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PROVIDENCE.

Bold is the wretch, and blasphemous the man,
Who, finite, will attempt to scan

The works of him that 's infinitely wise,
And those he cannot comprehend, denies;

As if a space immense were measurable by a span.
Thus the proud sceptic will not own
That Providence the world directs,
Or its affairs inspects;

But leaves it to itself alone.
How does it with almighty grandeur suit,
To be concern'd with our impertinence;
Or interpose his power for the defence
Of a poor mortal, or a senseless brute?
Villains could never so successful prove,
And unmolested in those pleasures live,

Which honour, ease, and affluence give;
While such as Heaven adore, and virtue love,
And most the care of Providence deserve,
Oppress'd with pain and ignominy starve.
What reason can the wisest show,
Why murder does unpunish'd go,

If the Most High, that 's just and good,
Intends and governs all below,

And yet regards not the loud cries of guiltless blood?
But shall we things unsearchable deny,
Because our reason cannot tell us why
They are allow'd, or acted by the Deity?
'Tis equally above the reach of thought,

To comprehend how matter should be brought
From nothing, as existent be

From all eternity;

And yet that matter is, we feel and see:
Nor is it easier to define,

What ligatures the soul and body join;

Or, how the memory does th' impression take
Of things, and to the mind restores them back.
Did not th' Almighty, with immediate care,
Direct and govern this capacious all,
How soon would things into confusion fall!
Earthquakes the trembling ground would tear,
And blazing comets rule the troubled air;
Wide inundations, with resistless force,
The lower provinces o'erflow,

In spite of all that human strength could do
To stop the raging sea's impetuous course:
Murder and Rapine every place would fill,

And sinking Virtue stoop to prosperous Ill;
Devouring Pestilence rave,

And all that part of nature which has breath
Deliver to the tyranny of Death,

And hurry to the dungeons of the grave,

If watchful Providence were not concern'd to save.
Let the brave speak, who oft has been
In dreadful sieges, and fierce battles seen,
How he 's preserv'd, when bombs and bullets fly
So thick, that scarce one inch of air is free;

And though he does ten thousand see
Fall at his feet, and in a moment die,
Unhurt retreats, or gains unhurt the victory.
Let the poor shipwreck'd sailor show,
To what invisible protecting power

He did his life and safety owe,
When the loud storm his well-built vessel tore,
And a half-shatter'd plank convey'd him to the shore.
Nay, let th' ungrateful sceptic tell us how
His tender infancy protection found,

And helpless childhood was with safety crown'd,
If he 'll no Providence allow;

When he had nothing but his nurse's arms To guard him from innumerable fatal harms: From childhood how to youth he ran Securely, and from thence to man; How, in the strength and vigour of his years, The feeble bark of life he saves, Amidst the fury of tempestuous waves, From all the dangers he foresees, or fears; Yet every hour 'twixt Scylla and Charybdis steers, If Providence, which can the seas command, Held not the rudder with a steady hand.

OMNIPRESENCE.

'Tis happy for the sons of men, that he, Who all existence out of nothing made, Supports his creatures by immediate aid: But then this all-intending Deity

Must Omnipresent be:

For how shall we by demonstration show
The Godhead is this moment here,
If he 's not present every where,
And always so?

What 's not perceptible by sense, may be
Ten thousand miles remote from me;
Unless his nature is from limitation free,
In vain we for protection pray;
For benefits receiv'd high altars raise,

And offer up our hymns and praise;
In vain his anger dread, or laws obey.
An absent god from ruin can defend

No more than can an absent friend;
No more is capable to know

How gratefully we make returns,

When the loud music sounds, or victim burns, Than a poor Indian slave of Mexico.

If so, 'tis equally in vain

The prosperous sings, and wretched mourns ; He cannot hear the praise, or mitigate the pain. But by what Being is confin'd

The Godhead we adore?

He must have equal or superior power.

If equal only, they each other bind,

So neither 's God, if we define him right,
For neither 's infinite.

But if the other have superior might,
Then he, we worship, can't pretend to be
Omnipotent, and free

From all restraint, and so no Deity.
If God is limited in space; his view,
His knowledge, power, and wisdom, is so too:
Unless we 'll own, that these perfections are
At all times present every where,
Yet he himself not actually there.

Which to suppose, that strange conclusion brings His essence and his attributes are different things.

IMMUTABILITY.

As the supreme, omniscient mind,
Is by no boundaries confin'd;

So Reason must acknowledge him to be
From possible mutation free:

For what He is, He was from all eternity.
Change, whether the effect of force or will,
Must argue imperfection still,
But imperfection in a Deity,
That's absolutely perfect, cannot be :
Who can compel, without his own consent,
A God to change that is omnipotent ?
And every alteration without force,

Is for the better or the worse.

