Had fhed immortal glories on your brow,
That all your virtues cannot purchase now.
All joy to the believer! He can speak-
Trembling yet happy, confident yet meek.
Since the dear hour that brought me to thy foot,
And cut up all my follies by the root,
I never trusted in an arm but thine,
Nor hop'd, but in thy righteousness divine:
My pray'rs and alms, imperfect and defil'd,
Were but the feeble efforts of a child,
Howe'er perform'd, it was their brightest part,
That they proceeded from a grateful heart:
Cleans'd in thine own all-purifying blood,
Forgive their evil and accept their good;
I caft them at thy feet-my only plea
Is what it was, dependence upon thee,
While struggling in the vale of tears below,
That never fail'd, nor fhall it fail me now.
Angelie gratulations rend the fkies,
Pride falls unpitied, never more to rife,
Humility is crown'd, and faith receives the prize.
In England's cafe to move the mufe to tears?
From fide to fide of her delightful ifle,
Is the not cloath'd with a perpetual smile?
Can nature add a charm, or art confer
A new found luxury not seen in her?
Where under heav'n is pleasure more pursued,
Or where does cold reflection lefs intrude?
Her fields a rich expanfe of wavy corn
Pour'd out from plenty's overflowing horn;
Ambrofial gardens in which art fupplies
The fervor and the force of Indian skies;
Her peaceful fhores, where bufy commerce waits
To pour his golden tide through all her gates;
Whom fiery funs that scorch the ruffet ipice
Of eastern groves, and oceans floor'd with ice,
Forbid in vain to push his daring way
To darker climes, or climes of brighter day;
Whom the winds waft where'er the billows roll,
From the world's girdle to the frozen pole;
The chariots bounding in her wheel-worn streets,
Her vaults below, where ev'ry vintage meets,
Her theatres, her revels, and her sports,
The scenes to which not youth alone reforts,
But age in spite of weakness and of pain
Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again,
All speak her happy-let the muse look round
From East to Weft, no forrow can be found,
Or only what in cottages confin'd,
Sighs unregarded to the paffing wind;
weep for England, what appears
In England's cafe to move the mufe to tears?
The prophet wept for Ifrael, wifh'd his eyes
Were fountains fed with infinite fupplies;
For Ifrael dealt in robbery and wrong,
There were the fcorner's and the fland'rers's tongue;
Oaths used as playthings or convenient tools,
As Int'reft biafs'd knaves, or fashion fools;
Adult'ry neighing at his neighbour's door,
Oppreffion labouring hard to grind the poor,
The partial balance and deceitful weight,
The treach'rous smile, a mask for secret hate,
Hypocrify, formality in pray'r,
And the dull service of the lip were there.
Her women infolent and felf-carefs'd,
By vanity's unwearied finger drefs'd,
Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart
To modeft cheeks, and borrowed one from art!
Were just fuch trifles, without worth or use,
As filly pride and idlenefs produce':
Curl'd, fcented, fürbelow'd and flounc'd around,
With feet too delicate to touch the ground,
They stretch'd the neck, and roll'd the wanton eye,
And figh'd for ev'ry fool that flutter'd by.
He faw his people flaves to ev'ry luft,
Lew'd, avaricious, arrogant, unjust,
He heard the wheels of an avenging God
Groan heavily along the diftant road;
Saw Babylon fet wide her two leav'd brass
To let the military deluge pafs;
Jerufalem a prey, her glory foil'd,
Her princes captive, and her treasures spoil'd;
Wept till all Ifrael heard his bitter cry,
Stamp'd with his foot and fmote upon his thigh;
But wept, and ftamp'd, and fmote his thigh in vain,
Pleasure is deaf when told of future pain,
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