Poems: by William Cowper, of the Inner Temple, Esq.

TABLE TALK.

[]

Si te fortè meae gravis uret ſarcina chartoe

Abjicito.—

HOR. LIB. I. EPIS. 13.

YOU told me, I remember, glory built

On ſelfiſh principles, is ſhame and guilt.

The deeds that men admire as half divine,

Stark naught, becauſe corrupt in their deſign.

Strange doctrine this! that without ſcruple tears

The laurel that the very light'ning ſpares,

[2] Brings down the warrior's trophy to the duſt,

And eats into his bloody ſword like ruſt.

I grant, that men continuing what they are,

Fierce, avaricious, proud, there muſt be war.

And never meant the rule ſhould be applied

To him that fights with juſtice on his ſide.

Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnaſſian dews,

Reward his mem'ry, dear to ev'ry muſe,

Who, with a courage of unſhaken root,

In honour's field advancing his firm foot,

Plants it upon the line that juſtice draws,

And will prevail or periſh in her cauſe.

Tis to the virtues of ſuch men, man owes

His portion in the good that heav'n beſtows,

And when recording hiſtory diſplays

Feats of renown, though wrought in antient days,

Tells of a few ſtout hearts that fought and dy'd

Where duty plac'd them, at their country's ſide,

The man that is not mov'd with what he reads,

That takes not fire at their heroic deeds,

[3] Unworthy of the bleſſings of the brave,

Is baſe in kind, and born to be a ſlave.

But let eternal infamy purſue

The wretch to naught but his ambition true,

Who, for the ſake of filling with one blaſt

The poſt horns of all Europe, lays her waſte.

Think yourſelf ſtation'd on a tow'ring rock,

To ſee a people ſcatter'd like a flock,

Some royal maſtiff panting at their heels,

With all the ſavage thirſt a tyger feels,

Then view him ſelf-proclaim'd in a gazette,

Chief monſter that has plagu'd the nations yet,

The globe and ſceptre in ſuch hands miſplac'd,

Thoſe enſigns of dominion, how diſgrac'd!

The glaſs that bids man mark the fleeting hour,

And death's own ſcythe would better ſpeak his pow'r,

Then grace the boney phantom in their ſtead

With the king's ſhoulder knot and gay cockade,

Cloath the twin brethren in each other's dreſs,

The ſame their occupation and ſucceſs.

[4]

'Tis your belief the world was made for man,

Kings do but reaſon on the ſelf ſame plan,

Maintaining your's you cannot their's condemn,

Who think, or ſeem to think, man made for them.

Seldom, alas! the power of logic reigns

With much ſufficiency in royal brains.

Such reas'ning falls like an inverted cone,

Wanting its proper baſe to ſtand upon.

Man made for kings! thoſe optics are but dim

That tell you ſo—ſay rather, they for him.

That were indeed a king-enobling thought,

Could they, or would they, reaſon as they ought.

The diadem with mighty projects lin'd,

To catch renown by ruining mankind,

Is worth, with all its gold and glitt'ring ſtore,

Juſt what the toy will ſell for and no more.

Oh! bright occaſions of diſpenſing good,

How ſeldom uſed, how little underſtood!

To pour in virtue's lap her juſt reward,

Keep vice reſtrain'd behind a double guard,

[5] To quell the faction that affronts the throne,

By ſilent magnanimity alone;

To nurſe with tender care the thriving arts,

Watch every beam philoſophy imparts;

To give religion her unbridl'd ſcope,

Nor judge by ſtatute a believer's hope;

With cloſe fidelity and love unfeign'd,

To keep the matrimonial bond unſtain'd;

Covetous only of a virtuous praiſe,

His life a leſſon to the land he ſways;

To touch the ſword with conſcientious awe,

Nor draw it but when duty bids him draw,

To ſheath it in the peace-reſtoring cloſe,

With joy, beyond what victory beſtows,

Bleſt country! where theſe kingly glories ſhine,

Bleſt England! if this happineſs be thine.

Guard what you ſay, the patriotic tribe

Will ſneer and charge you with a bribe.

A bribe?

The worth of his three kingdoms I defy,

To lure me to the baſeneſs of a lie.

[6] And of all lies (be that one poet's boaſt)

The lie that flatters I abhor the moſt.

Thoſe arts be their's that hate his gentle reign,

But he that loves him has no need to feign.

Your ſmooth eulogium to one crown addreſs'd,

Seems to imply a cenſure on the reſt.

Quevedo, as he tells his ſober tale,

Aſk'd, when in hell, to ſee the royal jail,

Approv'd their method in all other things,

But where, good Sir, do you confine your kings?

There—ſaid his guide, the groupe is full in view.

Indeed? Replied the Don—there are but few.

His black interpreter the charge diſdain'd—

Few, fellow? There are all that ever reign'd.

Wit undiſtinguiſhing is apt to ſtrike

The guilty and not guilty, both alike.

I grant the ſarcaſm is too ſevere,

And we can readily refute it here,

While Alfred's name, the father of his age,

And the Sixth Edward's grace th' hiſtoric page.

[7]

King's then at laſt have but the lot of all,

By their own conduct they muſt ſtand or fall.

True. While they live, the courtly laureat pays

His quit-rent ode, his pepper-corn of praiſe,

And many a dunce whoſe fingers itch to write,

Adds, as he can, his tributary mite;

A ſubject's faults, a ſubject may proclaim,

A monarch's errors are forbidden game.

Thus free from cenſure, over-aw'd by fear,

And prais'd for virtues that they ſcorn to wear,

The fleeting forms of majeſty engage

Reſpect, while ſtalking o'er life's narrow ſtage,

Then leave their crimes for hiſtory to ſcan,

And aſk with buſy ſcorn, Was this the man?

I pity kings whom worſhip waits upon

Obſequious, from the cradle to the throne,

Before whoſe infant eyes the flatt'rer bows,

And binds a wreath about their baby brows.

Whom education ſtiffen'd into ſtate,

And death awakens from that dream too late.

[8] Oh! iſ ſervility with ſupple knees,

Whoſe trade it is to ſmile, to crouch, to pleaſe;

If ſmooth diſſimulation, ſkill'd to grace

A devil's purpoſe with an angel's face;

Iſ ſmiling peereſſes and ſimp'ring peers,

In compaſſing his throne a few ſhort years;

If the gilt carriage and the pamper'd ſteed,

That wants no driving and diſdains the lead;

If guards, mechanically form'd in ranks,

Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks;

Should'ring and ſtanding as if ſtruck to ſtone,

While condeſcending majeſty looks on;

If monarchy conſiſt in ſuch baſe things,

Sighing, I ſay again, I pity kings!

To be ſuſpected, thwarted, and withſtood,

Ev'n when he labours for his country's good,

To ſee a band call'd patriot for no cauſe,

But that they catch at popular applauſe,

Careleſs of all th' anxiety he feels,

Hook diſappointment on the public wheels,

[9] With all their flippant fluency of tongue,

Moſt confident, when palpably moſt wrong,

If this be kingly, then farewell for me

All kingſhip, and may I be poor and free.

To be the Table Talk of clubs up ſtairs,

To which th' unwaſh'd artificer repairs,

T' indulge his genius after long fatigue,

By diving into cabinet intrigue,

(For what kings deem a toil, as well they may,

To him is relaxation and mere play)

To win no praiſe when well-wrought plans prevail,

But to be rudely cenſur'd when they fail,

To doubt the love his fav'rites may pretend,

And in reality to find no friend,

If he indulge a cultivated taſte,

His gall'ries with the works of art well grac'd,

To hear it call'd extravagance and waſte,

If theſe attendants, and if ſuch as theſe,

Muſt follow royalty, then welcome eaſe;

However humble and confin'd the ſphere,

Happy the ſtate that has not theſe to fear.

[10]

Thus men whoſe thoughts contemplative have dwelt,

On ſituations that they never felt,

Start up ſagacious, cover'd with the duſt

Of dreaming ſtudy and pedantic ruſt,

And prate and preach about what others prove,

As if the world and they were hand and glove.

Leave kingly backs to cope with kingly cares,

They have their weight to carry, ſubjects their's;

Poets, of all men, ever leaſt regret

Increaſing taxes and the nation's debt.

Could you contrive the payment, and rehearſe

The mighty plan, oracular, in verſe,

No bard, howe'er majeſtic, old or new,

Should claim my fixt attention more than you.

Not Brindley nor Bridgewater would eſſay

To turn the courſe of Helicon that way;

Nor would the nine conſent, the ſacred tide

Should purl amidſt the traffic of Cheapſide,

Or tinkle in 'Change Alley, to amuſe

The leathern ears of ſtock-jobbers and jews.

[11]

Vouchſafe, at leaſt, to pitch the key of rhime

To themes more pertinent, if leſs ſublime.

