Fool that I was! could I so much deceive My soul with lying hopes? could I believe That he, the servant of his Maker sworn, The servant of his Saviour, would be torn From their embrace, and leave that dear employ, The cure of souls, his duty and his joy, For toys like mine, and waste his precious time, On which so much depended, for a rhyme? 120 Should he forsake the task he undertook, Desert his flock, and break his pastoral crook? Should he (forbid it, Heaven!) so high in place, So rich in knowledge, quit the work of grace, And, idly wandering o'er the Muses' hill, Let the salvation of mankind stand still? Far, far be that from thee--yes, far from thee Be such revolt from grace, and far from me The will to think it--guilt is in the thought-- Not so, not so, hath Warburton been taught, 130 Not so learn'd Christ. Recall that day, well known, When (to maintain God's honour, and his own) He call'd blasphemers forth; methinks I now See stern Rebuke enthroned on his brow, And arm'd with tenfold terrors--from his tongue, Where fiery zeal and Christian fury hung, Methinks I hear the deep-toned thunders roll, And chill with horror every sinner's soul, In vain they strive to fly--flight cannot save. And Potter trembles even in his grave-- 140 With all the conscious pride of innocence, Methinks I hear him, in his own defence, Bear witness to himself, whilst all men knew, By gospel rules his witness to be true. O glorious man! thy zeal I must commend, Though it deprived me of my dearest friend; The real motives of thy anger known, Wilkes must the justice of that anger own; And, could thy bosom have been bared to view, Pitied himself, in turn had pitied you. 150 Bred to the law, you wisely took the gown, Which I, like Demas, foolishly laid down; Hence double strength our Holy Mother drew, Me she got rid of, and made prize of you. I, like an idle truant fond of play, Doting on toys, and throwing gems away, Grasping at shadows, let the substance slip; But you, my lord, renounced attorneyship With better purpose, and more noble aim, And wisely played a more substantial game: 160 Nor did Law mourn, bless'd in her younger son, For Mansfield does what Glo'ster would have done. Doctor! Dean! Bishop! Glo'ster! and My Lord! If haply these high titles may accord With thy meek spirit; if the barren sound Of pride delights thee, to the topmost round Of Fortune's ladder got, despise not one For want of smooth hypocrisy undone, Who, far below, turns up his wondering eye, And, without envy, sees thee placed so high: 170 Let not thy brain (as brains less potent might) Dizzy, confounded, giddy with the height, Turn round, and lose distinction, lose her skill And wonted powers of knowing good from ill, Of sifting truth from falsehood, friends from foes; Let Glo'ster well remember how he rose,