"Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts,
Explains all mysteries, except her own,
And so illuminates the path of life,
That fools discover it, and stray no more.
Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir,
My man of morals, nurtur'd in the shades
Of Academus-is this false or true?

Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools?
If Christ, then why resort at ev'ry turn
To Athens or to Rome, for wisdom short
Of man's occasions, when in him reside
Grace, knowledge, comfort-an unfathom'd store?
How oft, when Paul has serv'd us with a text,
Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preach'd!
Men that, if now alive, would sit content
And humble learners of a Saviour's worth,

Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth,
Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too!
And thus it is.-The pastor, either vain
By nature, or by flatt'ry made so, taught
To gaze at his own splendour, and t'exalt
Absurdly, not his office, but himself;
Or unenlighten'd, and too proud too learn;
Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach;
Perverting often by the stress of lewd
And loose example, whom he should instruct;
Exposes, and holds up to broad disgrace,
The noblest function, and discredits much
The brightest truths, that man has ever seen.
For ghostly counsel; if it either fall

Below the exigence, or be not back'd

With show of love, at least with hopeful proof
Of some sincerity on the giver's part;

Or be dishonour'd in th' exterior form
And mode of it's conveyance by such tricks,
As move derision, or by foppish airs
And histrionic mumm'ry, that let down
The pulpit to the level of the stage;
Drops from the lips a disregarded thing.

The weak perhaps are mov'd, but are not taught,

That gives it all it's flavour. We have run
Through ev'ry change, that Fancy, at the loom
Exhausted, has had genius to supply;

And, studious of mutation still, discard
A real elegance, a little us'd,

For monstrous novelty and strange disguise.
We sacrifice to dress, till household joys

And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry,
And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires;
And introduces hunger, frost, and wo,

While prejudice in men of stronger mind
Takes deeper root, cozirm'd by what they
A relaxation of religion's hold
Upon the roving and catuter'd heart
Soon follows, and, the curb of constit
The laity run wild.-But do they now?
Note their extravagance, and be cousin's
As nations, ignorant of God, contive
A wooden one; so we, no longer taught
By monitors, that mother church soppies,
Now make our own. Posterity will s
(If e'er posterity see verse of mine)
Some fifty or a hundred lastrums bence,
What was a monitor in George's days!
My very gentle reader, yet unbora,
Of whom I needs must augur better tha
Since Heav'n would sure grow weary of
Productive only of a race like ours,
A monitor is wood-plank shares this.
We wear it at our backs. There, closely b
And neatly fitted, it compresses hard
The prominent and most unsightly bones,
And binds the shoulders ist. We prove
Sov'reign and most effectual to secure
A form, not now gymnastic as of yare,
From rickets and distortion, else our let
But thus adinouish'd, we can walk erect-
One proof at least of manhood! while the f
Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge
Our habits, costlier than Lucullus wore,
And by caprice as multiplied as his,
Just please us while the fashion is at foll
But change with ev'ry moon. The syph
Who waits to dress us, arbitrates their date;
Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye;
Finds one ill made, another obsolete,
This fits not nicely, that is ill conceiv'd;
And, making prize of all that he condes,
With our expenditure defrays his own,
Variety 's the very spice of life,

Where peace and hospitality might reign.
What man that lives, and that knows how to live,
Would fail t'exhibit at the public shows
A form as splendid as the proudest there,
Though appetite raise outcries at the cost?
A man o' th' town dines late, but soon enough,
With reasonable forecast and dispatch,
T ensure a sidebox station at half price.
You think perhaps, so delicate his dress,
His daily fare as delicate. Alas!
He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seems
With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet!
The rout is Folly's circle, which she draws
With magic wand. So potent is the spell,
That none, decoy'd into that fatal ring,
Unless by Heav'n's peculiar grace, escape.
There we grow early gray, but never wise;
There form connexions, but acquire no friend;
Solicit pleasure hopeless of success;
Waste youth in occupations only fit
For second childhood, and devote old age
To sports, which only childhood could excuse.
There they are happiest, who dissemble best
Their weariness; and they the most polite,
Who squander time and treasure with a smile,
Though at their own destruction. She that asks
Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all,
And hates their coming. They (what cau they
less?)

Make just reprisals; and with cringe and shrug,

And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her.
All catch the frenzy, downward from her grace,
Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies,
And gild our chamber ceilings as they pass,
To her, who, frugal only that her thrift
May feed excesses she can ill afford,

Is hackney'd home unlackey'd; who, in haste
Alighting, turns the key in her own door,
And, at the watchman's lantern borr'wing light,
Finds a cold bed her only comfort left.

Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their wives,
On Fortune's velvet altar off'ring up

Their last poor pittance-Fortune, most severe
Of goddesses yet known, and costlier far

Than all, that held their routs in Juno's heav'n.-
So fare we in this prison-house the World;
And 'tis a fearful spectacle to see

So many maniacs dancing in their chains.
They gaze upon the links, that hold them fast,
With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot,
Then shake them in despair, and dance again!
Now basket up the family of plagues,
That waste our vitals; peculation, sale
Of honour, perjury, corruption, frauds
By forgery, by subterfuge of law,

By tricks and lies as num'rous and as keen
As the necessities their authors feel;
Then cast them, closely bundled, ev'ry brat
At the right door. Profusion is the sire.
Profusion unrestrain'd, with all that's base
In character, has litter'd all the land,
And bred, within the mem'ry of no few,
A priesthood, such as Baal's was of old,
A people, such as never was till now.
It is a hungry vice:-it eats up all,
That gives society it's beauty, strength,
Convenience, and security, and use:
Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapp'd
And gibbeted, as fast as catchpole claws
Can seize the slipp'ry prey: unties the knot

Of union, and converts the sacred band,
That holds mankind together, to a scourge.
Profusion, deluging a state with lusts

Of grossest nature and of worst effects,
Prepares it for it's ruin: hardens, blinds,
And warps, the consciences of public men,
Till they can laugh at Virtue; mock the fools,
That trust them; and in th' end disclose a face,
That would have shock'd Credulity herself,
Unmask'd, vouchsafing this their sole excuse-
Since all alike are selfish, why not they?
This does Profusion, and th' accursed cause
Of such deep mischief has itself a cause.
In colleges and halls in ancient days,
When learning, virtue, piety, and truth,
Were precious, and inculcated with care,
There dwelt a sage call'd Discipline. His head,
Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er,
Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth,
But strong for service still, and unimpair'd.
His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile
Play'd on his lips; and in his speech was heard
Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love.
The occupation dearest to his heart

Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke
The head of modest and ingenuous worth,

That blush'd at it's own praise; and press the youth
Close to his side, that pleas'd him. Learning grew
Beneath his care a thriving vig'rous plant;
The mind was well inform'd, the passions held
Subordinate, and diligence was choice.

If e'er it chanc'd, as sometimes chance it must,
That one among so many overleap'd

The limits of control, his gentle eye

Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke:
His frown was full of terrour, and his voice
Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe,
As left him not, till penitence had won
Lost favour back again, and clos'd the breach.
But Discipline, a faithful servant long,