When miniſters and miniſterial arts,

Patriots who love good places at their hearts,

When Admirals extoll'd for ſtanding ſtill,

Or doing nothing with a deal of ſkill;

Gen'rals who will not conquer when they may,

Firm friends to peace, to pleaſure, and good pay,

When freedom wounded almoſt to deſpair,

Though diſcontent alone can find out where,

When themes like theſe employ the poet's tongue.

ear as mute as if a ſyren ſung.

Or tell me if you can, what pow'r maintains

A Briton's ſcorn of arbitrary chains?

That were a theme might animate the dead,

And move the lips of poets caſt in lead.

The cauſe, tho' worth the ſearch, may yet elude

Conjecture and remark, however ſhrewd.

They take, perhaps, a well-directed aim,

Who ſeek it in his climate and his frame.

[12] Lib'ral in all things elſe, yet nature here

With ſtern ſeverity deals out the year.

Winter invades the ſpring, and often pours

A chilling flood on ſummer's drooping flow'rs,

Unwelcome vapors quench autumnal beams,

Ungenial blaſts attending, curl the ſtreams,

The peaſants urge their harveſt, plie the fork

With double toil, and ſhiver at their work,

Thus with a rigor, for his good deſign'd,

She rears her fav'rite man of all mankind.

His form robuſt and of elaſtic tone,

Proportion'd well, half muſcle and half bone,

Supplies with warm activity and force

A mind well lodg'd, and maſculine of courſe.

Hence liberty, ſweet liberty inſpires,

And keeps alive his fierce but noble fires.

Patient of conſtitutional controul,

He bears it with meek manlineſs of ſoul,

But if authority grow wanton, woe

To him that treads upon his free-born toe,

[13] One ſtep beyond the bound'ry of the laws

Fires him at once in freedom's glorious cauſe.

Thus proud prerogative, not much rever'd,

Is ſeldom felt, though ſometimes ſeen and heard;

And in his cage, like parrot fine and gay,

Is kept to ſtrut, look big, and talk away.

Born in a climate ſofter far than our's,

Not form'd like us, with ſuch Herculean pow'rs,

The Frenchman, eaſy, debonair and briſk,

Give him his laſs, his fiddle and his friſk,

Is always happy, reign whoever may,

And laughs the ſenſe of mis'ry far away.

He drinks his ſimple bev'rage with a guſt,

And feaſting on an onion and a cruſt,

We never feel th' alacrity and joy

With which he ſhouts and carols, Vive le Roy,

Fill'd with as much true merriment and glee,

As if he heard his king ſay—Slave be free.

Thus happineſs depends, as nature ſhews,

Leſs on exterior things than moſt ſuppoſe.

[14] Vigilant over all that he has made,

Kind Providence attends with gracious aid,

Bids equity throughout his works prevail,

And weighs the nations in an even ſcale;

He can encourage ſlav'ry to a ſmile,

And fill with diſcontent a Britiſh iſle.

Freeman and ſlave then, if the caſe be ſuch,

Stand on a level, and you prove too much.

If all men indiſcriminately ſhare,

His foſt'ring pow'r and tutelary care,

As well be yok'd by deſpotiſm's hand,

As dwell at large in Britain's charter'd land.

No. Freedom has a thouſand charms to ſhow,

That ſlaves, howe'er contented, never know.

The mind attains beneath her happy reign,

The growth that nature meant ſhe ſhould attain.

The varied fields of ſcience, ever new,

Op'ning and wider op'ning on her view,

She ventures onward with a proſp'rous force,

While no baſe fear impedes her in her courſe.

[15] Religion, richeſt favour of the ſkies,

Stands moſt reveal'd before the freeman's eyes;

No ſhades of ſuperſtition blot the day,

Liberty chaces all that gloom away;

The ſoul, emancipated, unoppreſs'd,

Free to prove all things and hold faſt the beſt,

Learns much, and to a thouſand liſt'ning minds,

Communicates with joy the good ſhe finds.

Courage in arms, and ever prompt to ſhow

His manly forehead to the fierceſt foe;

Glorious in war, but for the ſake of peace,

His ſpirits riſing as his toils increaſe,

Guards well what arts and induſtry have won,

And freedom claims him for her firſt-born ſon.

Slaves fight for what were better caſt away,

The chain that binds them, and a tyrant's ſway,

But they that fight for freedom, undertake

The nobleſt cauſe mankind can have at ſtake,

Religion, virtue, truth, whate'er we call

A bleſſing, freedom is the pledge of all.

[16] Oh liberty! the pris'ners pleaſing dream,

The poet's muſe, his paſſion and his theme,

Genius is thine, and thou art fancy's nurſe,

Loſt without thee th' ennobling pow'rs of verſe,

Heroic ſong from thy free touch acquires

Its cleareſt tone, the rapture it inſpires;

Place me where winter breathes his keeneſt air,

And I will ſing if liberty be there;

And I will ſing at liberty's dear feet,

In Afric's torrid clime or India's fierceſt heat.

Sing where you pleaſe, in ſuch a cauſe I grant

An Engliſh Poet's privilege to rant,

But is not freedom, at leaſt is not our's

Too apt to play the wanton with her pow'rs,

Grow freakiſh, and o'er leaping ev'ry mound

Spread anarchy and terror all around?

Agreed. But would you ſell or ſlay your horſe

For bounding and curvetting in his courſe;

Or if, when ridden with a careleſs rein,

He break away, and ſeek the diſtant plain?

[17] No. His high mettle under good controul,

Gives him Olympic ſpeed, and ſhoots him to the goal.

Let diſcipline employ her wholeſome arts,

Let magiſtrates alert perform their parts,

Not ſkulk or put on a prudential maſk,

As if their duty were a deſp'rate taſk;

Let active laws apply the needful curb

To guard the peace that riot would diſturb,

And liberty preſerv'd from wild exceſs,

Shall raiſe no feuds for armies to ſuppreſs.

When tumult lately burſt his priſon door,

And ſet Plebeian thouſands in a roar,

When he uſurp'd authority's juſt place,

And dar'd to look his maſter in the face,

When the rude rabbles watch-word was, deſtroy,

And blazing London ſeem'd a ſecond Troy,

Liberty bluſh'd and hung her drooping head,

Beheld their progreſs with the deepeſt dread,

Bluſh'd that effects like theſe ſhe ſhould produce,

Worſe than the deeds of galley-ſlaves broke looſe.

[18] She loſes in ſuch ſtorms her very name,

And fierce licentiouſneſs ſhould bear the blame.

Incomparable gem! thy worth untold,

Cheap, though blood-bought, and thrown away [...] ſold;

May no foes raviſh thee, and no falſe friend

Betray thee, while profeſſing to defend;

Prize it ye miniſters, ye monarchs ſpare,

Ye patriots guard it with a miſer's care.

Patriots, alas! the few that have been foun [...]

Where moſt they flouriſh, upon Engliſh ground,

The country's need have ſcantily ſupplied,

And the laſt left the ſcene, when Chatham died.

Not ſo—the virtue ſtill adorns our age,

Though the chief actor died upon the ſtage.

In him, Demoſthenes was heard again,

Liberty taught him her Athenian ſtrain;

She cloath'd him with authority and awe,

Spoke from his lips, and in his looks, gave law.

His ſpeech, his form, his action, full of grace,

And all his country beaming in his face,

[19] He ſtood, as ſome inimitable hand

Would ſtrive to make a Paul or Tully ſtand.

No ſycophant or ſlave that dar'd oppoſe

Her ſacred cauſe, but trembl'd when he roſe,

And every venal ſtickler for the yoke,

Felt himſelf cruſh'd at the firſt word he ſpoke.

Such men are rais'd to ſtation and command,

When providence means mercy to a land.

He ſpeaks, and they appear; to him they owe

Skill to direct, and ſtrength to ſtrike the blow,

To manage with addreſs, to ſeize with pow'r

The criſis of a dark deciſive hour.

So Gideon earn'd a vict'ry not his own,

Subſerviency his praiſe, and that alone.

Poor England! thou art a devoted deer,

Beſet with ev'ry ill but that of fear.

The nations hunt; all mark thee for a prey,

They ſwarm around thee, and thou ſtandſt at bay.

Undaunted ſtill, though wearied and perplex'd,

Once Chatham ſav'd thee, but who ſaves thee next?

[20] Alas! the tide of pleaſure ſweeps along

All that ſhould be the boaſt of Britiſh ſong.

'Tis not the wreath that once adorn'd thy brow,

The prize of happier times will ſerve thee now.

Our anceſtry, a gallant chriſtian race,

Patterns of ev'ry virtue, ev'ry grace,

Confeſs'd a God, they kneel'd before they fought,

And praiſed him in the victories he wrought.

Now from the duſt of antient days bring forth

Their ſober zeal, integrity and worth,

Courage, ungrac'd by theſe, affronts the ſkies,

Is but the fire without the ſacrifice.

