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And he fall gild yon mountains height again,
E’er yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain.

Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent
That virtue points to ? Can a life thus spent
Lead to the bliss she promises the wise,
Detach the soul from earth, and speed her to the skies?
Ye devotees to your ador'd employ,
Enthufiafts, drunk with an unreal joy,
Love makes the music of the blest above,
Heav'ns harmony is universal love;
And earthly sounds, though sweet and well combin'd,
And lenient as soft opiates to the mind,
Leave vice and folly unsubdu'd behind.

Grey dawn appears, the sportsman and his train
Speckle the bosom of the distant plain,
'Iis he, the Nimrod of the neighb’ring lairs,
Save that his scent is less acute than their's,
For persevering chace, and headlong leaps,
True beagle as the staunckest hound he keeps.
Charg’d with the folly of his life's mad scene,
He takes offer.ce, and wonders what you mea 1 ;



The joy, the danger and the toil o'erpays,
'Tis exercise, and health and length of days,
Again impetuous to the field he flies,
Leaps ev'ry fence but one, there falls and dies ;
Like a Nain deer, the tumbril brings him home,
Unmiss'd but by his dogs and by his groom.
Ye clergy, while

orbit is

your place, Lights of the world, and stars of human raceBut if eccentric


your sphere,
Prodigious, ominous, and view'd with fear.
The comets baneful influence is a dream,
Your's real, and pernicious in th' extreme.
What then-are appetites and lusts laid down,
With the same ease the man puts on his gown?
Will av'rice and concupiscence give place,
Charm’d by the sounds, your rev’rence, or your grace?
No. But his own engagement binds him faft,
Or if it does not, brands him to the last
What atheists call him, a designing knave,
A mere church juggler, hypocrite and flave.


Oh laugh, or mourn with me, the rueful jest,
A caffock'd huntsman, and a fiddling priest;
He from Italian songsters takes his uce,
Set Paul to music, he shall quote

him too.
He takes the field, the master of the pack
Cries, well done Saint-and claps him on the back.
Is this the path of sanctity? Is this
To stand a way-mark in the road to bliss ?
Himself a wand'rer from the narrow way,
His filly fheep, what wonder if they stray?
Go, cast your orders at your Bishop's feet,
your dishonour'd

gown to Monmouth Street,
The sacred function, in your hands is made,
Sad sacrilege! No function but a trade.
Occiduus is a pastor of renown,
When he has pray'd and preach'd the fabbath down,
With wire and catgut he concludes the day,
Quav'ring and femiquav’ring care away.
The full concerto swells upon your ear;
All elbows shake, Look in, and you would swear

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The Babylonian tyrant with a nod
Had summon'd them to serve his golden God.
So well that thought th' employment seems to suit,
Psalt'ry and sackbut, dulcimer, and Aute,
Oh fie! 'Tis evangelical and pure,
Observe each face, how sober and demure,
Extasy sets her stamp on ev'ry mien,
Chins fall’n, and not an eye-ball to be seen.
Still I infift, though music heretofore
Has charm'd me much, not ev'n Occiduus more,
Love, joy and peace make harmony, more meet
For sabbath evenings, and perhaps as sweet.

Will not the sickliest sheep of ev'ry dock,
Resort to this example as a rock,
There stand and justify the foul abuse
Of fabbath hours, with plausible excuse?
If apostolic gravity be free
To play the fool on Sundays, why not we?
If he, the tinkling harpsichord regards
As inoffenfive, what offence in cards ?

Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay,
Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play.'

Oh Italy! Thy fabbaths will be soon
Our sabbaths, clos'd with mumm'ry and buffoon.
Preaching and pranks will share the motley scene,
Our's parcelld out, as thine have ever been,
God's worship and the mountebank between.
W'hat says the prophet? Let that day be blest
With holiness and consecrated rest.
Pastime and bus'ness both it should exclude,
And bar the door the moment they intrude,
Nobly distinguish'd above all the fix,
By deeds in which the world must never mix,
Hear him again. He calls it a delight,
A day of luxury, observ'd aright,
When the glad soul is made heav'ns welcome guest,
Sits banquetting, and God provides the feast..
But triflers are engag‘d and cannot come;
Their answer to the call is-Not at home.

Oh the dear pleasures of the velvet plain, The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again. E


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