The Present state of America, &c.

THE PRESENT STATE OF AMERICA, With the mournful Complaints, and a glorious Proſpect of better Times: Including our noble General's excellent Character. AMERICA, once happy place, Bleſs'd with religion, and true grace; A gen'rous people good, and kind To help each other were inclin'd: A happy people; bleſſed land! Enjoy'd a plenty at command. Parents and Children did agree Liv'd in ſweet peace and unity: And ſtrangers too did kindly greet, With their good hoſpitable treat. The States flouriſh'd, truth in my word, 'Till Britain ſhook her iron rod. Oh! Dreadful change, moſt ſad to tell, She is from her true glory fell. One neighbour doth another wrong, With his cunning deceitful tongue. "Shortly will I fail in my trade, "My creditors cheat—then I'm made. Now whores and thieves do much abound, Infeſt the town and country round: And poverty throughout the States Is the complaint in all her ſtreets: What is the cauſe of all her grief, Which makes the poor, cry for relief? Tradeſmen and merchants they do fail, And ſome confined in a jail.— When Whitefield did the goſpel ſound, Religion flouriſh'd in this town.— Throughout theſe brave United States A certain truth—good men relate! This faithful herald of the Lord, Throughout the States, his voice was heard; Crying to ſinners, turn and live— The Lord will all your ſins forgive: Thy life dear man, thro' every ſcene, Has active, uſeful, lovely been; Who e'er deviſ'd more liberal things? Or higher ſtretch'd devotion's wings? Could friendſhip trade, at home, abroad, Be ſacred more to Chriſt thy God? How far from fear! to Heav'n how nigh! Thus Whitefield liv'd, and lov'd to die. A ſecond Luther to declare, God's gracious meſſage, far and near: He was no bigot in his mind, But free and open to mankind— All ſects and parties did receive, Who truly in the Lord believe:— I wiſh my heart was juſt the ſame, Like the bleſs'd man who I do name. Tho' wicked things was of him ſaid, The Lord himſelf they did upbraid.

Sometime ago an aged pious matron of this city, related as follows, reſpecting a pious girl that lived with her and loved that which is good. But had heard an evil report of the Rev. Mr. George Whitefield, that he was a falſe teacher and impoſed on the people, and knew nothing about the goſpel, and never preached a good ſermon in his life.— So it fell out one day, that ſhe was requeſting her miſtreſs to read ſome good book to her, but objected ſtrongly againſt Mr. Whitefield's writings, and did not like them at all. However her miſtreſs conſented to read to her a ſermon, and the girl approved of it exceedingly; and ſaid that ſhe never heard a better ſermon in her life.—Then her miſtreſs informed her who the author was viz. Mr. Whitefield. The honeſt girl began to weep and wring her hands and ſaid, "that ſhe was the vileſt and moſt wicked wretch on earth to deſpiſe and reject ſuch a worthy and faithful ſervant of Jeſus Chriſt, by the influence of a falſe report, without any foundation."

The above gentlewoman informed me, that ſhe had heard an ill report of Baron Sweedenbourg's works, but not willing to depend upon mere hearſay, was determined to ſend for the Baron's book: And having read a part of it, and found it be a jargon of enthuſiaſm; now ſays the lady, "I judge for myſelf, and am ſatisfied; the report which I heard is true.—Therefore I adviſe all carnal and ungodly people, who deſpiſe and ridicule the Rev. George Whitefield, or his writings, to prove his works by the ſacred ſcriptures, read and judge for themſelves—I alſo requeſt them ſeriouſly to conſider that our bleſſed Lord and Saviour Jeſus Chriſt, was deſpiſed and ridiculed alſo, by the hypocritical Scribes and Phariſees of his day, and the moſt notorious lies laid to his charge viz. They ſaid that "Jeſus Chriſt was a glutton and a drunkard a deceiver of the people, and poſſeſſed of the devil," &c.

I am alſo informed that a certain gentleman now living in this city: Who is one of the firſt rate writers, and a very excellent poet; this gentleman informed a friend of mine, that he peruſes the Baron's works out of curioſity to know what he had to ſay—And looks on the Baron's performance in no other light than a whimſical novel —And I have it from good authority, therefore can avouch it as an authentic truth, that every miniſter in this city, together with hundreds of pious chriſtians, who in fact diſprove the Baron's works, and the reaſon is obvious, becauſe they are unſcriptural, and have a great tendency to diſhonour God and poiſon men's ſouls.—