The ſtream that feeds the well-ſpring of the heart

Not more invigorates life's nobleſt part,

Than virtue quickens with a warmth divine,

The pow'rs that ſin has brought to a decline.

Th' ineſtimable eſtimate of Brown,

Roſe like a paper-kite, and charm'd the town;

But meaſures plann'd and executed well,

Shifted the wind that rais'd it, and it fell.

[21] He trod the very ſelf-ſame ground you tread,

And victory refuted all he ſaid.

And yet his judgment was not fram'd amiſs,

Its error, if it err'd, was merely this—

He thought the dying hour already come,

And a complete recov'ry ſtruck him dumb.

But that effeminacy, folly, luſt,

Enervate and enfeeble, and needs muſt,

And that a nation ſhamefully debas'd,

Will be deſpis'd and trampl'd on at laſt,

Unleſs ſweet penitence her pow'rs renew,

Is truth, if hiſtory itſelf be true.

There is a time, and juſtice marks the date,

For long-forbearing clemency to wait,

That hour elaps'd, th'incurable revolt

Is puniſh'd, and down comes the thunder-bolt.

If mercy then put by the threat'ning blow,

Muſt ſhe perform the ſame kind office now?

May ſhe, and if offended heav'n be ſtill

Acceſſible and pray'r prevail, ſhe will.

[22] 'Tis not however inſolence and noiſe,

The tempeſt of tumultuary joys,

Nor is it yet deſpondence and diſmay,

Will win her viſits, or engage her ſtay,

Pray'r only, and the penitential tear,

Can call her ſmiling down, and fix her here.

But when a country, (one that I could name)

In proſtitution ſinks the ſenſe of ſhame,

When infamous venality grown bold,

Writes on his boſom, to be lett or ſold;

When perjury, that heav'n defying vice,

Sells oaths by tale, and at the loweſt price,

Stamps God's own name upon a lie juſt made,

To turn a penny in the way of trade;

When av'rice ſtarves, and never hides his face,

Two or three millions of the human race,

And not a tongue enquires, how, where, or when,

Though conſcience will have twinges now and then;

When profanation of the ſacred cauſe

In all its parts, times, miniſtry and laws,

[23] Beſpeaks a land once chriſtian, fall'n and loſt

In all that wars againſt that title moſt,

What follows next let cities of great name,

And regions long ſince deſolate proclaim,

Nineveh, Babylon, and antient Rome,

Speak to the preſent times and times to come,

They cry aloud in ev'ry careleſs ear,

Stop, while ye may, ſuſpend your mad career;

O learn from our example and our fate,

Learn wiſdom and repentance e'er too late.

Not only vice diſpoſes and prepares

The mind that ſlumbers ſweetly in her ſnares,

To ſtoop to tyranny's uſurp'd command,

And bend her poliſh'd neck beneath his hand,

(A dire effect, by one of nature's laws

Unchangeably connected with its cauſe)

But providence himſelf will intervene

To throw his dark diſpleaſure o'er the ſcene.

All are his inſtruments; each form of war,

What burns at home, or threatens from afar,

[24] Nature in arms, her elements at ſtrife,

The ſtorms that overſet the joys of life,

Are but his rods to ſcourge a guilty land,

And waſte it at the bidding of his hand.

He gives the word, and mutiny ſoon roars

In all her gates, and ſhakes her diſtant ſhores,

The ſtandards of all nations are unfurl'd,

She has one foe, and that one foe, the world.

And if he doom that people with a frown,

And mark them with the ſeal of wrath, preſs'd down,

Obduracy takes place; callous and tough

The reprobated race grows judgment proof:

Earth ſhakes beneath them, and heav'n roars above,

But nothing ſcares them from the courſe they love;

To the laſcivious pipe and wanton ſong

That charm down fear, they frolic it along,

With mad rapidity and unconcern,

Down to the gulph from which is no return.

They truſt in navies, and their navies fail,

God's curſe can caſt away ten thouſand ſail;

[25] They truſt in armies, and their courage dies,

In wiſdom, wealth, in fortune, and in lies;

But all they truſt in, withers, as it muſt,

When he commands, in whom they place no truſt.

Vengeance at laſt pours down upon their coaſt,

A long deſpis'd, but now victorious hoſt,

Tyranny ſends the chain that muſt abridge

The noble ſweep of all their privilege,

Gives liberty the laſt, the mortal ſhock,

Slips the ſlave's collar on, and ſnaps the lock,

Such lofty ſtrains embelliſh what you teach,

Mean you to prophecy, or but to preach?

I know the mind that feels indeed the fire

The muſe imparts, and can command the lyre,

Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal,

Whate'er the theme, that others never feel.

If human woes her ſoft attention claim,

A tender ſympathy pervades the frame,

She pours a ſenſibility divine

Along the nerve of ev'ry feeling line.

[26] But if a deed not tamely to be borne,

Fire indignation and a ſenſe of ſcorn,

The ſtrings are ſwept with ſuch a pow'r, ſo loud,

The ſtorm of muſic ſhakes th' aſtoniſh'd crowd.

So when remote futurity is brought

Before the keen enquiry of her thought,

A terrible ſagacity informs

The poet's heart, he looks to diſtant ſtorms,

He hears the thunder e'er the tempeſt low'rs,

And arm'd with ſtrength ſurpaſſing human pow'rs,

Seizes events as yet unknown to man,

And darts his ſoul into the dawning plan.

Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name

Of prophet and of poet was the ſame,

Hence Britiſh poets too the prieſthood ſhar'd,

And ev'ry hallow'd druid was a bard.

But no prophetic fires to me belong,

I play with ſyllables, and ſport in ſong.

At Weſtminſter, where little poets ſtrive

To ſet a diſtich upon ſix and five,

[27] Where diſcipline helps op'ning buds of ſenſe,

And makes his pupils proud with ſilver-pence,

I was a poet too—but modern taſte

Is ſo refin'd and delicate and chaſte,

That verſe, whatever fire the fancy warms,

Without a creamy ſmoothneſs has no charms.

Thus, all ſucceſs depending on an ear,

And thinking I might purchaſe it too dear,

If ſentiment were ſacrific'd to ſound,

And truth cut ſhort to make a period round,

I judg'd a man of ſenſe could ſcarce do worſe,

Than caper in the morris-dance of verſe.

Thus reputation is a ſpur to wit,

And ſome wits flag through fear of loſing it.

Give me the line, that plows its ſtately courſe

Like a proud ſwan, conq'ring the ſtream by force.

That like ſome cottage beauty ſtrikes the heart,

Quite unindebted to the tricks of art.

When labour and when dullneſs, club in hand,

Like the two figures at St. Dunſtan's ſtand,

[28] Beating alternately, in meaſur'd time,

The clock-work tintinabulum of rhime,

Exact and regular the ſounds will be,

But ſuch mere quarter-ſtrokes are not for me.

From him who rears a poem lank and long,

To him who ſtrains his all into a ſong,

Perhaps ſome bonny Caledonian air,

All birks and braes, though he was never there,

Or having whelp'd a prologue with great pains,

Feels himſelf ſpent, and fumbles for his brains;

A prologue interdaſh'd with many a ſtroke,

An art contriv'd to advertiſe a joke,

So that the jeſt is clearly to be ſeen,

Not in the words—but in the gap between,

Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,

The ſubſtitute for genius, ſenſe, and wit.

To dally much with ſubjects mean and low,

Proves that the mind is weak, or makes it ſo.

Neglected talents ruſt into decay,

And ev'ry effort ends in puſh-pin play,

[29] The man that means ſucceſs, ſhould ſoar above

A ſoldier's feather, or a lady's glove,

Elſe ſummoning the muſe to ſuch a theme,

The fruit of all her labour is whipt-cream.

As if an eagle flew aloft, and then—

Stoop'd from his higheſt pitch to pounce a wren.

As if the poet purpoſing to wed,

Should carve himſelf a wife in gingerbread.

Ages elaps'd e'er Homer's lamp appear'd,

And ages e'er the Mantuan ſwan was heard,

To carry nature lengths unknown before,

To give a Milton birth, aſk'd ages more.

Thus genius roſe and ſet at order'd times,

And ſhot a day-ſpring into diſtant climes,

Ennobling ev'ry region that he choſe,

He ſunk in Greece, in Italy he roſe,

And tedious years of Gothic darkneſs paſs'd,

Emerg'd all ſplendor in our iſle at laſt.

Thus lovely Halcyons dive into the main,

Then ſhow far off their ſhining plumes again.

[30]

Is genius only found in epic lays?

Prove this, and forfeit all pretence to praiſe.

Make their heroic pow'rs your own at once,

Or candidly confeſs yourſelf a dunce.

Theſe were the chief, each interval of night

Was grac'd with many an undulating light;

In leſs illuſtrious bards his beauty ſhone

A meteor or a ſtar, in theſe, the ſun.

The nightingale may claim the topmoſt bough,

While the poor graſshopper muſt chirp below.

