Thus, when weak mortals feel thy power to charm,
And the cold bosom grows a little warm,
'Tis then thy influence the mind must share,
Moulding to virtue, and the bliss of prayer, —
To moral duties by Religion taught,
Till the blest man becomes the man he ought.
This is thy charge, by Jove himself design'd;
Thou, next the gods, the good of all mankind;
Soothing thy manners, yet thy words sincere,
Speaking all truths the sickly soul can bear.
Nor ruffle thou the spirit of the proud,
Who never yet have to instruction bow'd;
But wind about their errors as you may,
And with sweet counsel weed their faults away;
By slow degrees Perfection must be wrought,
For slow's the growth of weak bewilder'd Thought;
Nor will one manner work alike with all,
Some in soft whispers thou must gently call;
Nor censure harsh, nor mark with critic eye
Those little faults that under virtues lie.
Others, again, thy freer speech demand,
And the correction of a bolder hand, —
Must have their vices marshall'd in their view,
And every error plainly pointed to;
Others, from seeming love, will hear thy voice,
And fondly think that virtue is their choice;
But should'st thou thwart them with a word more hard,
Or seem t' abate thy tender, warm regard,
Rage would run back to all the follies past,
And every day grow faultier than the last;
Such is thy task, congenial to thy mind,
The Friend, the Lover, of forlorn Mankind!