He that is infinitely wise,

To alter for the worse will never choose,
That a depravity of nature shews:

And He, in whom all true perfection lies,
Cannot by change to greater excellencies rise.
If God be mutable, which way, or how,
Shall we demonstrate, that will please him now,
Which did a thousand years ago?
And 't is impossible to know,
What He forbids, or what He will allow.
Murder, enchantment, lust, and perjury,
Did in the foremost rank of vices stand,
Prohibited by an express command:
But whether such they still remain to be,
No argument will positively prove,
Without immediate notice from above;
If the Almighty Legislator can

Be chang'd, like his inconstant subject, man,
Uncertain thus what to perform or shun,
We all intolerable hazards run,

When an eternal stake is to be lost or won.

JUSTICE.

Rejoice, ye sons of Piety, and sing
Loud Hallelujahs to his glorious name,
Who was, and will for ever be the same:
Your grateful incense to his temples bring,
That from the smoking altars may arise
Clouds of perfumes to the imperial skies.
His promises stand firm to you,
And endless joys will be bestow'd,
As sure as that there is a God,

On all who virtue choose, and righteous paths pursue.
Nor should we more his menaces distrust,
For while he is a Deity he must

(As infinitely good) be infinitely just.

But does it with a gracious Godhead suit,
Whose mercy is his darling attribute,
To punish crimes that temporary be,
And those but trivial offences too,
Mere slips of human nature, small and few,

With everlasting misery?

This shocks the mind with deep reflections fraught, And Reason bends beneath the ponderous thought; Crimes take their estimate from guilt, and grow More heinous still, the more they do incense That God to whom all creatures owe

Profoundest reverence:

Though as to that degree they raise
The anger of the merciful Most High,
We have no standard to discern it by,
But the infliction he on the offender lays.
So that if endless punishment on all

Our unrepented sins must fall,
None, not the least, can be accounted small.
That God is in perfection just, must be
Allow'd by all that own a Deity:

If so, from equity he cannot swerve,
Nor punish sinners more than they deserve.
His will reveal'd, is both express and clear:
"Ye cursed of my Father, go
To everlasting woe."
If everlasting means eternal here,
Duration absolutely without end;
Against which sense some zealously contend,
That when applied to pains, it only means,
They shall ten thousand ages last:

Ten thousand, more, perhaps, when they are past;
But not eternal in a literal sense:

Yet own the pleasures of the just remain
So long as there 's a God exists to reign.
Though none can give a solid reason, why
The word eternity,

To Heaven and Hell indifferent join'd,
Should carry sense of a different kind;
And 't is a sad experiment to try.

GOODNESS.

But if there be one attribute divine With greater lustre than the rest can shine, "T is goodness, which we every moment see The Godhead exercise with such delight, It seems, it only seems, to be The best-belov'd perfection of the Deity, And more than infinite. Without that, he could never prove The proper objects of our praise or love; Were he not good, he 'd be no more concern'd To hear the wretched in affliction cry, Or see the guiltless for the guilty die, Than Nero, when the flaming city burn'd, And weeping Romans o'er its ruins mourn'd. Eternal justice then would be

But everlasting cruelty;

Power unrestrain'd, almighty violence;
And wisdom unconfin'd, but craft immense.
'T is goodness constitutes him that he is;
And those

Who will deny him this,

A god without a deity suppose.

When the lewd atheist blasphemously swears, By his tremendous name,

There is no God, but all 's a sham; Insipid tattle, praise, and prayers, Virtuc, pretence; and all the sacred rules Religion teaches, tricks to cully fools:

Justice would strike th' audacious villain dead,

But Mercy, boundless, saves his guilty head; Gives him protection, and allows him bread. Does not the sinner whom no danger awes, Without restraint, his infamy pursue,

Rejoice, and glory in it too;

Laugh at the power divine, and ridicule his laws; Labour in vice his rivals to excel,

That, when he's dead, they may their pupils tell How wittily the fool was damn'd, how hard he fell?

Yet this vile wretch in safety lives, Blessings in common with the best receives; Though he is proud t' affrout the God those bless

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To him each rational existence here, Whose breast one spark of gratitude contains, In whom there are the least remains

Of piety or fear,

His tribute brings of joyful sacrifice,
For pardon prays, and for protection flies:
Nay, the inanimate creation give,

By prompt obedience to his word,
Instinctive honour to their lord;

And shame the thinking world, who in rebellion live.
With Heaven and Earth then, O my soul, unite,
And the great God of both adore and bless,
Who gives thee competence, content, and peace;
The only fountains of sincere delight;
That from the transitory joys below,
Thou by a happy exit may'st remove

To those ineffable above;

Which from the vision of the Godhead flow,
And neither end, decrease, nor interruption know.