Like him unnotic'd, I, and ſuch as I,

Spread little wings, and rather ſkip than fly,

Perch'd on the meagre produce of the land,

An ell or two of proſpect we command,

But never peep beyond the thorny bound

Or oaken fence that hems the paddoc round.

In Eden e'er yet innocence of heart

Had faded, poetry was not an art;

Language above all teaching, or if taught,

Only by gratitude and glowing thought,

[31] Elegant as ſimplicity, and warm

As exſtaſy, unmanacl'd by form,

Not prompted as in our degen'rate days,

By low ambition and the thirſt of praiſe,

Was natural as is the flowing ſtream,

And yet magnificent, a God the theme.

That theme on earth exhauſted, though above

'Tis found as everlaſting as his love,

Man laviſh'd all his thoughts on human things,

The feats of heroes and the wrath of kings,

But ſtill while virtue kindled his delight,

The ſong was moral, and ſo far was right.

'Twas thus till luxury ſeduc'd the mind,

To joys leſs innocent, as leſs refin'd,

Then genius danc'd a bacchanal, he crown'd

The brimming goblet, ſeiz'd the thyrſus, bound

His brows with ivy, ruſh'd into the field

Of wild imagination, and there reel'd

The victim of his own laſcivious fires,

And dizzy with delight, profan'd the ſacred wires.

[32] Anacreon, Horace, play'd in Greece and Rome

This Bedlam part; and, others nearer home,

When Cromwell fought for pow'r, and while he reign'd

The proud protector of the pow'r he gain'd,

Religion harſh, intolerant, auſtere,

Parent of manners like herſelf ſevere,

Drew a rough copy of the Chriſtian face

Without the ſmile, the ſweetneſs, or the grace;

The dark and ſullen humour of the time

Judg'd ev'ry effort of the muſe a crime;

Verſe in the fineſt mould of fancy caſt,

Was lumber in an age ſo void of taſte:

But when the ſecond Charles aſſum'd the ſway,

And arts reviv'd beneath a ſofter day,

Then like a bow long forc'd into a curve,

The mind releas'd from too conſtrain'd a nerve,

Flew to its firſt poſition with a ſpring

That made the vaulted roofs of pleaſure ring.

His court, the diſſolute and hateful ſchool

Of wantonneſs, where vice was taught by rule,

[33] Swarm'd with a ſcribbling herd as deep inlaid

With brutal luſt as ever Circe made.

From theſe a long ſucceſſion, in the rage

Of rank obſcenity debauch'd their age,

Nor ceas'd, 'till ever anxious to redreſs

Th' abuſes of her ſacred charge, the preſs,

The muſe inſtructed a well nurtur'd train

Of abler votaries to cleanſe the ſtain,

And claim the palm for purity of ſong,

That lewdneſs had uſurp'd and worn ſo long.

Then decent pleaſantry and ſterling ſenſe

That never gave nor would endure offence,

Whipp'd out of ſight with ſatyr juſt and keen,

The puppy pack that had defil'd the ſcene.

In front of theſe came Addiſon. In him

Humour in holiday and ſightly trim,

Sublimity and attic taſte combin'd,

To poliſh, furniſh, and delight the mind.

Then Pope, as harmony itſelf exact,

In verſe well diſciplin'd, complete, compact,

[34] Gave virtue and morality a grace

That quite eclipſing pleaſure's painted face,

Levied a tax of wonder and applauſe,

Ev'n on the fools that trampl'd on their laws.

But he (his muſical fineſſe was ſuch,

So nice his ear, ſo delicate his touch)

Made poetry a mere mechanic art,

And ev'ry warbler has his tune by heart.

Nature imparting her ſatyric gift,

Her ſerious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swiſt,

With droll ſobriety they rais'd a ſmile

At folly's coſt, themſelves unmov'd the while.

That conſtellation ſet, the world in vain

Muſt hope to look upon their like again.

Are we then left

Not wholly in the dark,

Wit now and then, ſtruck ſmartly, ſhows a ſpark,

Sufficient to redeem the modern race

From total night and abſolute diſgrace.

While ſervile trick and imitative knack

Confine the million in the beaten track,

[35] Perhaps ſome courſer who diſdains the road,

Snuffs up the wind and flings himſelf abroad.

Cotemporaries all ſurpaſs'd, ſee one,

Short his career, indeed, but ably run.

Churchill, himſelf unconſcious of his pow'rs,

In penury confum'd his idle hours,

And like a ſcatter'd ſeed at random ſown,

Was left to ſpring by vigor of his own.

Lifted at length by dignity of thought,

And dint of genius to an affluent lot,

He laid his head in luxury's ſoft lap,

And took too often there his eaſy nap.

If brighter beams than all he threw not forth,

'Twas negligence in him, not want of worth.

Surly and ſlovenly and bold and coarſe,

Too proud for art, and truſting in mere force,

Spendthrift alike of money and of wit,

Always at ſpeed and never drawing bit,

He ſtruck the lyre in ſuch a careleſs mood,

And ſo diſdain'd the rules he underſtood,

[36] The laurel ſeem'd to wait on his command,

He ſnatch'd it rudely from the muſes hand.

Nature exerting an unwearied pow'r,

Forms, opens and gives ſcent to ev'ry flow'r,

Spreads the freſh verdure of the field, and leads

The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads,

She fills profuſe ten thouſand little throats

With muſic, modulating all their notes,

And charms the woodland ſcenes and wilds unknown,

With artleſs airs and concerts of her own;

But ſeldom (as if fearful of expence)

Vouchſafes to man a poet's juſt pretence.

Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought,

Harmony, ſtrength, words exquiſitely ſought,

Fancy that from the bow that ſpans the ſky,

Brings colours dipt in heav'n that never die,

A ſoul exalted above earth, a mind

Skill'd in the characters that form mankind,

And as the ſun in riſing beauty dreſs'd,

Looks to the weſtward from the dappl'd eaſt,

[37] And marks, whatever clouds may interpoſe,

E'er yet his race begins, its glorious cloſe,

An eye like his to catch the diſtant goal,

Or e'er the wheels of verſe begin to roll,

Like his to ſhed illuminating rays

On ev'ry ſcene and ſubject it ſurveys,

Thus grac'd the man aſſerts a poet's name,

And the world chearfully admits the claim.

Pity! Religion has ſo ſeldom found

A ſkilful guide into poetic ground,

The flow'rs would ſpring where'er ſhe deign'd to ſtray,

And ev'ry muſe attend her in her way.

Virtue indeed meets many a rhiming friend,

And many a compliment politely penn'd,

But unattir'd in that becoming veſt

Religion weaves for her, and half undreſs'd,

Stands in the deſart ſhiv'ring and forlorn,

A wint'ry figure, like a wither'd thorn.

The ſhelves are full, all other themes are ſped,

Hackney'd and worn to the laſt flimſy thread,

[38] Satyr has long ſince done his beſt, and curſt

And loathſome ribaldry has done his worſt,

Fancy has ſported all her pow'rs away

In tales, in trifles, and in children's play,

And 'tis the ſad complaint, and almoſt true,

Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new.

'Twere new indeed, to ſee a bard all fire,

Touch'd with a coal from heav'n aſſume the lyre,

And tell the world, ſtill kindling as he ſung,

With more than mortal muſic on his tongue,

That he who died below, and reigns above

Inſpires the ſong, and that his name is love.

For after all, if merely to beguile

By flowing numbers and a flow'ry ſtile,

The taedium that the lazy rich endure,

Which now and then ſweet poetry may cure,

Or if to ſee the name of idol ſelf

Stamp'd on the well-bound quarto, grace the ſhelf,

To float a bubble on the breath of fame,

Prompt his endeavour, and engage his aim,

[39] Debas'd to ſervile purpoſes of pride,

How are the powers of genius miſapplied?

The gift whoſe office is the giver's praiſe,

To trace him in his word, his works, his ways,

Then ſpread the rich diſcov'ry, and invite

Mankind to ſhare in the divine delight,

Diſtorted from its uſe and juſt deſign,

To make the pitiful poſſeſſor ſhine,

To purchaſe at the fool-frequented fair

Of vanity, a wreath for ſelf to wear,

Is profanation of the baſeſt kind,

Proof of a trifling and a worthleſs mind.

Hail Sternhold then and Hopkins hail!

Amen.

If flatt'ry, folly, luſt employ the pen,

If acrimony, ſlander and abuſe,

Give it a charge to blacken and traduce;

Though Butler's wit, Pope's numbers, Prior's eaſe,

With all that fancy can invent to pleaſe,

Adorn the poliſh'd periods as they fall,

One Madrigal of their's is worth them all.

[40]

'Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe,

To daſh the pen through all that you proſcribe.

No matter—we could ſhift when they were not,

And ſhould no doubt if they were all forgot.

THE PROGRESS OF ERROR.

[]

‘Si quid loquar audiendum. HOR. LIB. 4. OD. 2.’

