So fpake the Son of God, and Satan ftood
A while as mute confounded what to say,
What to reply, confuted and convinc'd
Of his weak arguing, and fallacious drift;
At length collecting all his ferpent wiles,
With foothing words renew'd, him thus accosts.
I fee thou know'st what is of use to know,
What beft to fay canft say, to do canft do;
Thy actions to thy words accord, thy words
To thy large heart give utterance due, thy heart
Contains of good, wife, juft, the perfect shape.
Should kings and nations from thy mouth confult,
Thy counsel would be as the oracle
Urim and Thummim, those oraculous gems
On Aaron's breast; or tongue of seers old
Infallible or wert thou fought to deeds
That might require th' array of war, thy skill
Of conduct would be fuch, that all the world
Could not sustain thy prowess, or subsist
In battel, though against thy few in arms.
Thefe God-like virtues wherefore doft thou hide,
Affecting private life, or more obscure
In favage wilderness? wherefore deprive
All earth her wonder at thy acts, thyself
The fame and glory, glory the reward
That fole excites to high attempts, the flame
Of most erected fpi'rits, moft temper'd pure
Ethereal, who all pleasures elfe defpife,
All treasures and all gain esteem as dross,
And dignities and pow'rs all but the highest?
Thy years are ripe, and over-ripe; the fon
Of Macedonian Philip had ere these
Won Afia, and the throne of Cyrus held
At his difpofe; young Scipio had brought down
The Carthaginian pride; young Pompey quell'd
The Pontic king, and in triúmph had rode.
Yet years, and to ripe years judgment mature,
Quench not the thirst of glory, but augment.
Great Julius, whom now all the world admires,
The more he grew in years, the more inflam'd
With glory, wept that he had liv'd fo long
Inglorious but thou yet art not too late.
To whom our Saviour calmly thus reply'd.
Thou neither doft perfuade me to feek wealth
For empire's fake, nor empire to affect
For glory's fake, by all thy argument.
For what is glory but the blaze of fame,
The peoples praife, if always praife unmix'd?
And what the people but a herd confus'd,
A mifcellaneous rabble, who extol
Things vulgar, and well weigh'd, fcarce worth the They praife, and they admire they know not what,
And know not whom, but as one leads the other;
And what delight to be by fuch extoll'd,
To live upon their tongues and be their talk,
Of whom to be disprais'd were no small praise?
His lot who dares be fingularly good.
Th' intelligent among them and the wise
Are few, and glory scarce of few is rais'd.
This is true glory and renown, when God,
Looking on th' earth, with approbation marks
The juft man, and divulges him through Heaven
To all his Angels, who with true applause
Recount his praises: thus he did to Job,
When, to extend his fame through Heav'n and Earth,
As thou to thy reproach may'st well remember,
He afk'd thee, Haft thou feen my fervant Job?
Famous he was in Heav'n, on Earth lefs known;
Where glory is false glory, attributed
To things not glorious, men not worthy' of fame.
They err who count it glorious to fubdue
By conqueft far and wide, to over-run
Large countries, and in field great battles win,
Great cities by affault: what do these worthies,
But rob and spoil, burn, flaughter, and inflave
Peaceable nations, neighb’ring, or remote,
Made captive, yet deferving freedom more
Than those their conquerors, who leave behind
Nothing but ruin wherefoe'er they rove,
And all the florifhing works of peace deftroy,
Then fwell with pride, and must be titled Gods,
Great Benefactors of mankind, Deliverers,
Worshipt with temple, prieft, and facrifice;
One is the fon of Jove, of Mars the other;
Till conqu❜ror Death discover them scarce men,
Rolling in brutish vices, and deform'd,
Violent or shameful death their due reward.
But if there be in glory ought of good,
It may by means far different be attain'd
Without ambition, war, or violence;
By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent,
By patience, temperance: I mention ftill
Him whom thy wrongs with faintly patience borne
Made famous in a land and times obfcure;
Who names not now with honor patient Job?
Poor Socrates (who next more memorable?)
By what he taught and suffer'd for fo doing,
For truth's fake fuffering death unjust, lives now
Equal in fame to proudest conquerors.
Yet if for fame and glory ought be done,
Ought fuffer'd; if young African for fame
His wafted country freed from Punic rage,
The deed becomes unprais'd, the man at least,
And lofes, though but verbal, his reward.
Shall I feek glory then, as vain men seek,
Oft not deferv'd? I feek not mine, but his
Who fent me', and thereby witness whence I am.
To whom the Tempter murm'ring thus reply'd.
Think not fo flight of glory; therein least
Resembling thy great Father: he feeks glory,
And for his glory all things made, all things
Orders and governs; nor content in Heaven
By all his Angels glorify'd, requires
Glory from men, from all men good or bad,
Wife or unwife, no difference, no exemption;
Above all facrifice, or hallow'd gift
Glory' he requires, and glory he receives
Promifcuous from all nations, Jew, or Greek,
Or barbarous, nor exception hath declar'd;
From us his foes pronounc'd glory' he exacts.
To whom our Saviour fervently reply'd.
And reason; fince his word all things produc'd,
Though chiefly not for glory as prime end,
But to fhow forth his goodness, and impart
His good communicable to every foul
Freely; of whom what could he less expect
Than glory' and benediction, that is thanks,
The flightest, easiest, readiest recompenfe
From them who could return him nothing else,
And not returning that would likelieft render
Contempt instead, dishonor, obloquy?
Hard recompenfe, unsuitable return
For fo much good, so much beneficence.
But why should man seek glory, who' of his own
Hath nothing, and to whom nothing belongs
But condemnation, ignominy', and shame?
Who for so many benefits receiv'd
Turn'd recreant to God, ingrate and false,
And fo of all true good himself despoil'd,
Yet, facrilegious, to himself would take
That which to God alone of right belongs;
Yet fo much bounty is in God, such grace,
|