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valuable materials in the rolls of Parliament, the Cottonian MSS., and other available sources. Carte really did make an attempt to utilise the documents at his command; and though his work failed, it proved invaluable to many

successors.

William Stukeley (1687-1765), called the 'Arch-Druid,' was born at Holbeach; studied at Corpus, Cambridge; and practised as a doctor at Boston, London, and Grantham. In 1729 he took orders, and in 1747 became a London rector. His twenty works (1720-26), dealing with Stonehenge, Avebury, and antiquities generally, enshrine much that is credulous as well as curious. His Diary and Correspondence was published by the Surtees Society in 1884-87.

Benjamin Hoadly (1676-1761), successively Bishop of Bangor, Hereford, Salisbury, and Winchester, was a prelate of great controversial ability, who threw the weight of his talents into the scale of Whig politics when fiercely attacked by Tories and Jacobites. Born at Westerham in Kent, in 1697 he was elected a Fellow of Catharine Hall, Cambridge. In 1706, while rector of St Peter-lePoor, London, he attacked a sermon by Atterbury, and thus incurred the enmity and ridicule of Swift and Pope. He defended the Revolution of 1688, and attacked the doctrines of divine right and passive obedience with such vigour and perseverance that, in 1709, the House of Commons recommended him to the favour of the queen. Her successor, George I., elevated him in 1715 to the see of Bangor. Shortly after his elevation to the Bench Hoadly published a work against the Nonjurors, and a sermon preached before the king at St James's, on the 'Nature of the Kingdom or Church of Christ,' from the text, 'My kingdom is not of this world.' The latter excited a long and vehement dispute, known by the name of the Bangorian Controversy, in which an endless series of tracts was published. The Lower House of Convocation censured Hoadly's views, as calculated to subvert the government and discipline of the Church, and to impugn and impeach the royal supremacy in matters ecclesiastical. The controversy was conducted with unbecoming violence, and several bishops and other grave divines-Sherlock among the number-forgot the dignity of their station and the spirit of Christian charity in the heat of party warfare. Pope alludes sarcastically to Hoadly's sermon in the Dunciad:

Toland and Tindal, prompt at priests to jeer, Yet silent bowed to Christ's no kingdom here. Yet Hallam held that there was 'nothing whatever in Hoadly's sermon injurious to the established endowments and privileges, nor to the discipline and government of the English Church, even in theory. If this had been the case, he might have been reproached with some inconsistency in becoming so large a partaker of her honours and emoluments. He even admitted the usefulness of

censures for open immoralities, though denying all Church authority to oblige any one to external communion, or to pass any sentence which should determine the condition of men with respect to the favour or displeasure of God. Another great question in this controversy was that of religious liberty as a civil right, which the Convocation explicitly denied. And another related to the much-debated exercise of private judgment in religion, which, as one party meant virtually to take away, so the other perhaps unreasonably exaggerated.' Hoadly was author of several other works, as on the reasonableness of conformity and on the sacrament. The following is from the famous sermon on John xviii. 36:

The Kingdom of Christ not of this World.

If, therefore, the church of Christ be the kingdom of Christ, it is essential to it that Christ himself be the sole lawgiver and sole judge of his subjects, in all points relating to the favour or displeasure of Almighty God; and that all his subjects, in what station soever they may be, are equally subjects to him; and that no one of them, any more than another, hath authority either to make new laws for Christ's subjects, or to impose a sense upon the old ones, which is the same thing; or to judge, censure, or punish the servants of another master, in matters relating purely to conscience or salvation. If any person hath any other notion, either through a long use of words with inconsistent meanings, or through a negligence of thought, let him but ask himself whether the church of Christ be the kingdom of Christ or not; and if it be, whether this notion of it doth not absolutely exclude all other legislators and judges in matters relating to conscience or the favour of God, or whether it can be his kingdom if any mortal men have such a power of legislation and judgment in it. This inquiry will bring us back to the first, which is the only true account of the church of Christ, or the kingdom of Christ, in the mouth of a Christian; that it is the number of men, whether small or great, whether dispersed or united, who truly and sincerely are subjects to Jesus Christ alone as their lawgiver and judge in matters relating to the favour of God and their eternal salvation.