SING muſe (if ſuch a theme, ſo dark, ſo long,

May find a muſe to grace it with a ſong)

By what unſeen and unſuſpected arts

The ſerpent error twines round human hearts,

Tell where ſhe lurks, beneath what flow'ry ſhades,

That not a glimpſe of genuin light pervades,

The pois'nous, black, inſinuating worm,

Succeſsfully conceals her loathſome form.

[42] Take, if ye can, ye careleſs and ſupine!

Counſel and caution from a voice like mine;

Truths that the theoriſt could never reach,

And obſervation taught me, I would teach.

Not all whoſe eloquence the fancy fills,

Muſical as the chime of tinkling rills,

Weak to perform, though mighty to pretend,

Can trace her mazy windings to their end,

Diſcern the fraud beneath the ſpecious lure,

Prevent the danger, or preſcribe the cure.

The clear harangue, and cold as it is clear,

Falls ſoporific on the liſtleſs ear,

Like quickſilver, the rhet'ric they diſplay,

Shines as it runs, but graſp'd at ſlips away.

Plac'd for his trial on this buſtling ſtage,

From thoughtleſs youth to ruminating age,

Free in his will to chuſe or to refuſe,

Man may improve the criſis, or abuſe.

Elſe, on the fataliſts unrighteous plan,

Say, to what bar amenable were man?

[43] With nought in charge, he could betray no truſt,

And if he fell, would fall becauſe he muſt;

[...] love reward him, or if vengeance ſtrike,

His recompence in both, unjuſt alike.

Divine authority within his breaſt

Brings every thought, word, action to the teſt,

Warns him or prompts, approves him or reſtrains,

As reaſon, or as paſſion, takes the reins.

Heav'n from above, and conſcience from within,

Cry in his ſtartled ear, abſtain from ſin.

The world around ſolicits his deſire,

And kindles in his ſoul a treach'rous fire,

While all his purpoſes and ſteps to guard,

Peace follows virtue as its ſure reward,

And pleaſure brings as ſurely in her train,

Remorſe and ſorrow and vindictive pain.

Man thus endued with an elective voice,

Muſt be ſupplied with objects of his choice.

Where'er he turns, enjoyment and delight,

Or preſent, or in proſpect, meet his ſight;

[44] Theſe open on the ſpot their honey'd ſtore,

Thoſe call him loudly to purſuit of more.

His unexhauſted mine, the ſordid vice

Avarice ſhows, and virtue is the price.

Here, various motives his ambition raiſe,

Pow'r, pomp, and ſplendor, and the thirſt of praiſe;

There beauty woes him with expanded arms,

E'en Bacchanalian madneſs has its charms,

Nor theſe alone, whoſe pleaſures leſs refin'd,

Might well alarm the moſt unguarded mind,

Seek to ſupplant his unexperienced youth,

Or lead him devious from the path of truth,

Hourly allurements on his paſſions preſs,

Safe in themſelves, but dang'rous in th' exceſs.

Hark! how it floats upon the dewy air,

O what a dying, dying cloſe was there!

'Tis harmony from yon ſequeſter'd bow'r,

Sweet harmony that ſooths the midnight hour;

Long e'er the charioteer of day had run

His morning courſe, th' enchantment was begun,

[45] And he ſhall gild yon mountains height again,

[...]'er yet the pleaſing toil becomes a pain.

Is this the rugged path, the ſteep aſcent

That virtue points to? Can a life thus ſpent

Lead to the bliſs ſhe promiſes the wiſe,

Detach the ſoul from earth, and ſpeed her to the ſkies?

Ye devotees to your ador'd employ,

Enthuſiaſts, drunk with an unreal joy,

Love makes the muſic of the bleſt above,

Heav'ns harmony is univerſal love;

And earthly ſounds, though ſweet and well combin'd,

And lenient as ſoft opiates to the mind,

Leave vice and folly unſubdu'd behind.

Grey dawn appears, the ſportſman and his train

[...]peckle the boſom of the diſtant plain,

'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighb'ring lairs,

[...]ave that his ſcent is leſs acute than their's,

For perſevering chace, and headlong leaps,

True beagle as the ſtauncheſt hound he keeps.

Charg'd with the folly of his life's mad ſcene,

He takes offence, and wonders what you mean;

[46] The joy, the danger and the toil o'erpays,

'Tis exerciſe, and health and length of days,

Again impetuous to the field he flies,

Leaps ev'ry fence but one, there falls and dies;

Like a ſlain deer, the tumbril brings him home,

Unmiſs'd but by his dogs and by his groom.

Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place,

Lights of the world, and ſtars of human race—

But if eccentric yc forſake your ſphere,

Prodigious, ominous, and view'd with fear.

The comets baneful influence is a dream,

Your's real, and pernicious in th' extreme.

What then—are appetites and luſts laid down,

With the ſame eaſe the man puts on his gown?

Will av'rice and concupiſcence give place,

Charm'd by the ſounds, your rev'rence, or your grace?

No. But his own engagement binds him faſt,

Or if it does not, brands him to the laſt

What atheiſts call him, a deſigning knave,

A mere church juggler, hypocrite and ſlave.

[47] Oh laugh, or mourn with me, the rueful jeſt,

A caſſock'd huntſman, and a fiddling prieſt;

He from Italian ſongſters takes his cue,

Set Paul to muſic, he ſhall quote him too.

He takes the field, the maſter of the pack

Cries, well done Saint—and claps him on the back.

Is this the path of ſanctity? Is this

To ſtand a way-mark in the road to bliſs?

Himſelf a wand'rer from the narrow way,

His ſilly ſheep, what wonder if they ſtray?

Go, caſt your orders at your Biſhop's feet,

Send your diſhonour'd gown to Monmouth Street,

The ſacred function, in your hands is made,

Sad ſacrilege! No function but a trade.

Occiduus is a paſtor of renown,

When he has pray'd and preach'd the ſabbath down,

With wire and catgut he concludes the day,

Quav'ring and ſemiquav'ring care away.

The full concerto ſwells upon your ear;

All elbows ſhake. Look in, and you would ſwear

[48] The Babylonian tyrant with a nod

Had ſummon'd them to ſerve his golden God.

So well that thought th' employment ſeems to ſuit,

ſalt'ry and ſackbut, dulcimer, and flute,

Oh fie! 'Tis evangelical and pure,

Obſerve each face, how ſober and demure,

Extaſy ſets her ſtamp on ev'ry mien,

Chins fall'n, and not an eye-ball to be ſeen.

Still I inſiſt, though muſic heretofore

Has charm'd me much, not ev'n Occiduus more,

Love, joy and peace make harmony, more meet

For ſabbath evenings, and perhaps as ſweet.

Will not the ſicklieſt ſheep of ev'ry flock,

Reſort to this example as a rock,

There ſtand and juſtify the foul abuſe

Of ſabbath hours, with plauſible excuſe?

If apoſtolic gravity be free

To play the fool on Sundays, why not we?

If he, the tinkling harpſichord regards

As inoffenſive, what offence in cards?

[49] Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay,

Laymen have leave to dance, if parſons play.

Oh Italy! Thy ſabbaths will be ſoon

Our ſabbaths, clos'd with mumm'ry and buffoon.

Preaching and pranks will ſhare the motley ſcene,

Our's parcell'd out, as thine have ever been,

God's worſhip and the mountebank between.

What ſays the prophet? Let that day be bleſt

With holineſs and conſecrated reſt.

Paſtime and bus'neſs both it ſhould exclude,

And bar the door the moment they intrude,

Nobly diſtinguiſh'd above all the ſix,

By deeds in which the world muſt never mix.

Hear him again. He calls it a delight,

A day of luxury, obſerv'd aright,

When the glad ſoul is made heav'ns welcome gueſt,

Sits banquetting, and God provides the feaſt.

But triflers are engag'd and cannot come;

Their anſwer to the call is—Not at home.

Oh the dear pleaſures of the velvet plain,

The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again.

[50] Cards with what rapture, and the poliſh'd die,

The yawning chaſm of indolence ſupply!

Then to the dance, and make the ſober moon

Witneſs of joys that ſhun the ſight of noon.

Blame cynic, if you can, quadrille or ball,

The ſnug cloſe party, or the ſplendid hall,

Where night down-ſtooping from her ebon throne,

Views conſtellations brighter than her own.

'Tis innocent, and harmleſs and refin'd,

The balm of care, elyſium of the mind.

Innocent! Oh if venerable time

Slain at the foot of pleaſure, be no crime,

Then with his ſilver beard and magic wand,

Let Comus riſe Archbiſhop of the land,

Let him your rubric and your feaſts preſcribe,

Grand metropolitan of all the tribe.

Of manners rough, and coarſe athletic caſt,

The rank debauch ſuits Clodio's filthy taſte.

Rufillus, exquiſitely form'd by rule,

Not of the moral, but the dancing ſchool,

[51] Wonders at Clodio's follies, in a tone

As tragical, as others at his own.

