Classic Poem

From Codex hear, ye ecclesiastic men!
This past'ral charge to Webster, Stebbing, Ven;
Attend, ye emblems of your P — 's mind!
Mark Faith, Mark Hope, mark Charity, defin'd;
On terms whence no ideas ye can draw
Pin well your faith, and then pronounce it law.
First wealth, a crosier next, your hope inflame,
And next church pow'r — a pow'r o'er conscience claim;
In modes of worship right of choice deny;
Say to convert all means are fair — add why?
'Tis charitable — let your pow'r decree
That persecution then is charity:
Call reason error; forms not things display;
Let moral doctrine to abstruse give way;
Sink demonstration; mystry preach alone;
Be thus Religion's friend, and thus your own.
But Foster well this honest truth extends —
Where mystery begins religion ends.
In him, great modern Miracle! we see
A priest from av'rice and ambition free;
One whom no persecuting spirit fires,
Whose heart and tongue benevolence inspires;
Learn'd, not assuming; eloquent, yet plain;
Meek tho' not tim rous; conscious, tho' not vain;
Without craft rev'rend; holy without cant;
Zealous for truth, without enthusiast rant.
His faith, where no credulity is seen,
'Twixt infidel and bigot marks the mean;
His hope no mitre militant on earth;
'Tis that bright crown which Heav'n reserves for worth,
A priest in charity with all mankind,
His love to virtue, not to sect, confin'd:
Truth his delight, from him it flames abroad,
From him, who fears no being but his God;
In him from Christian moral light can shine,
Not mad with myst'ry, but a sound divine;
He wins the wise and good with reason's lore,
Then strikes their passions with pathetic pow'r;
Where Vice erects her head rebukes the page;
Mix'd with rebuke persuasive charms engage;
Charms which th' unthinking must to thought excite.
Lo! Vice less vicious, Virtue more upright.
Him copy, Codex! that the good and wise,
Why so abhor thy heart, and head despise,
May see thee now, tho' late, redeem thy name,
And glorify what else is damn'd to fame.
But should some churchman, apeing wit severe,
" The poet's sure turn'd Baptist " — say, and sneer;
Shame on that narrow mind so often known,
Which in one mode of faith owns worth alone!
Sneer on, rail, wrangle; nought this truth repels —
Virtue is Virtue, whereso'er she dwells;
And sure where learning gives her light to shine,
Her's is all praise — if her's, 'tis, Foster! thine.
Thee boast Dissenters; we with pride may own
Our Tillotson, and Rome her Fenelon.