The next principal point is, that, if the church be the kingdom of Christ, and this kingdom be not of this world,' this must appear from the nature and end of the laws of Christ, and of those rewards and punishments which are the sanctions of his laws. Now, his laws are declarations relating to the favour of God in another state after this. They are declarations of those conditions to be performed in this world on our part, without which God will not make us happy in that to come. And they are almost all general appeals to the will of that God; to his nature, known by the common reason of mankind, and to the imitation of that nature, which must be our perfection. The keeping his commandments is declared the way to life, and the doing his will the entrance into the kingdom of heaven. The being subjects to Christ is to this very end, that we may the better and more effectually perform the will of God. The laws of this kingdom, therefore, as Christ left them, have nothing of this world in their view; no tendency either to the exaltation of some in worldly

pomp and dignity, or to their absolute dominion over the faith and religious conduct of others of his subjects, or to the erecting of any sort of temporal kingdom under the covert and name of a spiritual one.

The sanctions of Christ's law are rewards and punishments. But of what sort? Not the rewards of this world; not the offices or glories of this state; not the pains of prisons, banishments, fines, or any lesser and more moderate penalties; nay, not the much lesser and negative discouragements that belong to human society. He was far from thinking that these could be the instru ments of such a persuasion as he thought acceptable to God. But as the great end of his kingdom was to guide men to happiness after the short images of it were over here below, so he took his motives from that place where his kingdom first began, and where it was at last to end; from those rewards and punishments in a future state, which had no relation to this world; and to shew that his 'kingdom was not of this world,' all the sanctions which he thought fit to give to his laws were not of this world at all.

St Paul understood this so well, that he gives an account of his own conduct, and that of others in the same station, in these words: 'Knowing the terrors of the Lord, we persuade men:' whereas, in too many Christian countries since his days, if some who profess to succeed him were to give an account of their own conduct, it must be in a quite contrary strain: 'Knowing the terrors of this world, and having them in our power, we do not persuade men, but force their outward profession against their inward persuasion.'

Now, wherever this is practised, whether in a great degree or a small, in that place there is so far a change from a kingdom which is not of this world, to a kingdom which is of this world. As soon as ever you hear of any of the engines of this world, whether of the greater or the lesser sort, you must immediately think that then, and so far, the kingdom of this world takes place. For, if the very essence of God's worship be spirit and truth, if religion be virtue and charity, under the belief of a Supreme Governour and Judge, if true real faith cannot be the effect of force, and if there can be no reward where there is no willing choice-then, in all or any of these cases, to apply force or flattery, worldly pleasure or pain, is to act contrary to the interests of true religion, as it is plainly opposite to the maxims upon which Christ founded his kingdom; who chose the motives which are not of this world, to support a kingdom which is not of this world. And indeed it is too visible to be hid, that wherever the rewards and punishments are changed from future to present, from the world to come to the world now in possession, there the kingdom founded by our Saviour is in the nature of it so far changed that it is become in such a degree what he professed his kingdom was not, that is, of this world; of the same sort with other common earthly kingdoms, in which the rewards are worldly honours, posts, offices, pomp, attendance, dominion; and the punishments are prisons, fines, banishments, galleys and racks, or something less of the same sort.

See the Life in the edition of his works by Hoadly's son (3 vols. folio, 1773).

Daniel Waterland (1683-1740), born at Waseley rectory, Lincolnshire, was elected in 1704 a Fellow of Magdalen College, Cambridge, and in 1730 became Archdeacon of Middlesex and vicar of

Twickenham. He was a controversial theologian of great ability and acuteness, and as champion of Trinitarian orthodoxy vindicated the doctrines of the Church of England from Arian and deistic assailants. His several publications on the Trinity constitute a valuable series of treatises. A complete edition of his works, with a Life of the author by Bishop Van Mildert, was published at Oxford, in eleven volumes, in 1823.