He cannot drink five bottles, bilk the ſcore,

Then kill a conſtable, and drink five more;

But he can draw a pattern, make a tart,

And has the ladies etiquette by heart.

Go fool, and arm in arm with Clodio, plead

Your cauſe, before a bar you little dread;

But know, the law that bids the drunkard die,

Is far too juſt to paſs the trifler by.

Both baby featur'd and of infant ſize,

View'd from a diſtance, and with heedleſs eyes,

Folly and innocence are ſo alike,

The diff'rence, though eſſential, fails to ſtrike.

Yet folly ever has a vacant ſtare,

A ſimp'ring count'nance, and a trifling air;

But innocence, ſedate, ſerene, erect,

Delights us, by engaging our reſpect.

Man, nature's gueſt by invitation ſweet,

Receives from her, both appetite and treat,

[52] But if he play the glutton and exceed,

His benefactreſs bluſhes at the deed.

For nature, nice, as lib'ral to diſpenſe,

Made nothing but a brute the ſlave of ſenſe.

Daniel ate pulſe by choice, example rare!

Heav'n bleſs'd the youth, and made him freſh and fair.

Gorgonius ſits abdominous and wan,

Like a fatſquab upon a Chineſe fan.

He ſnuffs far off th' anticipated joy,

Turtle and ven'ſon all his thoughts employ,

Prepares for meals, as jockeys take a ſweat,

Oh nauſeous! an emetic for a whet—

Will providence o'erlook the waſted good?

Temperance were no virtue if he cou'd.

That pleaſures, therefore, or what ſuch we call,

Are hurtful, is a truth confeſs'd by all.

And ſome that ſeem to threaten virtue leſs,

Still hurtful, in th' abuſe, or by th' exceſs.

Is man then only for his torment plac'd,

The center of delights he may not taſte?

[53] Like fabled Tantalus condemn'd to hear

The precious ſtream ſtill purling in his ear,

Lip-deep in what he longs for, and yet curſt

With prohibition and perpetual thirſt?

No, wrangler—deſtitute of ſhame and ſenſe,

The precept that injoins him abſtinence,

Forbids him none but the licentious joy,

Whoſe fruit, though fair, tempts only to deſtroy.

Remorſe, the fatal egg by pleaſure laid

In every boſom where her neſt is made,

Hatch'd by the beams of truth denies him reſt,

And proves a raging ſcorpion in his breaſt.

No pleaſure? Are domeſtic comforts dead?

Are all the nameleſs ſweets of friendſhip fled?

Has time worn out, or faſhion put to ſhame

Good ſenſe, good health, good conſcience, and good fame?

All theſe belong to virtue, and all prove

That virtue has a title to your love.

Have you no touch of pity, that the poor

Stand ſtarved at your inhoſpitable door?

[54] Or if yourſelf too ſcantily ſupplied

Need help, let honeſt induſtry provide.

Earn, if you want, if you abound, impart,

Theſe both are pleaſures to the feeling heart.

No pleaſure? Has ſome ſickly eaſtern waſte

Sent us a wind to parch us at a blaſt?

Can Britiſh paradiſe no ſcenes afford

To pleaſe her ſated and indiff'rent lord?

Are ſweet philoſophy's enjoyments run

Quite to the lees? And has religion none?

Brutes capable, ſhould tell you 'tis a lye,

And judge you from the kennel and the ſty.

Delights like theſe, ye ſenſual and profane,

Ye are bid, begg'd, beſought to entertain;

Call'd to theſe cryſtal ſtreams, do ye turn off

Obſcene, to ſwill and ſwallow at a trough?

Envy the beaſt then, on whom heav'n beſtows

Your pleaſures, with no curſes in the cloſe.

Pleaſure admitted in undue degree,

Enſlaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.

[55] 'Tis not alone the grapes enticing juice,

Unnerves the moral pow'rs, and marrs their uſe,

Ambition, av'rice, and the luſt of fame,

And woman, lovely woman, does the ſame.

The heart, ſurrender'd to the ruling pow'r

Of ſome ungovern'd paſſion ev'ry hour,

Finds by degrees, the truths that once bore ſway,

And all their deep impreſſion wear away.

So coin grows ſmooth, in traffic current paſs'd,

'Till Caeſar's image is effac'd at laſt.

The breach, though ſmall at firſt, ſoon op'ning wide,

In ruſhes folly with a full moon tide.

Then welcome errors of whatever ſize,

To juſtify it by a thouſand lies.

As creeping ivy clings to wood or ſtone,

And hides the ruin that it feeds upon,

So ſophiſtry, cleaves cloſe to, and protects

Sin's rotten trunk, concealing its defects.

Mortals whoſe pleaſures are their only care,

Firſt wiſh to be impos'd on, and then are.

[56] And leſt the fulſome artifice ſhould fail,

Themſelves will hide its coarſeneſs with a veil.

Not more induſtrious are the juſt and true

To give to virtue what is virtue's due,

The praiſe of wiſdom, comelineſs and worth,

And call her charms to public notice forth,

Than vice's mean and diſingenuous race,

To hide the ſhocking features of her face.

Her form with dreſs and lotion they repair,

Then kiſs their idol and pronounce her fair.

The ſacred implement I now employ

Might prove a miſchief or at beſt a toy,

A trifle if it move but to amuſe,

But if to wrong the judgment and abuſe,

Worſe than a poignard in the baſeſt hand,

It ſtabs at once the morals of a land.

Ye writers of what none with ſafety reads,

Footing it in the dance that fancy leads,

Ye novelliſts who marr what ye would mend,

Sniv'ling and driv'ling folly without end,

[57] Whoſe correſponding miſſes fill the ream

With ſentimental frippery and dream,

Caught in a delicate ſoft ſilken net

By ſome lewd Earl, or rake-hell Baronet;

Ye pimps, who under virtue's fair pretence,

Steal to the cloſet of young innocence,

And teach her unexperienc'd yet and green,

To ſcribble as you ſcribble at fifteen;

Who kindling a combuſtion of deſire,

With ſome cold moral think to quench the fire,

Though all your engineering proves in vain,

The dribbling ſtream ne'er puts it out again;

Oh that a verſe had pow'r, and could command

Far, far away, theſe fleſh-flies of the land,

Who faſten without mercy on the fair,

And ſuck, and leave a craving maggot there.

Howe'er diſguis'd th' inflammatory tale,

And covered with a fine-ſpun ſpecious veil,

Such writers and ſuch readers owe the guſt

And reliſh of their pleaſure all to luſt.

[58] But the muſe eagle-pinion'd has in view

A quarry more important ſtill than you,

Down down the wind ſhe ſwims and ſails away,

Now ſtoops upon it and now graſps the prey.

Petronius! all the muſes weep for thee,

But ev'ry tear ſhall ſcald thy memory.

The graces too, while virtue at their ſhrine

Lay bleeding under that ſoft hand of thine,

Felt each a mortal ſtab in her own breaſt,

Abhorr'd the ſacrifice, and curs'd the prieſt.

Thou poliſh'd and high finiſh'd foe to truth,

Gray beard corruptor of our liſt'ning youth,

To purge and ſkim away the filth of vice,

That ſo refin'd it might the more entice,

Then pour it on the morals of thy ſon

To taint his heart, was worthy of thine own.

Now while the poiſon all high life pervades,

Write if thou can'ſt one letter from the ſhades,

One, and one only, charg'd with deep regret,

That thy worſt part, thy principles live yet;

[59] One fad epiſtle thence, may cure mankind,

Of the plague ſpread by bundles left behind.

'Tis granted, and no plainer truth appears,

Our moſt important are our earlieſt years,

The mind impreſſible and ſoft, with eaſe

Imbibes and copies what ſhe hears and ſees,

And through life's labyrinth holds faſt the clue

That education gives her, falſe or true.

Plants rais'd with tenderneſs are ſeldom ſtrong,

Man's coltiſh diſpoſition aſks the thong,

And without diſcipline the fav'rite child,

Like a neglected forreſter runs wild.

But we, as if good qualities would grow

Spontaneous, take but little pains to ſow,

We give ſome latin and a ſmatch of greek,

Teach him to fence and figure twice a week,

And having done we think, the beſt we can,

Praiſe his proficiency and dub him man.

From ſchool to Cam or Iſis, and thence home,

And thence with all convenient ſpeed to Rome,

[60] With rev'rend tutor clad in habit lay,

To teaze for caſh and quarrel with all day,

With memorandum-book for ev'ry town,

Aud ev'ry poſt, and where the chaiſe broke down:

His ſtock, a few French phraſes got by heart,

With much to learn, but nothing to impart,

The youth obedient to his ſire's commands,

Sets off a wand'rer into foreign lands:

Surpriz'd at all they meet, the goſlin pair

With aukward gait, ſtretch'd neck, and ſilly ſtare,

Diſcover huge cathedrals built with ſtone,

And ſteeples tow'ring high much like our own,

But ſhow peculiar light by many a grin

At Popiſh practices obſerv'd within.

