Classic Poem

Is there no Pity in the human Mind?
Shall the Afflicted, no Compassion find?
Do Christians, only now, profess the Name,
A mere Outside, their Hearts no more the same?
Ah! where is ev'ry social Virtue flown:
Is each an unrelenting Heathen grown?
Does no Humanity inform your Breast;
What Glory is't, to vanquish the opprest?

Int'rest now sways the giddy Croud indeed!
If Vice is sought, while Innocence must bleed.
No longer, now, the vicious Age retains
Remembrance kind of Virtue's sad Remains;
She is so meagre grown, so out of Vogue,
That he, who entertains her 's thought a Rogue;
Shun'd and despis'd, pointed at, forlorn,
And strait becomes their laughing Stock, their Scorn.
For Poverty's the only Crime ye hate;
He's only good, who's pow'rful and great.
Riches blot out the most detested Sin,
And had I that, I'd your Affections win;
You'd fancy Charms, in all my Actions then,
And make my Praise, the Labour of each Pen.
But ah!
Why on the World shou'd my Resentment fall?
Does not my Father authorize you all;
Han't he abandon'd me without a Cause?
Scorning to yield, to Nature's binding Laws.
His alienated Heart denies to bend
To the Endearments of his real Friend;
Whilst his foul Progeny, a spurious Race!
Infect his Reason, and usurp my Place.

Lift thy Almighty Hand, O Gracious Pow'r!
Avenge my Wrongs, let Fate no longer low'r,
Pluck from the Garden of his Love, each Weed,
And range in Order, Plants from lawful Seed:
There let them root, and thriving Branches spread,
With filial Tenderness, around his Head.
Shade him from the Inclemencies of Age,
Tempestuous Sorrow, and despairing Rage;
For Oh! my Heart, with pious Duty fraught,
Laments my Father, shou'd so low be brought,
To stoop to Actions, as his Foes direct,
And that material Part, his Soul, neglect.
But Sin, perhaps, has all its Horrors lost,
And now's no Crime, a trifling one at most.
Sure all are Atheists, or as such appear,
And there's no Thought, of an Here-after here.
Crimes, which of Old, were punish'd and abhorr'd,
Are now not only wink'd at, but ador'd.
Some of our Pastors, even patronize
Crimes once detested, of enormous Size;
Adult'ry, and its Spawn are now carest,
Led by the Hand, and with their Favour blest.
No Wonder then, if their Example shou'd
Uplift the Wicked, and perveit the Good.
If our sage Leaders, do the Thing that's wrong,
They're ever follow'd by mimic Throng.
Is it not strange the Pulpit shou'd exclaim
Against our Faults, and yet protect the same?
O Heav'nly Pow'r! where is thy Justice flown,
Who see'st those Shepherds so unheedful grown?
Each finds Excuse, he's some sinister View,
But will that serve, as an Excuse to you?
Is Wrath Divine, so easily appeas'd,
With Man's Ambition, was it ever pleas'd?
Ah! no, then tremble, Mortals, at the Thought,
That thou wilt to the Test, too soon be brought,
Before the awful Throne of Heav'n, to give
A full Account, thy Sentence to receive.
Where then will the Incend'ry end his Strife,
Who puts between the lawful Man and Wife?
That Action, is by Heav'n deem'd accurst;
I'd give you Texts in Plenty, if I durft.
But I've such Rev'rence for the Word Divine,
I fear misusing it, in Verse like mine.
Thus much I'll say, the Peace-maker is blest,
Then lay thy Hand with Candor on thy Breast;
The Blessing and the Curse, with Prudence weigh,
Don't partial side me, nor with Hate inveigh;
But the decision, Christian-like, convey.
Is't not more Joy, the parted to unite,
Than by ill Offices, to part them quite?
And if by thy Assistance thou coud'st make
The wretched Sinner his lov'd Guilt forsake?
And all his past Miscarriages retrieve,
Woud'st thou not Glory, by this Act atcheive;
Ah! then, since Individuals form the Whole,
Each kindly try, for to reform his Soul;
Stir up the Father,—Nature too will aid,
Think on your Conscience, I this Task have laid.
Then, as at the Last Day, thy anxious Mind
Conceiveth hopes, Forgiv'ness for to find;
I charge ye, Brethren, Christians and Divines,
T' assist me, in my pious fond Designs.
And then, with Gratitude, I'll leave thy Praise,
To future Ages—in my choicest Lays.