ELEAZAR'S LAMENTATION

OVER JERUSALEM.

PARAPHRASED OUT OF JOSEPHUS.

ALAS, Jerusalem! alas! where 's now
Thy pristine glory, thy unmatch'd renown,
To which the heathen monarchies did bow?
Ah, hapless, miserable town!

Where 's all thy majesty, thy beauty gone,
Thou once most noble, celebrated place,
The joy and the delight of all the Earth;
Who gav'st to godlike princes birth,
And bred up heroes, an immortal race?
Where's now the vast magnificence, which made
The souls of foreigners adore

Thy wondrous brightness, which no more
Shall shine, but lie in an eternal shade?
Oh misery! where 's all her mighty state,
Her splendid train of numerous kings,
Her noble edifices, noble things,
Which made her seem so eminently great,
That barbarous princes in her gates appear'd,
And wealthy presents, as their tribute, brought,
To court her friendship? For her strength they fear'd,
And all her wide protection sought.

But now, ah! now they laugh and cry,
See how her lofty buildings lie!

See how her flaming turrets gild the sky!

Where 's all the young, the valiant, and the gay, That on her festivals were us'd to play Harmonious tunes, and beautify the day?

The glittering troops, which did from far
Bring home the trophies, and the spoils of war,
Whom all the nations round with terrour view'd,
Nor durst their godlike valour try?
Where'er they fought, they certainly subdued,
And every combat ga'n'd a victory.

Ah! where's the house of the Eternal King;
The beauteous temple of the Lord of Hosts,
To whose large treasuries our fleet did bring
The gold and jewels of remotest coasts?
There had the infinite Creator plac'd

His terrible, amazing name,
And with his more peculiar presence grac'd
That heavenly sanctum, where no mortal came,
The high-priest only; he but once a year
In that divine apartment might appear:

So full of glory, and so sacred then,
But now corrupted with the heaps of slain, [fane.
Which scatter'd round with blood, defile the mighty

Alas, Jerusalem! each spacious street

Was once so fill'd, the numerous throng Was foro'd to jostle as they pass'd along,

And thousands did with thousands meet; The darling then of God, and man's belov'd retreat. In thee was the bright throne of Justice fix'd, Justice impartial, and va'n fraud unmix'd! She scorn'd the beauties of fallacious gold, Despising the most wealthy bribes'; But did the sacred balance hold With godlike faith to all our happy tribes. Thy well-built streets, and every noble square, Were once with polish'd marble laid, And all thy lofty bulwarks made With wondrous labour, and with artful care. Thy ponderous gates, surprising to behold, Were cover'd o'er with sold gold; Whose splendour did so glorious appear,

It ravish'd and amaz'd the eye; And strangers passing to themselves would cry, "What mighty heaps of wealth are here! How thick the bars of massy silver lie! O happy people! and still happy be, Celestial city! from destruction free, May'st thou enjoy a long, entire prosperity!"

But now, oh wretched, wretched place! Thy streets and palaces are spread With heaps of carcasses, and mountains of the dead, The bleeding relics of the Jewish race! Each corner of the town, no vacant space,

But is with breathless bodies fill'd,
Some by the sword, and some by famine, kill'd,
Natives and strangers are together laid:

Death's arrows all at random flew
Amongst the crowd, and no distinction made,
But both the coward and the valiant slew.
All in one dismal ruin join'd,,
(For swords and pestilence are blind)
The fair, the good, the brave, no mercy find:
Those that from far, with joyful haste,
Came to attend thy festival,

Of the same bitter poison taste,
And by the black, destructive poison fall;
For the avenging sentence pass'd on all.
Oh! see how the delight of human eyes
In horrid desolation lies!

See how the burning ruins flame!
Nothing now left, but a sad, empty name!
And the triumphant victor cries,
"This was the fam'd Jerusalem!"

The most obdurate creature must Be griev'd to see thy palaces in dust, Those ancient habitations of the just:

And could the marble rocks but know The miseries of thy fatal overthrow, They 'd strive to find some secret way unknown, Maugre the senseless nature of the stone,

Their pity and concern to show: For now, where lofty buildings stood, Thy sons' corrupted carcasses are laid; And all by this destruction made One common Golgotha, one field of blood! See! how those ancient men, who rul'd thy state, And made thee happy, made thee great;

Who sat upon the awful chair

Of mighty Moses, in long scarlet clad,
The good to cherish, and chastise the bad,
Now sit in the corrupted air,

In silent melancholy, and in sad despair!