E'er long ſome bowing, ſmirking, ſmart Abbé

Remarks two loit'rers that have loſt their way,

And being always primed with politeſſe

For men of their appearance and andreſs,

With much compaſſion undertakes the taſk,

To tell them more than they have wit to aſk.

[61] Points to inſcriptions whereſoe'er they tread,

Such as when legible were never read,

But being canker'd now, and half worn out,

Craze antiquarian brains with endleſs doubt:

Some headleſs hero or ſome Caeſar ſhows,

Defective only in his Roman noſe;

Exhibits elevations, drawings, plans,

Models of Herculanean pots and pans,

And ſells them medals, which if neither rare

Nor antient, will be ſo, preſerv'd with care.

Strange the recital! from whatever cauſe

His great improvement and new lights he draws,

The 'Squire once baſhful is ſhame-fac'd no more,

But teems with pow'rs he never felt before:

Whether encreas'd momentum, and the force

With which from clime to clime he ſped his courſe,

As axles ſometimes kindle as they go,

Chaf'd him and brought dull nature to a glow;

Or whether clearer ſkies and ſofter air

That make Italian flow'rs ſo ſweet and fair,

[62] Freſh'ning his lazy ſpirits as he ran,

Unfolded genially and ſpread the man,

Returning he proclaims by many a grace,

By ſhrugs and ſtrange contortions of his face,

How much a dunce that has been ſent to roam,

Excels a dunce that has been kept at home.

Accompliſhments have taken virtue's place,

And wiſdom falls before exterior grace;

We ſlight the precious kernel of the ſtone,

And toil to poliſh its rough coat alone.

A juſt deportment, manners grac'd with eaſe

Elegant phraſe, and figure form'd to pleaſe,

Are qualities that ſeem to comprehend

Whatever parents, guardians, ſchools intend;

Hence an unfurniſh'd and a liſtleſs mind,

Though buſy, trifling; empty, though refin'd,

Hence all that interferes, and dares to claſh

With indolence and luxury, is traſh;

While learning, once the man's excluſive pride,

Seems verging faſt towards the female ſide.

[63] Learning itſelf receiv'd into a mind

By nature weak, or viciouſly inclin'd,

Serves but to lead philoſophers aſtray

Where children would with eaſe diſcern the way.

And of all arts ſagacious dupes invent

To cheat themſelves and gain the world's aſſent

The worſt is ſcripture warp'd from it's intent.

The carriage bowls along and all are pleas'd

If Tom be ſober, and the wheels well greas'd,

But if the rogue have gone a cup too far,

Left out his linch-pin or forgot his tar,

It ſuffers interruption and delay,

And meets with hindrance in the ſmootheſt way.

When ſome hypotheſis abſurd and vain

Has fill'd with all its fumes a critic's brain,

The text that ſorts not with his darling whim,

Though plain to others, is obſcure to him.

The will made ſubject to a lawleſs force,

All is irregular, and out of courſe,

And judgment drunk, and bribed to loſe his way,

Winks hard, and talks of darkneſs at noon day.

[64] A critic on the ſacred book, ſhould be

Candid and learn'd, diſpaſſionate and free;

Free from the wayward bias bigots feel,

From fancy's influence, and intemp'rate zeal.

But above all (or let the wretch refrain,

Nor touch the page he cannot but profane)

Free from the domineering pow'r of luſt,

A lewd interpreter is never juſt.

How ſhall I ſpeak thee, or thy pow'r addreſs,

Thou God of our idolatry, the preſs?

By thee, religion, liberty and laws

Exert their influence, and advance their cauſe,

By thee, worſe plagues than Pharaoh's land befel,

Diffus'd, make earth the veſtibule of hell:

Thou fountain, at which drink the good and wiſe,

Thou ever-bubbling ſpring of endleſs lies,

Like Eden's dread probationary tree,

Knowledge of good and evil is from thee.

No wild enthuſiaſt ever yet could reſt,

Till half mankind were like himſelf poſſeſs'd.

[65] Philoſophers, who darken and put out

Eternal truth by everlaſting doubt,

Church quacks, with paſſions under no command,

Who fill the world with doctrines contraband,

Diſcov'rers of they know not what, confin'd

Within no bounds, the blind that lead the blind,

To ſtreams of popular opinion drawn,

Depoſit in thoſe ſhallows, all their ſpawn.

The wriggling fry ſoon fill the creeks around,

Pois'ning the waters where their ſwarms abound;

Scorn'd by the nobler tenants of the flood,

Minnows and gudgeons gorge th' unwholeſome food.

The propagated myriads ſpread ſo faſt,

E'en Leuwenhoek himſelf would ſtand aghaſt,

Employ'd to calculate th' enormous ſum,

And own his crab-computing pow'rs o'ercome.

Is this Hyperbole? The world well known,

Your ſober thoughts will hardly find it one.

Freſh confidence the ſpeculatiſt takes

From ev'ry hare-brain'd proſelyte he makes,

[66] And therefore prints. Himſelf but half-deceiv'd,

'Till others have the ſoothing tale believ'd.

Hence comment after comment, ſpun as fine

As bloated ſpiders draw the flimſy line.

Hence the ſame word that bids our luſts obey,

Is miſapplied to ſanctify their ſway.

If ſtubborn Greek refuſe to be his friend,

Hebrew or Syriac ſhall be forc'd to bend;

If languages and copies all cry, No—

Somebody prov'd it centuries ago.

Like trout purſued, the critic in deſpair

Darts to the mud and finds his ſafety there.

Women, whom cuſtom has forbid to fly

The ſcholar's pitch (the ſcholar beſt knows why)

With all the ſimple and unletter'd poor,

Admire his learning, and almoſt adore.

Whoever errs, the prieſt can ne'er be wrong,

With ſuch fine words familiar to his tongue.

Ye ladies! (for, indiff'rent in your cauſe,

I ſhould deſerve to forfeit all applauſe)

[67] Whatever ſhocks, or gives the leaſt offence

To virtue, delicacy, truth or ſenſe,

(Try the criterion, 'tis a faithful guide)

Nor has, nor can have ſcripture on its ſide.

None but an author knows an author's cares,

Or fancy's fondneſs for the child ſhe bears.

Committed once into the public arms,

The baby ſeems to ſmile with added charms.

Like ſomething precious ventur'd far from ſhore,

'Tis valued for the dangers ſake the more.

He views it with complacency ſupreme,

Solicits kind attention to his dream,

And daily more enamour'd of the cheat,

Kneels, and aſks heav'n to bleſs the dear deceit.

So one, whoſe ſtory ſerves at leaſt to ſhow

Men lov'd their own productions long ago,

Wooed an unfeeling ſtatue for his wife,

Nor reſted till the Gods had giv'n it life.

If ſome mere driv'ler ſuck the ſugar'd fib,

One that ſtill needs his leading ſtring and bib,

[68] And praiſe his genius, he is ſoon repaid

In praiſe applied to the ſame part, his head.

For 'tis a rule that holds for ever true,

Grant me diſcernment, and I grant it you.

Patient of contradiction as a child,

Affable, humble, diffident and mild,

Such was Sir Iſaac, and ſuch Boyle and Locke,

Your blund'rer is as ſturdy as a rock.

The creature is ſo ſure to kick and bite,

A muleteer's the man to ſet him right.

Firſt appetite enliſts him truth's ſworn foe,

Then obſtinate ſelf-will confirms him ſo.

Tell him he wanders, that his error leads

To fatal ills, that though the path he treads

Be flow'ry, and he ſee no cauſe of fear,

Death and the pains of hell attend him there;

In vain; the ſlave of arrogance and pride,

He has no hearing on the prudent ſide.

His ſtill refuted quirks he ſtill repeats,

New rais'd objections with new quibbles meets,

[69] 'Till ſinking in the quickſand he defends,

He dies diſputing, and the conteſt ends;

But not the miſchiefs: they ſtill left behind,

Like thiſtle-ſeeds are ſown by ev'ry wind.

Thus men go wrong with an ingenious ſkill,

Bend the ſtrait rule to their own crooked will,

And with a clear and ſhining lamp ſupplied,

Firſt put it out, then take it for a guide.

Halting on crutches of unequal ſize,

One leg by truth ſupported, one by lies,

They ſidle to the goal with aukward pace,

Secure of nothing, but to loſe the race.

Faults in the life breed errors in the brain,

And theſe, reciprocally, thoſe again.

The mind and conduct mutually imprint

And ſtamp their image in each other's mint.

Each, ſire and dam, of an infernal race,

Begetting and conceiving all that's baſe.

None ſends his arrow to the mark in view,

Whoſe hand is feeble, or his aim untrue.

