It happen’d on a solemn eventide,
  Soon after He that was our surety died,
  Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined,
  The scene of all those sorrows left behind,
  Sought their own village, busied as they went
  In musings worthy of the great event: 
  They spake of him they loved, of him whose life,
  Though blameless, had incurr’d perpetual strife,
  Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts,
  A deep memorial graven on their hearts. 
  The recollection, like a vein of ore,
  The farther traced enrich’d them still the more;

  They thought him, and they justly thought him, one
  Sent to do more than he appear’d to have done,
  To exalt a people, and to place them high
  Above all else, and wonder’d he should die. 
  Ere yet they brought their journey to an end,
  A stranger join’d them, courteous as a friend,
  And ask’d them with a kind engaging air
  What their affliction was, and begg’d a share. 
  Inform’d, he gathered up the broken thread,
  And truth and wisdom gracing all he said,
  Explain’d, illustrated, and search’d so well
  The tender theme on which they chose to dwell,
  That reaching home, the night, they said is near,
  We must not now be parted, sojourn here.—­
  The new acquaintance soon became a guest,
  And made so welcome at their simple feast,
  He bless’d the bread, but vanish’d at the word,
  And left them both exclaiming, ’Twas the Lord! 
  Did not our hearts feel all he deign’d to say,
  Did they not burn within us by the way?

The prude going to morning church in Truth is a good rendering of
Hogarth’s picture:—­

  Yon ancient prude, whose wither’d features show
  She might, be young some forty years ago,
  Her elbows pinion’d close upon her hips,
  Her head erect, her fan upon her lips,
  Her eyebrows arch’d, her eyes both gone astray
  To watch yon amorous couple in their play,
  With bony and unkerchief’d neck defies
  The rude inclemency of wintry skies,
  And sails with lappet-head and mincing airs
  Daily at clink of hell, to morning prayers. 
  To thrift and parsimony much inclined,
  She yet allows herself that boy behind;
  The shivering urchin, bending as he goes,
  With slipshod heels, and dew-drop at his nose,
  His predecessor’s coat advanced to wear,
  Which future pages are yet doom’d to share,
  Carries her Bible tuck’d beneath his arm,
  And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm.

Of personal allusions there are a few; if the satirist had not been prevented from indulging in them by his taste, he would have been debarred by his ignorance.  Lord Chesterfield, as the incarnation of the world and the most brilliant servant of the arch-enemy, comes in for a lashing under the name of Petronius.