Conyers Middleton (1683-1750), rector of Hascombe in Surrey, was very eminent as a controversialist; and even Parr, who proved that his famous and eulogistic Life of Cicero (1741) was largely plagiarised from William Bellenden, a Scottish seventeenth century author, held that as a writer of English Middleton was excelled by Addison alone. It is long since he ceased to hold this proud eminence; but he was a very conspicuous personage in his lifetime. A native of Richmond in Yorkshire, Fellow and librarian of the University of Cambridge, he was early engaged in a personal feud with Bentley, and ultimately had to apologise for libel. A Letter from Rome shewing an exact conformity between Popery and Paganism (1729) was ostensibly an attack on Catholic ritual, but raised grievous suspicions of the writer's soundness in the Christian faith. In a controversy with Waterland he professed to be answering the deists, but gave up the literal accuracy of Scripture and was by many regarded as little better than a dangerous freethinker. An Introductory Discourse and a Free Inquiry (1747-49) denied the credibility of all miracles later than the first age of the Church, but was by most thought to cast doubt on all miracles. In the Life of Cicero, admiration of the rounded style and flowing periods of the Roman orator seems to have produced in his biographer a desire to attain to similar excellence; certainly few contemporaries wrote English with the same careful finish and sustained dignity. A few sentences from his panegyrical summary of Cicero's character will exemplify his style:

He [Cicero] made a just distinction between bearing what we cannot help, and approving what we ought to condemn; and submitted, therefore, yet never consented to those usurpations; and when he was forced to comply with them, did it always with a reluctance that he expresses very keenly in his letters to his friends. But whenever that force was removed, and he was at liberty to pursue his principles and act without controul, as in his consulship, in his province, and after Cæsar's death (the only periods of his life in which he was truly master of himself), there we see him shining out in his genuine character of an excellent citizen, a great magistrate, a glorious patriot; there we see the man who could declare of himself with truth, in an appeal to Atticus as to the best witness of his conscience, that he had always done the greatest services to his country when it was in his power; or when it was not, had never harboured a thought of it but what was divine. If we must needs compare him, therefore, with Cato, as some writers affect to do, it is certain that if Cato's

virtue seem more splendid in theory, Cicero's will be found superior in practice; the one was romantic, the other was natural; the one drawn from the refinements of the schools, the other from nature and social life; the one always unsuccessful, often hurtful; the other always beneficial, often salutary to the republic.

To conclude: Cicero's death, though violent, cannot be called untimely, but was the proper end of such a life; which must also have been rendered less glorious if it had owed its preservation to Antony. It was, therefore, not only what he expected, but, in the circumstances to which he was reduced, what he seems even to have wished. For he, who before had been timid in dangers and desponding in distress, yet, from the time of Cæsar's death, roused by the desperate state of the republic, assumed the fortitude of a hero, discarded all fear, despised all danger, and when he could not free his country from a tyranny, provoked the tyrants to take that life which he no longer cared to preserve. Thus, like a great actor on the stage, he reserved himself, as it were, for the last act; and after he had played his part with dignity, resolved to finish it with glory.

The Bellenden with whose heifer Middleton ploughed was not John Bellenden (Vol. I. p. 215) but William Bellenden, sometime professor at Paris, who wrote in Latin more than one work on Cicero, the last giving Cicero's history in Cicero's own words, and died about 1633 Middleton thus found not merely his plan ready made, but his materials collected.

Nathaniel Lardner (1684–1768), an English Nonconformist divine who ultimately became a Unitarian, was born and died at Hawkhurst in Kent. He wrote a number of theological works, including The Credibility of the Gospel History (2 vols. 1727 and 12 vols. 1733-55), long a notable part of English apologetics, and a large collection of Jewish and Heathen Testimonies to the Truth of Christianity (1764–67).