See how their murder'd children round them lie!
Ah, dismal scene! hark how they cry!
"Woe! woe! one beam of mercy give,
Good Heaven! alas, for we would live!
Be pitiful, and suffer us to die!"

Thus they lament, thus beg for ease;
While in their feeble aged arms they hold
The bodies of their offspring, stiff and cold,
To guard them from the ravenous savages:
Till their increasing sorrows Death persuade
(For Death must sure with pity see
The horrid desolation he has made)
To put a period to all their misery.
Thy wretched daughters that survive,
Are by the heathen kept alive,
Only to gratify their lust,

And then be mix'd with common dust.

Oh! insupportable, stupendous woe!

What shall we do? ah! whither shall we go?

Down to the grave, down to those happy shades

below,

Where all our brave progenitors are blest With endless triumph and eternal rest.

But who, without a flood of tears, can see
Thy mournful, sad catastrophe ?
Who can behold thy glorious temple lie
In ashes, and not be in pain to die?
Unhappy, dear Jerusalem! thy woes
Have rais'd my griefs to such a vast excess,

Their mighty weight no mortal knows,
Thought cannot comprehend, or words express,
Nor can they possibly, while I survive, be less.
Good Heaven had been extremely kind,
If it had struck me dead, or struck me blind,
Before this cursed time, this worst of days.
Is Death quite tir'd? are all his arrows spent?
If not, why then so many dull delays?
Quick, quick, let the obliging dart be sent !
Nay, at me only let ten thousand fly,
Whoe'er shall wretchedly survive; that I
May, happily, be sure to die.
Yet still we live, live in excess of pain!
Our friends and relatives are slain!
Nothing but ruins round us see,

Nothing but desolation, woe, and misery!

Nay, while we thus, with bleeding hearts, com

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Thus then resolve; nor tremble at the thought:
Can glory be too dearly bought?

Since the Almighty wisdom has decrced,
That we, and all our progeny, should bleed,
It shall be after such a noble way,
Succeeding ages will with wonder view

What brave Despair compell'd us to!
No, we will ne'er survive another day!

Bring then your wives, your children, all
That 's valuable, good, or dear,
With ready hands, and place them here;
They shall unite in one vast funeral.

I know your courages are truly brave,
And dare do any thing but ill :
Who would an aged father save,
That he may live in chains and be a slave,
Or for remorseless enemies to kill?

Let your bold hands then give the fatal blow:
For, what at any other time would be
The dire effect of rage and cruelty,

Is mercy, tenderness, and pity, now!
This then perform'd, we 'll to the battle fly,
And there, amidst our slaughter'd foes, expire.
If 't is revenge and glory you desire,
Now you may have them, if you dare but die!
Nay, more, ev'n freedom and eternity!

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SINCE we can die but once, and after death
Our state no alteration knows;
But, when we have resign'd our breath,
Th' immortal spirit goes

To endless joys, or everlasting woes:
Wise is the man who labours to secure

That mighty and important stake;
And, by all methods, strives to make
His passage safe, and his reception sure.
Merely to die, no man of reason fears;
For certainly we must,

As we are born, return to dust:
"T is the last point of many lingering years:
But whither then we go,

Whither, we fain would know ;
But human understanding cannot show.

This makes us tremble, and creates
Strange apprehensions in the mind;
Fills it with restless doubts, and wild debates,
Concerning what we, living, cannot find.

Noue know what Death is, but the dead;
Therefore we all, by nature, dying dread,
As a strange, doubtful way, we know not how to
tread.

When to the margin of the grave we come, And scarce have one black, painful hour to live; No hopes, no prospect of a kind reprieve, To stop our speedy passage to the tomb;

How moving, and how mournful, is the sight! How wondrous pitiful, how wondrous sad! Where then is refuge, where is comfort, to be had In the dark minutes of the dreadful night, To cheer our drooping souls for their amazing flight? Feeble and languishing in bed we lie, Despairing to recover, void of rest; Wishing for Death, and yet afraid to die :

Terrors and doubts distract our breast,

With mighty agonies and mighty pains opprest.

