Is layman’s land, the glebe, the stream, the wood: 
His oxen low where monks retired to eat,
His cows repose upon the prior’s seat: 
And wanton doves within the cloisters bill,
Where the chaste votary warr’d with wanton will.” 
   Such is the change they mourn, but they restrain
The rage of grief, and passively complain. 
   We’ve Baptists old and new; forbear to ask
What the distinction—­I decline the task;
This I perceive, that when a sect grows old,
Converts are few, and the converted cold: 
First comes the hotbed heat, and while it glows
The plants spring up, and each with vigour grows: 
Then comes the cooler day, and though awhile
The verdure prospers and the blossoms smile,
Yet poor the fruit, and form’d by long delay,
Nor will the profits for the culture pay;
The skilful gard’ner then no longer stops,
But turns to other beds for bearing crops. 
   Some Swedenborgians in our streets are found,
Those wandering walkers on enchanted ground,
Who in our world can other worlds survey,
And speak with spirits though confin’d in clay: 
Of Bible-mysteries they the keys possess,
Assured themselves, where wiser men but guess: 
’Tis theirs to see around, about, above, —
How spirits mingle thoughts, and angels move;
Those whom our grosser views from us exclude,
To them appear—­a heavenly multitude;
While the dark sayings, seal’d to men like us,
Their priests interpret, and their flocks discuss. 
   But while these gifted men, a favour’d fold,
New powers exhibit and new worlds behold;
Is there not danger lest their minds confound
The pure above them with the gross around? 
May not these Phaetons, who thus contrive
’Twixt heaven above and earth beneath to drive,
When from their flaming chariots they descend,
The worlds they visit in their fancies blend? 
Alas! too sure on both they bring disgrace,
Their earth is crazy, and their heaven is base. 
   We have, it seems, who treat, and doubtless well,
Of a chastising not awarding Hell;
Who are assured that an offended God
Will cease to use the thunder and the rod;
A soul on earth, by crime and folly stain’d,
When here corrected has improvement gain’d;
In other state still more improved to grow,
And nobler powers in happier world to know;
New strength to use in each divine employ,
And more enjoying, looking to more joy. 
   A pleasing vision! could we thus be sure
Polluted souls would be at length so pure;
The view is happy, we may think it just,
It may be true—­ but who shall add, it must? 
To the plain words and sense of Sacred Writ,
With all my heart I reverently submit;
But where it leaves me doubtful, I’m afraid
To call conjecture to my reason’s aid;
Thy thoughts, thy ways, great God! are not as mine,
And to thy mercy I my soul resign. 
   Jews are with us, but far unlike