O happy Monarch, fent by Heav'n to bless
A Salvage Nation with foft Arts of Peace,
To teach Religion, Rapine to restrain,
Give Laws to Luft, and Sacrifice ordain:
Himself a Saint, a Goddess was his Bride,
And all the Muses o'er his Acts prefide.
Imitated from CHAUCER, and Inlarg'd.
Parish-Prieft was of the Pilgrim-Train; An Awful, Reverend, and Religi ous Man.
His Eyes diffus'd a venerable Grace,
And Charity it felf was in his Face.
Rich was his Soul, though his Attire was poor;. (As God had cloath'd his own Embassador;) For fuch, on Earth, his blefs'd Redeemer bore. Of Sixty Years he seem'd; and well might laft To Sixty more, but that he liv'd too fast;
Refin'd himself to Soul, to curb the Sense;
And made almost a Sin of Abstinence.
Yet, had his Aspect nothing of severe,
But fuch a Face as promis'd him fincere.
Nothing referv'd or fullen was to fee:
But sweet Regards; and pleafing Sanctity:
Mild was his Accent, and his Action free.
With Eloquence innate his Tongue was arm'd;
Tho' harsh the Precept, yet the Preacher charm'd.
For, letting down the golden Chain from high,
He drew his Audience upward to the Sky:
And oft, with holy Hymns, he charm'd their Ears:
(A Mufick more melodious than the Spheres.)
For David left him, when he went to Rest,
His Lyre; and after him, he fung the best.
He bore his great Commiffion in his Look:
But fweetly temper'd Awe; and foftned all he spoke.
He preach'd the Joys of Heav'n,and Pains of Hell;-
And warn'd the Sinner with becoming Zeal;
But on Eternal Mercy lov'd to dwell.
He taught the Gospel rather than the Law:
And forc'd himself to drive; but lov'd to draw..
For Fear but freezes Minds; but Love, like Heat,
Exhales the Soul fublime, to seek her Native Seat.
To Threats, the ftubborn Sinner oft is hard:
Wrap'd in his Crimes, against the Storm prepar'd;
But, when the milder Beams of Mercy play,
He melts, and throws his cumb'rous Cloak away
Lightnings and Thunder (Heav'ns Artillery)
As Harbingers before th' Almighty fly:
Thofe but proclaim his Stile, and disappear;
The ftiller Sound fucceeds; and God is there.
The Tythes, his Parith freely paid, he took;
But never Su'd; or Curs'd with Bell and Book.
With Patience bearing Wrong; but off'ring none:
Since every Man is free to lofe his own.
The Country-Churls, according to their Kind,
(Who grudge their Dues, and love to be behind,)
The lefs he fought his Off'rings, pinch'd the more;
And prais'd a Prieft, contented to be Poor,
Yet, of his little, he had fome to spare,
To feed the Famish'd, and to cloath the Bare:
For Mortify'd he was, to that degree,
A poorer than himself he wou'd not fee.
True Priests, he said, and Preachers of the Word,
Were only Stewards of their Sov'raign Lord;
Nothing was theirs; but all the publick Store:
Intrufted Riches, to relieve the Poor.
Who, fhou'd they steal, for want of his Relief;
He judg'd himself Accomplice with the Thief.
Wide was his Parish; not contracted clofé.
In Streets, but here and there a straggling House
Yet still he was at Hand, without Request;.
To serve the Sick; to fuccour the Diftrefs'd:
Tempting, on Foot, alone, without affright,
The Dangers of a dark tempeftuous Night.
All this, the good old Man perform'd alone;
Nor fpar'd his Pains ; for Curate he had none;
Nor durft he trust another with his Care;
Nor rode himfelf to Pauls, the publick Fair;
To chaffer for Preferment with his Gold,
Where Bishopricks and fine Cures are fold.
But duly watch'd his Flock, by Night and Day;
And from the prowling Wolf redeem'd the Prey:
And hungry fent the wily Fox away.
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