When we peruse the hist'ry of mankind,
And learn what crimes have been! Oh! how it wounds
The soul, to think that, of all beings here,
Man, made erect, oft creeps the lowest wretch!
For in the moral taste the standard lies,
And none but humble pilgrims walk upright.
Of all the myriads of the human race,
How few, if any, with a moral eye
On Heaven, support that godlike attitude
Eternity demands! Eternity!
Amazing word! and shall the mental spark,
Once conscious of existence, happy live,
Or wretched be, forever? What a thought!
And true: 'tis Heaven's immutable decree!
And the soul's exit from sublunar climes,
Fixes its everlasting destiny.

Were it not well for all who value life,
And calculate on happiness to come;
Though rich or poor, or wise or ignorant,
That each his pilgrimage may well perform,
Oft, on their way, to ponder on themselves—
How they may best their journey's end pursue,
And how be best receiv'd by those in wait
Upon the confines of th' eternal world,
To greet them with delight, or shun with scorn,
As their peculiar states deserve. For then,
Each aspect will express the character.
Without disguise the soul will all appear;
Vice will show hate, and virtue show her charm.
Whether 'twere proper, since the axe is laid
At the tree's root, to dally out our lives
In pastimes, sloth, and fashionable crime,
Despis'd or honour'd, as the case may be,
Or by one great exertion, set at once
Aside, the sin that doth so easily
Beset us, and, at once, repent and mend,
Is the grand point that we should solve direct;
And, as there's no alternative, beside
Virtue and bliss, and vice and punishment,
Either all hopes of happiness resign,
Or bring ourselves to instant discipline.
For to resolve to mend at future date,
Were only to postpone; and to postpone,
Were loss of chance which never might return;
But, haply, if it should, to meet it then
With new postponement by a new resolve,
Were all deception; fooling with one's self
In face of counsel; and deception, fix'd,
Perpetuates delay, and keeps the soul
In hazard unaware. It lulls and blinds
Conscience, when she should keep her strictest watch,
And weaves the name of virtue, guilefully,
Upon the cobweb of a self-wrought cheat.

Making a merit of th' intent to mend,
Some balance oft the long arrear of life
By thoughts of reformation never put to proof;
And when the King of Terrors comes along,
And finds their opportunities abus'd,
And straight his vengeful sentence executes,
Alas! alas! Oh! what will be their doom?