William Law (1686-1761) was a great writer of English, a consummate controversialist, and a powerful and permanent spiritual influence. Born a grocer's son at Kingscliffe, Northamptonshire, he entered Emmanuel College, Cambridge, and became a Fellow in 1711. He was unable to sub

scribe the oath of allegiance to George I., and forfeited his fellowship. About 1727 he became tutor to the father of Edward Gibbon, and for ten years was 'the much-honoured friend and spiritual director of the whole family.' The elder Gibbon died in 1737, and three years later Law retired to Kingscliffe, where he was joined by his disciples, Miss Hester Gibbon, sister of his pupil, and Mrs Hutcheson-ladies whose united income of about £3000 a year was mostly spent in works of charity. About 1733 Law had begun to study Jacob Boehme, and most of his later books are expositions of Boehme's mysticism or adaptations of it. Law won his first triumphs against Bishop Hoadly in the famous Bangorian Controversy with his Three Letters (1717). His Remarks on Mandeville's Fable of the Bees (1723) is a masterpiece of caustic wit and vigorous English. Only less admirable is the Case of Reason (1732), in answer to Tindal the deist. held that Locke's philosophy led to freethinking,

He

and regarded Warburton's defence of Ch.istianity as worse than useless. His most famous work remains the Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life (1729), written before the 'mystical period,' which profoundly influenced Dr Johnson and the Wesleys, as well as the early evangelicals such as Venn, Scott, and Newton. His position, theologically and otherwise, was somewhat isolated, and was puzzling even to the more spiritual tempers in an unspiritual age. He was a High Churchman but an enthusiast'-characters not then thought compatible; his asceticism seemed to smack of Puritanism; his later mysticism alienated the Wesleys, and as a Churchman he was a controversial anti-Methodist. But his character and his writings produced marked effects on English intellectual life. His thought and his style were equally vigorous; his reasoning logical and keen; his expression lucid, brilliant, and often highly humorous; and, like most of his contemporaries, he had no dislike to forms of argument that would now be accounted too personal, as in the following extract from his attack

On Mandeville's 'Fable of the Bees.'

On

Sir, I have read your several compositions in favour of the vices and corruptions of mankind, and hope I need make no apology for presuming to offer a word or two on the side of virtue and religion. I shall spend no time in preface or general reflections, but proceed directly to the examination of such passages as expose moral virtue as a fraud and imposition, and render all pretences to it as odious and contemptible. Though I direct myself to you, I hope it will be no offence if I sometimes speak as if I was speaking to a Christian, or show some ways of thinking that may be owing to that kind of worship which is professed amongst us. Ways of thinking derived from revealed religion are much more suitable to our low capacities than any arrogant pretences to be wise by our own light. Moral virtue, however disregarded in practice, has hitherto had a speculative esteem amongst men; her praises have been celebrated by authors of all kinds, as the confessed beauty, ornament, and perfection of human nature. the contrary, immorality has been looked upon as the greatest reproach and torment of mankind; no satyr has been thought severe enough upon its natural baseness and deformity, nor any wit able to express the evils it occasions in private life and public societies. Your goodness would not suffer you to see this part of Christendom deluded with such false notions of I know not what excellence in virtue or evil in vice, but obliged you immediately to compose a system (as you call it) wherein you do these three things. 1st. You consider man merely as an animal, having, like other animals, nothing to do but to follow his appetites. 2dly. You consider man as cheated and flattered out of his natural state by the craft of moralists, and pretend to be very sure that the 'moral virtues are the political offspring which flattery begot upon pride.' So that man and morality are here both destroyed together; man is declared to be only an animal, and morality an imposture. According to this doctrine, to say that a man is dishonest is making him just such a criminal as a horse that does not dance. But this is not all, for you dare further affirm in praise of

immorality, that evil, as well moral as natural, is the solid basis, the life and support of all trades and employments without exception; that there we must look for the true origin of all arts and sciences; and that the moment evil ceases, the society must be spoiled, if not dissolved.' These are the principal doctrines which with more than fanatic zeal you recommend to your readers; and if lewd stories, profane observations, loose jests, and haughty assertions might pass for arguments, few people would be able to dispute with you.

