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If then a blind, well-meaning, Indian stray,
ON DRYDEN'S RELIGIO LAICI. Shall the great gulph be thew'd him for the way?

For better ends our kind Rereemer dy'de
Or the faln angels room will be but ill supply'd.

That Christ, who at the great deciding day, Fly from the scourges, and your master know; Will damn the goats for the r ill-natur'd faults,

(For he declares what he resolves to say) Let free, impartial mer, from Dryden learn

And save the Meep for actions, not for thoughts, Mysterious secrets, of a high concern,

Hath too much mercy to send men to hell, And weighty truths, folid convincing sense,

For humble charity, and hoping well. Explain'd by uraffec ed eloquence.

To what stupidity are zealots grown, What can you (Reverend Levi) here take ill? Men still had faults, and men will have them still; in damning crowds of souls, may damn their own.

Whose inhumanity profusely Town He that hath none, and lives as angels do,

I'll err at least on the secuier side,
Must be an angel, but what's that to you?

A convert free from malice and from pride.
While mighty Lewis finds the poçe too great,
And dreads the yoke of his impoling seat,
Our lects a more tyrannic power assume,
And would tor scorpiors change the rods of Rome;

That church detaind the legacy divine;
Fanatics cast the pearls of licaven to swine:

ON HIS SEVERAL EXCELLENT TRANSLATIONS What then have thinking honest men to do,

OF THE ANCIENT POETS. But chuse a mean between th' ufurping two? Nor can th' Ægyptian patriarch blame thy muse, BY G. GRANVILLE, LORD LANSDOWNL. Which for his firniness does his heat excuse; Whatever councils have approv'd his creed,

S flowers transplanted from a southern sky, The preface sure was his own act and deed. Our church will have that preface read, you'll say: Milling their native fun, at best retain 'Tis true: but so she will th’ Apocrypha; But a faint odour, and survive with pain : And such as can believe them, freely may. Thus ancient wit, in modern numbers taught, But did that God (so little understood)

Wanting the warmth with which its author wrote, Whose darling attribute is being good,

Is a dead image, and a senseless dravght.
From the dark womb of the rude chaos bring While ve transfuse, the nimble (p:rit flies,
Such various creatures and make man their king, Escapes unseen, evaporates, and dies.
Yet leave his favourite man, his chiesest care, Who then to copy Roman wit desire,
More wretched than the vilest insects are? Müft imitate with Roman force and fire,
O! how much happier and more safe are they? In elegance of style and phrase te same,
If helpless millions must be doom'd a prey And in the sparkling genius, and the fame.
To yelling furies, and for ever burn

Whence we conclude from thy tran Nated song, In that sad place from whence is no retum, So just, so smooth, so soft, and yet so strong, For unbelief in one they never knew,

Cæleftial poet ! soul of harmony ! Or for not doing what they could not do! That every genius was reviv'd in thee. 'The very fiends know for what crime they fell, Thy trumpet sounds, the dead are rais'd to light, And fo do all their followers that rebel :

Never to die, and take to heaveu their flight; VOL. III.


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