Classic Poem

Let shining charity adorn your zeal,
The noblest impulse gen'rous minds can feel:
But, have a care, you take this virtue right,
And shun the glare of the proud hypocrite .
Mistaken men! who, fond of public fame,
Disgrace the act , while they affect the name!
On earth , vain-glorious zeal may meet regard ,
But heav'n nor owns it, nor vouchsafes reward .

Thou, on the contrary, whose pitying breast
Wou'd, as it ought, give ease to the distrest;
Scarce tell thy right hand , what thy left will do,
But be, at once, resolv'd, and silent, too.
Secret, as night , thy pious alms convey;
For God , who sees, by night , rewards, by day .

So, when thy soul approaches God , in pray'r ,
Be not deceiv'd, as those false zealots are;
Who, daily, into crowded temples press,
And there, with feign'd devotion , heav'n address;
But, when thou pray'st, all public notice shun,
And, private, to thy inmost closet, run:
There, close, and earnest, to thy duty fall,
And God will shew thee, that he hears thy call .

Swell not thy forms of pray'r , with wild desires,
Excess of fuel choaks the brightest Fires .
The erring heathen so mistake their way,
And think, they best are heard, who most can say.
But shun thou this, and know, G OD'S piercing eye
Sees all thy wants , before thy words come nigh.
From rising malice , guard thy yielding will ,
Nor proudly dare, to take revenge , for ill:
Thou must forgive , that God may pardon thee;
For none, who pities not , shall pitied be.

Misled, by av'rice , seek not wealth to gain,
By hoarding treasures , which are got, in vain:
Deceitful riches , which the moth destroys,
Which rust consumes, or the bold thief enjoys!
In heav'n's high storehouse, let your heaps be laid,
A wealth , which no destroyer can invade:
No moth there enters, rust corrupts not there ,
Nor plund'ring thief alarms the owner's care!
Safe, therefore, in that place, your treasures lay;
For where your riches are, your heart will stay.

Secure of heav'n's regard, live free from care ,
Nor toil, life's common comforts to prepare:
Banish vain forecast for thy needful gain,
Nor let meat, drink, and cloathing, give thee pain.
Observe the fowls — they neither reap , nor sow ,
Yet find their wants supply'd, where'er they go.
Look on the lillies of the ripening field!
No toil of theirs does those sweet colours yield;
Yet, was not Solomon , when drest to please ,
So gloriously adorn'd, as one of these .
If, therefore, God so feeds the feather'd train ,
So cloaths the grass , which withers on the plain ,
How much more careful will he be of you,
O, faithless man! who, yet, distrusts him, too?