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Poured forth by beauty splendid and polite,
All truth is from the sempiternal source Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome, Drew from the stream below. More favoured we Drink, when we choose it, at the fountain head. To them it flowed much mingled and defiled With hurtful error, prejudice, and dreams Illusive of philosophy, so called, But falsely. Sages after fages ftrove In vain to filter off a crystal draught Pure from the lees, which often more enhanced The thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bred Intoxication and delirium wild. In vain they pushed inquiry to the birth And spring-time of the world! asked, Whence is
man ? Why formed at all? and wherefore as he is ? Where must he find his Maker ? with what rites Adore him? Will he hear, accept, and bless ?
Or i singuri
wci, vi nis works? Has muil within him an immortal seed? Or does the tomb take all? If he survive His ashes, where? and in what weal or woe? Knots worthy of solution, which alone A Deily could solve. Their answers, vague And all at random, fabulous and dark, Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life Defective and insanaioned, proved too weak To bind the roving appetite, and lead Blind nature to a God not yet revealed. 'Tis revelation satisfies all doubts, Explains all mysteries, except her own, And so illuminates the path of life, That fools discover it, and stray no more. Now tell me, dignified and fapient fir, My man of morals, nurtured in the shades Of Academus-is this false or true ? Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools ? If Christ, then why resort at every turn To Athens or to Rome, for wisdom short Of man's occasions, when in him refide Grace, knowledge, comfort-an unfathomed liore! How oft, when Paul has served us with a text,
Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preached!
And thus it is.—The paftor, either vain
And histrionic mummery, that let down
As nations, ignorant of God, contrive A wooden one; so we, no longer taught By monitors, that mother church supplies, Now make our own. Posterity will ask (If e'er pofterity fee verse of mine) Some fifty or an hundred lustrums hence, What was a monitor in George's days? My very gentle reader, yet unborn, Of whom I needs must augur better things, Since heaven would sure grow weary of a world Productive only of a race like our's, A monitor is wood-plank shaven thin.
We wear it at our backs. There, closely braced