Man on the dubious waves of error toss'd,
His ship half-founder'd and his compass lost,
Sees, far as human optics may command,
A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land;
Spreads all his canvas, every sinew plies,
Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies.
Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes,
His well-built systems, philosophic dreams,
Deceitful views of future bliss, farewell!
He reads his sentence at the flames of hell.
Hard lot of man! to toil for the reward
Of virture, and yet lose it!--Wherefore hard?
He that would win the race must guide his horse
Obedient to the customs of the course,
Else, though unequall'd to the goal he flies,
A meaner than himself shall gain the prize.
Grace leads the right way,--if you choose the wrong,
Take it, and perish, but restrain your tongue;
Charge not, with light sufficient and left free,
Your wilful suicide on God's decree.

Who judged the Pharisee? What odious cause
Exposed him to the vengeance of the laws?
Had he seduced a virgin, wrong'd a friend,
Or stabb'd a man to serve some private end?
Was blasphemy his sin? Or did he stray
From the strict duties of the sacred day?
Sit long and late at the carousing board?
(Such were the sins with which he charged his Lord.)
No--the man's morals were exact. What then?
'Twas his ambition to be seen of men.
His virtues were his pride; and that one vice
Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price;
He wore them as fine trappings for a show,
A praying, synagogue-frequenting beau.
The self-applauding bird, the peacock, see--
Mark what a sumptuous pharisee is he!
Meridian sunbeams tempt him to unfold
His radiant glories, azure, green and gold:
He treads as if, some solemn music near,
His measured step were govern'd by his ear,
And seems to say--"Ye meaner fowl, give place;
I am all splendour, dignity, and grace!'
Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes,
Though he, too, has a glory in his plumes.
He, Christian-like, retreats with modest mien
To the close copse of far-sequester'd green,
And shines without desiring to be seen.
The plea of works, as arrogant and vain,
Heaven turns from with abhorrence and disdain;
Not more affronted by avow'd neglect
Than by the mere dissembler's feigned respect.
What is all righteousness that men devise,
What, but a sordid bargain for the skies?
But Christ as soon would abdicate His own,
As stoop from heaven to sell the proud a throne.

Some lead a life unblameable and just,
Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust:
They never sin--or if (as all offend)
Some trivial slips their daily walk attend,
The poor are near at hand, the charge is small,
A light gratuity atones for all.
For though the Pope has lost his interest 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 Heaven no doubt shall be their home at last.
Come, then--a still, small whisper in your ear--
He has no hope that never had a fear;
And he that never doubted of his state,
He may perhaps--perhaps he may--too late.

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 heavenly 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.

How readily, upon the gospel plan,
That question has its answer--"What is man?'
Sinful and weak, in every sense a wretch,
An instrument whose chords upon the stretch
And strain'd to the last screw that he can bear
Yield only discord in his Maker's ear;
Once the blest residence of truth divine,
Glorious as Solyma's interior shrine,
Where in His own oracular abode
Dwelt visibly the light-creating God;
But made long since, like Babylon of old,
A den of mischiefs never to be told.
And she, once mistress of the realms around
Now scatter'd wide and nowhere to be found,
As soon shall rise and reascend the throne
By native power and energy her own,
An Nature, at her own peculiar cost,
Restore to man the glories he has lost.
Go, bid the winter cease to chill the year,
Replace the wandering comet in his sphere,
Then boast--but wait for that unhoped-for hour--
The self-restoring arm of human power.
But what is man in his own proud esteem?
Hear him, himself the poet and the theme:
"A monarch clothed with majesty and awe,
His mind his kingdom, and his will his law;
Grace in his mien, and glory in his eyes,
Supreme on earth, and worthy of the skies,
Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod
And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a god!'
So sings he, charm'd with his own mind and form,
The song magnificent--the theme a worm!
Himself so much the source of his delight,
His Maker has no beauty in his sight.
See where he sits, contemplative and fixed,
Pleasure and wonder in his features mix'd,
His passions tamed and all at his control,
How prefect the composure of his soul!
Complacency has breathed a gentle gale
O'er all his thoughts, and swell'd his easy sail.
His books well trimm'd and in the gayest style,
Like regimental coxcombs rank and file,
Adorn his intellects as well as shelves
And teach him notions splendid as themselves;
The Bible only stands neglected there,
Though that of all most worthy of his care,
And, like an infant troublesome awake,
Is left to sleep for peace and quiet sake.

Oh, that unwelcome voice of heavenly love,
Sad messenger of mercy from above,
How does it grate upon his thankless ear,
Crippling his pleasures with the cramp of fear!
His wit and judgement at continual strife,
That civil war embitters all his life;
In vain he points his powers against the skies,
In vain he closes or averts his eyes,
Truth will intrude--she bids him yet beware--
And shakes the sceptic in the scorner's chair.
Though various foes against the Truth combine,
Pride above all opposes her design;
Pride, of a growth superior to the rest,
The subtlest serpent with the loftiest crest,
Swells at the thought and, kindling into rage,
Would hiss the cherub Mercy from the stage.
"And is the soul indeed so lost?' she cries,
"Fallen from her glory, and too weak to rise?
Torpid and dull beneath a frozen zone,
Has she no spark that may be deem'd her own?
Grant her indebted to what zealots call
Grace undeserved, yet surely not for all;
Some beams of rectitude she yet displays,
Some love of virtue, and some power to praise;
Can lift herself above corporeal things
And, soaring on her own unborrow'd wings,
Possess herself of all that's good or true,
Assert the skies, and vindicate her due.
Past indiscretion is a venial crime;
And if the youth, unmellow'd yet by time,
Bore on his branch, luxuriant then and rude,
Fruits of a blighted size, austere and crude,
Maturer years shall happier stores produce
And meliorate the well-concocted juice.
Then, conscious of her meritorious zeal,
To Justice she may make her bold appeal
And leave to Mercy, with a tranquil mind,
The worthless and unfruitful of mankind.'
Hear then how Mercy, slighted and defied,
Retorts the affront against the crown of Pride:
"Perish the virtue, as it ought, abhorr'd,
And the fool with it that insults his Lord.
The atonement a Redeemer's love has wrought
Is not for you--the righteous need it not.
Seest thou yon harlot, wooing all she meets,
The worn-out nuisance of the public streets,
Herself from morn to night, from night to morn,
Her own abhorrence, and as much your scorn?
The gracious shower, unlimited and free,
Shall fall on her, when Heaven denies it thee.
Of all that wisdom dictates, this the drift--
That man is dead in sin, and life a gift.'