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Shall he, for such deliv'rance freely wrought,
Recompense ill? He trembles at the thought.
His Master's int'rest and his own combin'd
Prompt ev'ry movement of his heart and mind:
Thought, word and deed, his liberty evince,
His freedom is the freedom of a prince.
Man's obligations infinite, of course

His life should prove that he perceives their force; His utmost he can render is but small

The principle and motive all in all.

You have two servants-Tom, an arch, sly rogue,
From top to toe the Geta now in vogue,
Genteel in figure, easy in address,

Moves without noise, and swift as an express,
Reports a message with a pleasing grace,
Expert in all the duties of his place;

Say, on what hinge does his obedience move?
Has he a world of gratitude and love?

No, not a spark-'tis all mere sharper's play;
He likes your house, your housemaid, and your

pay;

Reduce his wages, or get rid of her,

Tom quits you, with-Your most obedient, Sir.
The dinner serv'd, Charles takes his usual stand,
Watches your eye, anticipates command;
Sighs if perhaps your appetite should fail;
And if he but suspects a frown, turns pale;
Consults all day your int'rest and your ease,
Richly rewarded if he can but please;

And, proud to make his firm attachment known,
To save your life would nobly risk his own.

Now which stands highest in your serious thought? Charles, without doubt, say you-and so he ought; One act, that from a thankful heart proceeds, Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds.

Thus Heav'n approves as honest and sincere The work of gen'rous love and filial fear; But with averted eyes th' omniscient Judge Scorns the base hireling, and the slavish drudge.

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For though the pope has lost his int'rest here,
And pardons are not sold as once they were,
No papist more desirous to compound,
Than some grave sinners upon English ground.
That plea refuted, other quirks they seek-
Mercy is infinite, and man is weak;
The future shall obliterate the past,

And Heav'n no doubt shall be their home at last.
Come then-a still, small whisper in your ear--
He has no hope who never had a fear;
And he that never doubted of his state,

He may perhaps-perhaps he may-too late.
The path to bliss abounds with many a snare;
Learning is one, and wit, however rare.
The Frenchman, first in literary fame,
(Mention him if you please. Voltaire? The same.)
With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied,

Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and died f

The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew
Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew;
An infidel in health, but what when sick?
Oh-then a text would touch him at the quick:
View him at Paris in his last career,
Surrounding throngs the demigod revere,
Exalted on his pedestal of pride,

And fum'd with frankincense on ev'ry side,
He begs their flatt'ry with his latest breath,
And smother'd in't at last, is prais'd to death.
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store;
Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit,
Receives no praise; but, though her lot be such,
(Toilsome and indigent) she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true--
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;
And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

O happy peasant! Oh unhappy bard!
His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward;
He prais'd perhaps for ages yet to come,
She never heard of half a mile from home:
He lost in errours his vain heart prefers,
She safe in the simplicity of hers.

Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound
In science, win one inch of heav'nly ground.
And is it not a mortifying thought

1

The poor should gain it, and the rich should not? No-the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget

One pleasure lost, lose Heav'n without regret; Regret would rouse them, and give birth to pray'r, Pray'r would add faith, and faith would fix them there.

Not that the Former of us all in this,
Or aught he does, is govern'd by caprice;
The supposition is replete with sin,

And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in.
Not so the silver trumpet's heav'nly call
Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all:
Kings are invited, and would kings obey,

No slaves on Earth more welcome were than they:
But royalty, nobility, and state,

Are such a dead preponderating weight,
That endless bliss (how strange soe'er it seem)
In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam.
"Tis open, and ye cannot enter-why?
Because ye will not, Conyers would reply-
And he says much that many may dispute
And cavil at with ease, but none refute.
O bless'd effect of penury and want,

The seed sown there, how vig'rous is the plant!
No soil like poverty for growth divine,
As leanest land supplies the richest wine.
Earth gives too little, giving only bread,
To nourish pride, or turn the weakest head:
To them the sounding jargon of the schools
Seems what it is-a cap and bell for fools:
The light they walk by, kindled from above,
Shows them the shortest way to life and love:
They, strangers to the controversial field,
Where deists, always foil'd, yet scorn to yield,
And never check'd by what impedes the wise,
Believe, rush forward, and possess the prize.

Envy, ye great, the dull unletter'd small:
Ye have much cause for envy-but not all.
We boast some rich ones whom the Gospel sways,
And one who wears a coronet and prays;
Like gleanings of an olive-tree they show,
Here and there one upon the topmost bough.
How readily upon the Gospel plan,

That question has it's answer-What is man?
Sinful and weak, in ev'ry sense a wretch;
An instrument, whose chords upon the stretch,

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