For though a Christian, he’s disposed to draw
His rules from reason’s and from nature’s law. 
“Know,” he exclaims, “my fellow mortals, know,
Virtue alone is happiness below;
And what is virtue? prudence first to choose
Life’s real good,—­the evil to refuse;
Add justice then, the eager hand to hold,
To curb the lust of power and thirst of gold;
Join temp’rance next, that cheerful health ensures. 
And fortitude unmoved, that conquers or endures.” 
   He speaks, and lo!—­the very man you see,
Prudent and temperate, just and patient he,
By prudence taught his worldly wealth to keep,
No folly wastes, no avarice swells the heap: 
He no man’s debtor, no man’s patron lives;
Save sound advice, he neither asks nor gives;
By no vain thoughts or erring fancy sway’d,
His words are weighty, or at least are weigh’d;
Temp’rate in every place—­abroad, at home,
Thence will applause, and hence will profit come
And health from either—­he in time prepares
For sickness, age, and their attendant cares,
But not for fancy’s ills;—­he never grieves
For love that wounds or friendship that deceives. 
His patient soul endures what Heav’n ordains,
But neither feels nor fears ideal pains. 
   “Is aught then wanted in a man so wise?” —
Alas!—­I think he wants infirmities;
He wants the ties that knit us to our kind —
The cheerful, tender, soft, complacent mind. 
That would the feelings, which he dreads, excite,
And make the virtues he approves delight;
What dying martyrs, saints, and patriots feel,
The strength of action and the warmth of zeal. 
   Again attend!—­and see a man whose cares
Are nicely placed on either world’s affairs, —
Merchant and saint; ’tis doubtful if he knows
To which account he most regard bestows;
Of both he keeps his ledger:  —­there he reads
Of gainful ventures and of godly deeds;
There all he gets or loses find a place,
A lucky bargain and a lack of grace. 
   The joys above this prudent man invite
To pay his tax—­devotion!—­day and night;
The pains of hell his timid bosom awe,
And force obedience to the church’s law: 
Hence that continual thought,—­that solemn air,
Those sad good works, and that laborious prayer. 
   All these (when conscience, waken’d and afraid,
To think how avarice calls and is obey’d)
He in his journal finds, and for his grief
Obtains the transient opium of relief. 
   “Sink not, my soul!—­my spirit, rise and look
O’er the fair entries of this precious book: 
Here are the sins, our debts;—­this fairer side
Has what to carnal wish our strenetb denied;
Has those religious duties every day
Paid,—­which so few upon the Sabbath pay;
Here too are conquests over frail desires,
Attendance due on all the church requires;
Then alms I give—­for I believe the word
Of holy writ, and lend unto the Lord,