I shall begin with your definition of man. 'As for my part, say you, without any compliment to the courteous reader or myself, I believe man (besides skin, flesh, bones, &c. that are obvious to the eye) to be a compound of various passions, that all of them as they are provoked and come uppermost, govern him by turns whether he will or no.' Surely this definition is too general, because it seems to suit a wolf or a bear as exactly as your self or a Grecian philosopher. You say 'you believe man to be,' &c.; now I cannot understand to what part of you this believing faculty is to be ascribed; for your definition of man makes him incapable of believing anything, unless believing can be said to be a passion, or some faculty of skin or bones. But supposing such a belief as yours, because of its blindness, might justly be called a passion, yet surely there are greater things conceived by some men than can be ascribed to mere passions, or skin and flesh. That reach of thought and strong penetration which has carried Sir Isaac Newton through such regions of science must truly be owing to some higher principle. Or will you say that all his demonstrations are only so many blind sallies of passion? If man had nothing but instincts and passions, he could not dispute about them; for to dispute is no more an instinct or a passion than it is a leg or an arm. If therefore you would prove yourself to be no more than a brute or an animal, how much of your life you need alter I cannot tell, but you must at least forbear writing against virtue, for no mere animal ever hated it. But however, since you desire to be thought only skin and flesh, and a compound of passions, I will forget your better part, as much as you have done, and consider you in your own way. You tell us, that the moral virtues are the political offspring, which flattery begot upon pride.' You therefore, who are an advocate for moral vices, should by the rule of contraries be supposed to be acted by humility; but that being (as I think) not of the number of the passions, you have no claim to be guided by it. The prevailing passions, which you say have the sole government of man in their turns, are pride, shame, fear, lust, and anger; you have appropriated the moral virtues to pride, so that your own conduct must be ascribed either to fear, shame, anger, or lust, or else to a beautiful union and concurrence of them all. I doubt not but you are already angry that I consider you only as an animal that acts as anger, or lust, or any other passion moves it, although it is your own assertion that you are no better. But to proceed, ‘Sagacious moralists, say you, draw men like angels, in hopes that the pride at least of some will put them upon copying after the beautiful originals which they are represented to be.' I am loth to charge you with sagacity, because I would not accuse you falsely; but if this remark is well made, I can help you to another full as just; viz. that sagacious advocates for immorality draw men like brutes,

in hopes that the depravity at least of some will put them upon copying after the base originals, which they are represented to be.' The province you have chosen for yourself is to deliver man from the sagacity of moralists, the encroachments of virtue, and to replace him in the rights and privileges of brutality; to recall him from the giddy heights of rational dignity and angelic likeness to go to grass or wallow in the mire. Had the excellence of man's nature been only a false insinuation of crafty politicians, the very falseness of the thing had made some men at peace with it; but this doctrine coming from heaven, its being a principle of religion and a foundation of solid virtue, has rouzed up all this zeal against it.

There are two collected editions of Law's works-that of 1762 and that by Moreton (1893 et seq.). See Walton's Materials for a Com• plete Biography (1848), Overton's William Law, Nonjuror and Mystic (1881), and Dr A. Whyte's Characters of William Law (1892).

