THOUGH oft the heart, when raging passions storm,
To Vice we kneel, and fain would veil her form,
Her native darkness ever mocks disguise,
And crimes look foul, e'en in their author's eyes.
Here the first mark of heav'nly vengeance view;
Vice, false to others, to herself is true!
When the pack'd jury, and the quibbled flaw
Delude the eye, and lame the arm of law;
When Erskine's wit the culprit-client saves,
And fraud unscourged offended justice braves;
Still is the wretch in private doom'd to hear
From his own heart a verdict more severe.
There dwells a judge, whose voice no bribe can pay,
No party silence, and no flattery sway;
The sinner shrinks, before himself arraign'd,
And almost sorrows, that his cause is gain'd.