Our face is moisten'd with a clammy sweat;
Faint and irregular the puises beat;

The blood unactive grows,
And thickens as it flows,

Depriv'd of all its vigour, all its vital heat.
Our dying eyes roll heavily about,
Their light just going out;

And for some kind assistance call:

But pity, useless pity 's all

Our weeping friends can give, Or we receive;

Our sons, who, in their tender years, Were objects of our cares, and of our fears, Come trembling to our bed, and, kneeling, cry, "Bless us, O father! now before you die;

Though their desires are great, their powers are Bless us, and be you bless'd to all eternity."

small,

The tongue 's unable to declare

The pains and griefs, the miseries we bear;
How insupportable our torments are.
Music no more delights our deafening ears,
Restores our joys, or dissipates our fears;
But all is melancholy, all is sad,
In robes of deepest mourning clad;
For, every faculty, and every sense,
Partakes the woe of this dire exigence.

Then we are sensible too late,
'Tis no advantage to be rich or great:
For, all the fulsome pride and pageantry of state
No consolation brings.

Riches and honours then are useless things,
Tasteless, or bitter, all;

And, like the book which the apostle eat,

To the ill-judging palate sweet, But turn at last to nauseousness and gall. Nothing will then our drooping spirits cheer, But the remembrance of good actions past. Virtue's a joy that will for ever last, And makes pale Death less terrible appear; Takes out his baneful sting, and palliates our fear. In the dark anti-chamber of the grave

What would we give (ev'n all we have, All that our care and industry have gain'd, All that our policy, our fraud, our art, obtain’d) Could we recall those fatal hours again, Which we consum'd in senseless vanities, Ambitious follies, or luxurious ease!

For then they urge our terrours, and increase our pain.

Our friends and relatives stand weeping by,
Dissolv'd in tears, to see us die,

And plunge into the deep abyss of wide eternity.
In vain they mourn, in vain they grieve:
Their sorrows cannot ours relieve.

They pity our deplorable estate:

But what, alas! can pity do

To soften the decrees of Fate?
Besides, the sentence is irrevocable too.
All their endeavours to preserve our breath,

Though they do unsuccessful prove,
Show us how much, how tenderly, they love,
But cannot cut off the entail of Death.
Mournful they look, and crowd about our bed:
One, with officious haste,

Brings us a cordial we want sense to taste;
Another softly raises up our head;

This wipes away the sweat; that, sighing, cries, "See what convulsions, what strong agonies, Both soul and body undergo!

His pains no intermission know;

For every gasp of air he draws, returns in sighs."
Each would his kind assistance lend,

To save his dear relation, or his dearer friend;
But still in vain with Destiny they all contend.

Our father, pale with grief and watching grown, Takes our cold hand in his, and cries, "Adieu! Adieu, my child! now I must follow you:"

Then weeps, and gently lays it down.

Our friend, whom equal to ourselves we love,
Compassionate and kind,

Cries, "Will you leave me here behind?
Without me fly to the bless'd seats above?
Without me, did I say? Ah, no!
Without thy friend thou canst not go:
For, though thou leav'st me groveling here below,
My soul with thee shall upward fly,
And bear thy spirit company,

Through the bright passage of the yielding sky. Ev'n Death, that parts thee from thyself, shall be Incapable to separate

(For 'tis not in the power of Fate) My friend, my best, my dearest friend, and me: But since it must be so, farewell;

For ever? No; for we shall meet again,

And live like gods, though now we die like

men,

In the eternal regions, where just spirits dwell."

The soul, unable longer to maintain The fruitless and unequal strife, Finding her weak endeavours vain, To keep the counterscarp of life, By slow degrees retires towards the heart, And fortifies that little fort With all its kind artilleries of art; Botanic legions guarding every port. But Death, whose arms no mortal can repel, A formal siege disdains to lay; Summons his fierce battalions to the fray, And in a minute storms the feeble citadel. Sometimes we may capitulate, and he Pretends to make a solid peace; But 'tis all shanı, all artifice, That we may negligent and careless be: For, if his armies are withdrawn to-day, And we believe no danger near, But all is peaceable, and all is clear: His troops return some unsuspected way; While in the soft embrace of Sleep we lie, The secret murderers stab us, and we die.

Since our first parents' fall,
Inevitable death descends on all;

A portion none of human race can miss
But that which makes it sweet or bitter, is
The fears of misery, or certain hopes of bliss.
For, when th' impenitent and wicked die,
Loaded with crimes and infamy,
If any sense at that sad time remains,
They feel amazing terrours, mighty pains;
The earnest of that vast, stupendous woe,
Which they to all eternity must undergo,
Confin'd in Hell with everlasting chains.

Infernal spirits hover in the air,
Like ravenous wolves to seize upon the prey,
And hurry the departed souls away
To the dark receptacles of Despair:

Where they must dwell till that tremendous

day,

When the loud trump shall call them to appear Before a Judge most terrible, and most severe; By whose just sentence they must go To everlasting pains, and endless woe.

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