Thomas Parnell (1679–1718), one of a brilliant circle of wits, was born and educated in Dublin, his father, a native of Congleton in Cheshire, having estates in Ireland. He took holy orders in 1700, and in 1706 was appointed Archdeacon of Clogher, to which office was afterwards added, through the influence of Swift, the vicarage of Finglass, estimated by Goldsmith (extravagantly) at £400 a year. Parnell, like Swift, disliked Ireland, and seems to have considered his situation there a cheerless and irksome banishment; but, as permanent residence at their livings was not then required from the Irish clergy, he lived for the most part in London. He little guessed that by-and-by the fame of Parnell the poet would be obscured by that of his brother's descendant, Parnell the uncrowned king of Ireland, and that Parnellite and anti-Parnellite would be watchwords not in poetry but politics. His grief for the loss of his young wife (five years after their marriage in 1706) preyed upon his spirits-which had always been unequaland drove him into intemperance, though he was an accomplished scholar and a delightful companion. He died at Chester on his way back to Ireland, and there was buried. His Life was written by Goldsmith, who was proud of his distinguished countryman, and reputed him the last of the great school that had modelled itself upon the ancients. Parnell's works are miscellaneous in charactertranslations, songs, hymns, epistles, eclogues, tales in verse, and various kinds of occasional poems. The Bookworm is a satirical joke; Chloris appearing in a Looking-glass is a trifle. On Bishop Burnet being set on Fire in his Closet is meant to be as unpleasant as possible to the prophet of the northern nation. A series of Scripture characters -Moses, David, Solomon, Deborah, Habakkuk even, and others—are celebrated at great length in rhyming couplets. The Batrachomuomachia is the principal translation. In the song quoted below there is more of Irish vivacity than of eighteenthcentury didacticism, and we seem to hear a comrade of Tommy Moore singing. But Parnell's bestknown piece is The Hermit. Pope pronounced it to be 'very good;' and a certain picturesque

solemnity marks what Mr Gosse has called 'the apex and chef d'œuvre of Augustan poetry in England' the subject an old and often-handled moral apologue or fable, apparently of Oriental origin. The Night-piece on Death was indirectlystrange as it may appear-preferred by Goldsmith to Gray's Elegy.

From 'A Night-piece on Death.'
How deep yon azure dyes the sky,
Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie;
While through their ranks, in silver pride,
The nether crescent seems to glide.

The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass, with melancholy state,
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
'Time was like thee they life possest,
And time shall be that thou shalt rest.'

Those graves with bending osier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought disclose
Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chisel's slender help to fame
(Which ere our set of friends decay,
Their frequent steps may wear away),
A middle race of mortals own,
Men half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones;
These all the poor remains of state,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great,
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.

The Hermit.

Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a reverend Hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well;
Remote from men, with God he passed the days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose;
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey.
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway;
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenor of his soul is lost.
So when a smooth expanse receives imprest
Calm nature's image on its watery breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
And skies beneath with answering colours glow;

But if a stone the gentle sea divide,
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.
To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight,
To find if books, or swains, report it right
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew),
He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore,
And fixed the scallop in his hat before;
Then, with the rising sun, a journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass,
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ;
But when the southern sun had warmed the day,
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way;
His raiment decent, his complexion fair,

6

And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair;
Then near approaching, Father, hail !' he cried,
'And hail, my son !' the reverend sire replied.
Words followed words, from question answer flowed,
And talk of various kind deceived the road;

Till each with other pleased, and loth to part,
While in their age they differ, join in heart.
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound,
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.

Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray;
Nature in silence bid the world repose,
When near the road a stately palace rose.

There by the moon through ranks of trees they pass,
Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides of grass.

It chanced the noble master of the dome

Still made his house the wandering stranger's home;
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive; the liveried servants wait;
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate;
The table groans with costly piles of food,
And all is more than hospitably good.
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown,
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.
At length 'tis morn, and, at the dawn of day,
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play;
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep,
And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep.
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call,
An early banquet decked the splendid hall;
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced,
Which the kind master forced the guests to taste.
Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go;
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe;
His cup was vanished; for in secret guise,
The younger guest purloined the glittering prize.
As one who spies a serpent in his way,
Glistening and basking in the summer ray,
Disordered stops to shun the danger near,
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear;
So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road,
The shining spoil his wily partner shewed.
He stopped with silence, walked with trembling heart,
And much he wished, but durst not ask to part;
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard
That generous actions meet a base reward.
While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds,
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds;

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