For fure in nothing we approach fo nigh
The great example of divinity,
As in benevolence: the patriot's foul
Knows not self-center'd for itself to roll,
But warms, enlightens, animates the whole:
Its mighty orb embraces first his friends,
His country next, then man; nor here it ends,
But to the meanest animal descends.
Wife Nature has this focial law confirm'd;
By forming man fo helpless, and unarm'd;
His want of others' aid, and pow'r of speech
T'implore that aid, this leffon daily teach.
Mankind with other animals compare,
Single how weak, and impotent they are!
But view them in their complicated state,
Their pow'rs how wond'rous,and their ftrength how great,
When focial virtue individuals joins,
And in one folid mass, like gravity combines !
This then's the first great law by Nature giv'n,
Stamp'd on our fouls, and ratify'd by Heav'n;
All from utility this law approve,
As every private blifs muft fpring from focial love.
Why deviate then fo many from this law?
See paffions, cuftom, vice, and folly draw!
Survey the rolling globe from Eaft to Weft,
How few, alas! how very few are bleft?
Beneath the frozen poles, and burning line,
What poverty, and indolence combine,
To cloud with Error's mifts the human mind?
No trace of man, but in the form we find.
And are we free from error, and distress,
Whom Heav'n with clearer light has pleas'd to blefs?
Whom true Religion leads? (for fhe but leads
By foft perfuafion, not by force proceeds ;)
Behold how we avoid this radiant fun!
This proffer'd guide how obftinately fhun,
And after Sophiftry's vain systems run!
For these as for effentials we engage
In wars, and maffacres, with holy rage;
Brothers by brothers' impious hands are flain,
Mistaken Zeal, how favage is thy reign!
Unpunish'd vices here fo much abound,
All right, and wrong, all order they confound;
These are the giants, who the gods defy,
And mountains heap on mountains to the sky.
Sees this th' Almighty Judge, or feeing spares,
And deems the crimes of man beneath his cares?
He fees; and will at last rewards bestow,
And punishments, not lefs affur'd for being flow. Nor doubt I, though this state confus'd appears, That ev'n in this God fometimes interferes : Sometimes, left man fhould quite his pow'r difown, He makes that pow'r to trembling nations known: But rarely this; not for each vulgar end,
As Superftition's idle tales pretend,
Who thinks all foes to God, who are her own,
Directs his thunder, and ufurps his throne.
Nor know I not, how much a conscious mind
Avails to punish, or reward mankind;
Ev'n in this life thou, impious wretch, must feel
The Fury's fcourges, and th' infernal wheel;
From man's tribunal, though thou hop'st to run,
Thyfelf thou can'ft not, nor thy confcience fhun:
What must thou fuffer, when each dire disease,
The progeny of Vice, thy fabric feize?
Confumption, fever, and the racking pain
Of fpafms, and gout, and stone, a frightful train!
When life new tortures can alone fupply,
Life thy fole hope thou'lt hate, yet dread to die.
Should fuch a wretch to num'rous years arrive,
It can be little worth his while to live;
No honors, no regards his age attend,
Companions fly: he ne'er could have a friend :
His flatterers leave him, and with wild affright
He looks within, and fhudders at the fight:
When threat'ning Death uplifts his pointed dart,
With what impatience he applies to art,
Life to prolong amidst disease and pains!
Why this, if after it no sense remains ?
Why fhould he choose these miseries to endure,
If Death could grant an everlasting cure?
'Tis plain there's fomething whispers in his ear,
(Though fain he'd hide it) he has much to fear.
See the reverfe! how happy thofe we find,
Who know by merit to engage mankind!
Prais'd by each tongue, by every heart belov'd,
For Virtues practis'd, and for Arts improv'd :
Their easy aspects fhine with smiles ferene,
And all is peace, and happiness within:
Their fleep is ne'er disturb'd by fears, or ftrife,
Nor luft, nor wine, impair the springs of life.
Him Fortune cannot fink, nor much elate,
Whofe views extend beyond this mortal state;
By age when fummon'd to refign his breath,
Calm, and ferene, he fees approaching death,
As the fafe port, the peaceful filent shore,
Where he may reft, life's tedious voyage o'er :
He, and he only, is of death afraid,
Whom his own confcience has a coward made;
Whilft he, who Virtue's radiant course has run,
Descends like a ferenely-fetting fun:
His thoughts triumphant Heav'n alone employs,
And hope anticipates his future joys.
So good, fo bleft th' illuftrious Hough we find,
Whofe image dwells with pleasure on my mind;
The Mitre's glory, Freedom's constant friend,
In times which ask'd a champion to defend
Who after near a hundred virtuous years,
His fenfes perfect, free from pains and fears,
Replete with life, with honors, and with age,
Like an applauded actor left the stage;
Or like fome victor in th' Olympic games,
Who, having run his courfe, the crown of Glory claims. From this just contraft plainly it appears,
How Confcience can inspire both hopes and fears;
But whence proceed these hopes, or whence this dread, If nothing really can affect the dead?
See all things join to promife, and prefage
The fure arrival of a future age!
Bishop of Worcester,
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