent in fong. But transformation of apoftate man From From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, Is work for Him that made him. He alone, Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's caufe Bled nobly, and their deeds, as they deserve, Receive proud recompence. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. Th' hiftoric muse, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest times; and fculpture, in her turn, Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass To guard them, and t' immortalize her trust. But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, To those who, pofted at the shrine of truth, Have fall'n in her defence. A patriot's blood, Well |