An Ode, On Reading Richardsons History Of Sir Charles Grandison.

Say, ye apostate and profane,     Wretches, who blush not to disdain     Allegiance to your God,     Did eer your idly wasted love     Of virtue for her sake remove     And lift you from the crowd?     Would you the race of glory run ,     Know, the devout, and they alone,     Are equal to the task:     The labours of the illustrious course     Far other than the unaided force     Of human vigour ask.     To arm against reputed ill     The patient heart too brave to feel     The tortures of despair:     Nor safer yet high-crested pride,     When wealth flows in with every tide     To gain admittance there.     To rescue from the tyrants sword     The oppressd; unseen and unimplored,     To cheer the face of woe;     From lawless insult to defend     An orphans righta fallen friend,     And a forgiven foe;     These, these distinguish from the crowd,     And these alone, the great and good,     The guardians of mankind;     Whose bosoms with these virtues heave,     O with what matchless speed they leave     The multitude behind!     Then ask ye, from what cause on earth     Virtues like these derive their birth?     Derived from Heaven alone,     Full on that favourd breast they shine,     Where faith and resignation join     To call the blessing down.     Such is that heart:but while the muse     Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues,     Her feeble spirits faint;     She cannot reach, and would not wrong,     The subject for an angels song,     The hero, and the saint!