Now that good friend is gone to reſt, Man is now turned like a beaſt.— Sweedenbourg's dreams are now receiv'd, The Lord deny'd, the ſpirit griev'd.— Fools to the houſe of laughter go, A ſad preſage of future woe.— Shameleſs whoredom, doth now appear, Sin hath ſo much bewitch'd the fair.— Our ſtreets have men in iron chains, Sad emblem of thoſe endleſs pains.— What holy ſcriptures do foretel, Is come to paſs in Iſrael.— Impoſing teachers do appear, And prove the laſt day doth draw near. The ſcoffers run to their own luſt. Deſpiſe and ridicule the juſt. This doth confirm the ſacred page, To this ungodly, wicked age.— The man is bad, that doth pervert, Thoſe ſacred truths, with ſubtile art. Man! by his power can't get faith, This is a truth the ſcripture ſaith: Tho' this vain author ſaith, he can, Is not the Lord more true then man? Some ſacred truths, he doth avow, Then what he ſaid doth overthrow: Juſtice to truth, ſometimes is paid, Then contradicts, what he hath ſaid.— His idle dreams are ſo refin'd, To cheat the weak and feeble mind; Sure the man muſt be inſane, To write ſuch ſtuff, and ſign his name; No doubt ſome curſed wicked fiend, Had ta'en poſſeſſion of his mind; He call'd himſelf the true Meſſiah, Which prov'd he was a wicked liar; Muſt be crucified for the Jews, This people's long expected news; Talk'd with angels, once and again, Whimſies of a frantic brain; The worſt of all I do confeſs, He ſlights the Lord, our right'ouſneſs; But thoſe that add or, take therefrom, Moſt dreadful ſure, will be their doom; God in his juſtice doth declare, He'll plunge them all in deep deſpair. Unhappy war! I do deplore, The States are brought ſo very poor; And Britain too doth feel the ſmart, I wiſh both well, with all my heart; I hope they will once more unite; And put our Popiſh foes to flight; Come in alliance, once again, 'Tis time the BEAST that he was ſlain. But independent we'll remain, In ſpite of Britain, France or Spain. Some ſay the curſe of the Lord's hand, Is turn'd againſt this wicked land. Mankind ſo wicked and profane, Their vices all I cannot name: The Sabbath like a market day, Thus fools do ſport their time away. In winter time, when weather's cold, How very dreadfull to behold, ☞ Hundreds ſkaiting on the ice, They are ſo given up to vice. And there the traders do reſort, To ſell good things and ſee the ſport; Righteouſneſs doth a nation bleſs, But Sin doth bring a heavy curſe. My heart would break to hold my peace, To ſee theſe vices ſtill increaſe. I take my pen and I do write, Expoſe my thoughts to public ſight Give a rough ſketch, then ſilent ſtand, And leave it to ſome abler hand. You know the common certain lot, Reprovers they muſt have a blot. Some thouſands they may take offence, And ſay, this ſcribbler hath no ſenſe: The learned, they will frown and ſay, His jingle I will caſt away, He might have wrote in pleaſing ſtile, And cauſ'd the world to have a ſmile. "Pope and Fordyce, theſe are the men, "To pleaſe the world with learned pen; "Harvey too, in beauteous phraſe, "Set forth the riches of God's grace; "But too particular in his mind, "Too tight doth our conſcience bind; "We are redeem'd by a rich price, "'Tis weakneſs for to be ſo nice; "His fine language, I do approve, "How pleaſant is a flow'ry grove; If my poor ſubject is too grave, A proof I'm no deſigning knave Was it av'rice, I have in view, I would another track purſue; Scribble, ſatire and lampoon, To pleaſe the ſordid low buſſoon; I never knew a publication, Gain'd every man's approbation; If mine pleaſe none, I do confeſs, My lines are ſingle in their dreſs; A faultleſs piece none e're did ſee, There is no man can perfect be. No poet am nor poet's ſon, Don't claim the name of either one; And yet to ſcribble I'm inclin'd, Who is the man my hands can bind? Who I am, and from whence I came? I do refuſe to ſign my name; Fooliſh things may confound the wiſe, Believe the truth I do adviſe; The lofty ſleep, and will not bark, The deſpis'd weak muſt do the work; What God appoints ſhall come to paſs, Truth will remain while time doth laſt; Great men in power don't regard, The honour of the bleſſed Lord; But if men ſteal their property, Then they are chain'd to ſlavery; Zeal is loſt for the Lord of Hoſts, Sad news in our great weſtern coaſts; Our trade is dead, and money ſpent, Which makes the workman to lament; The faces of the poor are ground, This has a mournful dreadful ſound; Deceivers they do lie in wait, The ſimple for to captivate: Thus ſharpers are on every hand, Oh, this corrupted wicked land! But we do hope our lot is caſt, The worſt of times, they now are paſt; Our new government, make no doubt, Will ſhortly bring our trade about; Such righteous laws, will be made, For the promotion of our trade; Good manufactures of our own, Will be ſet up in ev'ry town; Our brave General, and good friend, Proves true and faithful to the end; Waſhington ſounds through ev'ry land, A man of courage and command; Cruel tyrant much blood have ſpilt, And on their heads have brought great guilt; They ravag'd States in thirſt for blood, Waſhington fought for the States good; We hope to ſee more golden days, And live to our CREATOR'S PRAISE; But we muſt humble and implore, God would again his grace reſtore; This is the way for to ariſe, Giving our hearts a ſacrifice; What can be given ſhort of this, Which will reſtore our wanted bliſs. THE END.