The ARGUMENT.

Evander is a fober, virtuous youth, of a mild and peaceable difpofition: who having been educated on the plan of natural religion and focial virtue; and having efcaped the reigning vices of the age; expected to be acquitted at the bar of fupreme juftice, and finally to obtain the approbation and favour of his Maker, by his generofity and goodness, by his exemplary virtue, by the purity of his intentions, and the integrity and uprightness of his conduct. Being accuftomed to decide every debate by Reafon, and the nature of things, he had early imbibed very low conceptions of the word of God; being poffefs'd with an utter abhorrence of every thing that is called Enthufiafm, he questioned and defpifed the operations of his Spirit; and as he could not comprehend how his moral character could be adorned with the riches of another; it is not to be expected he would defire any better Righteousness than his own. Notwithstanding thefe expectations and fupports he was lately under very great diftrefs of mind. The pride of his heart could not prevail fo far on his understanding as to perfuade him that he had not finned. The errors, and follies of his life were in a very strange and unaccountable manner laid before him. Their weight feemed greater and greater. Every refuge failed. And his boafted reafon and virtue proved but miferable comforters in the day of diftrefs. In fuch circumftances he is introduced in this Dialogue in which Sylvia his wife learns the caufe of his diftrefs; is very much furprised that a perfon of his conduct and character should fall into dejection on Juch an account; and endeavours to comfort him from the confideration of his former fobriety and virtue.

DIALOGUE the FIRST.

YET

EVANDER. SYLVIA.

EVANDER.

ET let me ftand my ground, hold faft my hope,
And fhew myself a man. Why should I think

My fins too big for mercy? Lives the man

That never fin'd? Is not our nature prope

To error; mix'd with frailty; and remote

From where perfection ftands? Is not heav'n's King Immutably and infinitely good;

And mercy his delight? Does not his eye

Survey our frame, and know we are but duft?

Whence then my fear? Can I be charg'd with crimes
So aggravated, or fo black, as those

Which stain the fouls of thousands? Surely no.
Then reft my heart and lay faft hold on peace.
But ftill I ftrive in vain: from fome ftrange fource
Which I can't comprehend, a flood of thought
Refiftlefs pours upon my lab'ring mind,

And bears down all before it. Let me think!
Why should I tremble thus ? I ne'er was found
Amongst the fons of Violence or Luft;
Nor join'd the direful train that dare the skies.
But yet I fear I've scorn'd the holy Word
Of the Moft High: and what degree of Guilt
Hence faftens on me, is an awful Question
That foars above my reach: I fear 'tis great,

But were it greater than my

fears prefage,

The brighter shines that Mercy which forgives.
Yet fomething rifes in my Soul that will
Not thus be fatisfi'd: but like a ftern
And fwift avenger, clofe purfues my steps,
Repeats the charge, and faftens it upon me.
Where fhall I look for aid? or by what strength
Maintain my ground against the latent foe,

That wounds my peace? Reafon! the power is thine,
Great Reason! thou bright offspring of the skies!
Thou ray of light shot from the fount fupreme
Into the foul of man; to guide his ways
And teach his wand'ring fteps, to find his God;
To thee I look! to calm each reftlefs thought,
And lead me in the way of hope and peace.
Say then, bright Reafon! for all truth is thine;
Thou only reft the weary foul can find
In Nature's wide domain! O fay, what peace,
What comfort canft thou give a burden'd Soul,
Harrass'd with guilt, and bordering on dispair,
That feeks Creation round, to find fome prop
To bear her finking hope? Thus Reafon fpeaks;
At least, the reafoners of the age maintain,

And thus have I oft liften'd and believed:

The Judge fupreme is infinitely good;
Impartial Mercy crowns his every a&;
And his tribunal lenity furrounds:
He'll wink at human frailty; at his bar
Our errors and mistakes will be forgiven;
And moft atrocious crimes, repented of,
Be blotted from the records of the fkies."
Were these conclufions fure, there might be hope;

But

But if they're falfe, and I should rest upon them
As the fure bafis of eternal hopes;

How fhall I ftand in that amazing day,
When Wrath divine by an avenging God,
Is pour'd in tempeft on a guilty world!
Such dreadful weight, and such importance lie
Upon this question, that I would not pafs
It flightly by; but fearch it to the bottom.
My foul alarm'd, demands to know the worst:
But loft, bewilder'd, and confus'd; in vain
I fearch all Nature through in queft of Truth.
But ftill I feek! 'tis Truth that must be found
To heal my foul, or else more deeply wound.

EVANDER. SYLVIA.

SYLVIA.

Say my Evander! what unusual care Broods in your breast, and makes your visage wear So deep a gloom? late was your look ferene As the fmooth lake that fhines on yonder green; Peaceful and clear its liquid cryftal lies, And all its bofom open to the fkies; While the reflecting surface faintly fhews Each flow'r and herb that on its border grows: Such was your mind; now clouded with dismay By fome dark fullen thought that shuns the day; As when foul torrents and fucceffive rains

Swell the vex'd wave, and dafh the flood with ftains.

EVANDER.

Such ftormy looks to me can ne'er belong: Thy anxious heart mùft fure conjecture wrong.

SY L

SYLVIA.

Thrice have I feen the chearful morning rife,
And spread her orient-purple round the skies;
Thrice hath the fun purfu'd his azure way,
And o'er yon western mountains drove the day;
Since you have been to restless thought inclin'd;
And these new griefs have labour'd in
your mind:
Oft I enquir'd your health; you cold reply'd,
Inquiry fhun'd, and ftrove your care to hide;
But ftrove in vain.

EVANDER.

-No force my love can bind,

Nor wit explain the movements of the mind;
Sometimes fhe'll ftray through fancy's flow'ry fields,
And sport amongst the beauties nature yields;
Anon, through Reason's winding maze she roves,
And restless strives to gain the truth fhe loves;
If here fhe fail, feverer tasks employ;

She feeks the fhade, and wanders far from joy.

SYLVIA.

Where'er your wand'ring thoughts may choose to ftray,

They seem to take a solitary way;

Dismal to me, unpleasing, and unkind;

What need I speak! my words are empty wind;
You mark not when I end, or when begin;

But all your foul collected, rolls within.