[70] For though e'er yet the ſhaft is on the wing,

Or when it firſt forſakes th' elaſtic ſtring,

It err but little from th' intended line,

It falls at laſt, far wide of his deſign.

So he that ſeeks a manſion in the ſky,

Muſt watch his purpoſe with a ſtedfaſt eye,

That prize belongs to none but the ſincere,

The leaſt obliquity is fatal here.

With caution taſte the ſweet Circaean cup,

He that ſips often, at laſt drinks it up.

Habits are ſoon aſſum'd, but when we ſtrive

To ſtrip them off, 'tis being flay'd alive.

Call'd to the temple of impure delight,

He that abſtains, and he alone does right.

If a wiſh wander that way, call it home,

He cannot long be ſafe, whoſe wiſhes roam.

But if you paſs the threſhold, you are caught,

Die then, if pow'r Almighty ſave you not.

There hard'ning by degrees, 'till double ſteel'd,

Take leave of nature's God, and God reveal'd,

[71] Then laugh at all you trembl'd at before,

And joining the free-thinkers brutal roar,

Swallow the two grand noſtrums they diſpenſe,

That ſcripture lies, and blaſphemy is ſenſe:

If clemency revolted by abuſe

Be damnable, then, damn'd without excuſe.

Some dream that they can ſilence when they will

The ſtorm of paſſion, and ſay, Peace, be ſtill;

But "Thus far and no farther, [...]

To the wild wave, or wilder human breaſt,

Implies authority that never can,

That never ought to be the lot of man.

But muſe forbear, long flights forebode a fall,

Strike on the deep-toned chord the ſum of all.

Hear the juſt law, the judgment of the ſkies!

He that hates truth ſhall be the dupe of lies.

And he that will be cheated to the laſt,

Deluſions, ſtrong as hell, ſhall bind him faſt.

But if the wand'rer his miſtake diſcern,

Judge his own ways, and ſigh for a return,

[72] Bewilder'd once, muſt he bewail his loſs

For ever and for ever? No—the croſs.

There and there only (though the deiſt rave,

And atheiſt, if earth bear ſo baſe a ſlave)

There and there only, is the pow'r to ſave.

There no deluſive hope invites deſpair,

No mock'ry meets you, no deception there.

The ſpells and charms that blinded you before,

All vaniſh there, and faſcinate no more.

I am no preacher, let this hint ſuffice,

The croſs once ſeen, is death to ev'ry vice:

Elſe he that hung there, ſuffer'd all his pain,

Bled, groan'd and agoniz'd, and died in vain.

TRUTH.

[]

‘Penſentur trutinâ. HOR.’

MAN on the dubious waves of error toſs'd,

His ſhip half founder'd and his compaſs loſt,

Sees far as human optics may command,

A ſleeping fog, and fancies it dry land:

Spreads all his canvaſs, ev'ry ſinew plies,

Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies.

Then farewell all ſelf-ſatisfying ſchemes,

His well-built ſyſtems, philoſophic dreams,

[74] Deceitful views of future bliſs, farewell!

He reads his ſentence at the flames of hell.

Hard lot of man! to toil for the reward

Of virtue, and yet loſe it—wherefore hard?

He that would win the race, muſt guide his horſe

Obedient to the cuſtoms of the courſe,

Elſe, though unequall'd to the goal he flies,

A meaner than himſelf ſhall gain the prize.

Grace leads the right way, if you chuſe the wrong,

Take it and periſh, but reſtrain your tongue;

Charge not, with light ſufficient and left free,

Your willful ſuicide on God's decree.

Oh how unlike the complex works of man,

Heav'ns eaſy, artleſs, unincumber'd plan!

No meretricious graces to beguile,

No cluſt'ring ornaments to clog the pile,

From oſtentation as from weakneſs free,

It ſtands like the caerulean arch we ſee,

Majeſtic in its own ſimplicity.

Inſcrib'd above the portal, from afar

Conſpicuous as the brightneſs of a ſtar,

[75] Legible only by the light they give,

Stand the ſoul-quick'ning words—BELIEVE AND LIVE.

Too many ſhock'd at what ſhould charm them moſt,

Deſpiſe the plain direction and are loſt.

Heav'n on ſuch terms! they cry with proud diſdain,

Incredible, impoſſible, and vain—

Rebel becauſe 'tis eaſy to obey,

And ſcorn for its own ſake the gracious way.

Theſe are the ſober, in whoſe cooler brains

Some thought of immortality remains;

The reſt too buſy or too gay, to wait

On the ſad theme, their everlaſting ſtate,

Sport for a day and periſh in a night,

The foam upon the waters not ſo light.

Who judg'd the Phariſee? What odious cauſe

Expos'd him to the vengeance of the laws?

Had he ſeduc'd a virgin, wrong'd a friend,

Or ſtabb'd a man to ſerve ſome private end?

Was blaſphemy his ſin? Or did he ſtray

From the ſtrict duties of the ſacred day?

[76] Sit long and late at the carouſing board?

(Such were the ſins with which he charg'd his Lord)

No—the man's morals were exact, what then?

'Twas his ambition to be ſeen of men;

His virtues were his pride; and that one vice

Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price;

He wore them as fine trappings for a ſhow,

A praying, ſynagogue frequenting beau.

The ſelf-applauding bird, the peacock ſee—

Mark what a ſumptuous Phariſee is he!

Meridian ſun-beams tempt him to unfold

His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold;

He treads as if ſome ſolemn muſic near,

His meaſur'd ſtep were govern'd by his ear,

And ſeems to ſay, ye meaner fowl, give place,

I am all ſplendor, dignity and grace.

Not ſo the pheaſant on his charms preſumes,

Though he too has a glory in his plumes.

He, chriſtian like, retreats with modeſt mien,

To the cloſe copſe or far ſequeſter'd green,

And ſhines without deſiring to be ſeen.

[77] The plea of works, as arrogant and vain,

Heav'n turns from with abhorrence and diſdain;

Not more affronted by avow'd neglect,

Than by the mere diſſemblers feign'd reſpect.

What is all righteouſneſs that men deviſe,

What, but a fordid bargain for the ſkies?

But Chriſt as ſoon would abdicate his own,

As ſloop from heav'n to ſell the proud a throne.

His dwelling a receſs in ſome rude rock,

Book, beads, and maple-diſh his meagre ſtock,

In ſhirt of hair and weeds of canvaſs dreſs'd,

Girt with a bell-rope that the Pope has bleſs'd,

Aduſt with ſtripes told out for ev'ry crime,

And ſore tormented long before his time,

His pray'r preferr'd to ſaints that cannot aid,

His praiſe poſtpon'd, and never to be paid,

See the ſage hermit by mankind admir'd,

With all that bigotry adopts, inſpir'd,

Wearing out life in his religious whim,

'Till his religious whimſy wears out him.

[78] His works, his abſtinence, his zeal allow'd,

You think him humble, God accounts him proud;

High in demand, though lowly in pretence,

Of all his conduct, this the genuine ſenſe—

My penitential ſtripes, my ſtreaming blood

Have purchas'd heav'n, and prove my title good.

Turn eaſtward now, and fancy ſhall apply

To your weak ſight her teleſcopic eye.

The Bramin kindles on his own bare head

The ſacred fire, ſelf-torturing his trade,

His voluntary pains, ſevere and long,

Would give a barb'rous air to Britiſh ſong,

Nor grand inquiſitor could worſe invent,

Than he contrives to ſuffer, well content.

Which is the ſaintlier worthy of the two?

Paſt all diſpute, yon anchorite ſay you.

Your ſentence and mine differ. What's a name?

I ſay the Bramin has the fairer claim.

If ſuff'rings ſcripture no where recommends,

Devis'd by ſelf to anſwer ſelfiſh ends

[79] Give ſaintſhip, then all Europe muſt agree,

Ten ſtarvling hermits ſuffer leſs than he.

The truth is (if the truth may ſuit your ear,

And prejudice have left a paſſage clear)

Pride has attain'd its moſt luxuriant growth,

And poiſon'd every virtue in them both.

Pride may be pamper'd while the fleſh grows lean;

Humility may cloath an Engliſh Dean;

That grace was Cowper's—his confeſs'd by all—

Though plac'd in golden Durham's ſecond ſtall.

Not all the plenty of a Biſhop's board,

His palace, and his lacqueys, and, my Lord!

More nouriſh pride, that condeſcending vice,

Than abſtinence, and beggary and lice.

It thrives in miſery, and abundant grows

In miſery fools upon themſelves impoſe.

But why before us Proteſtants produce

An Indian myſtic or a French recluſe?

Their ſin is plain, but what have we to fear,

Reform'd and well inſtructed? You ſhall hear.

[80] Yon antient prude, whoſe wither'd features ſhow

She might be young ſome forty years ago,

Her elbows pinion'd cloſe upon her hips,

Her head erect, her fan upon her lips,

Her eye-brows arch'd, her eyes both gone aſtray

To watch yon am'rous couple in their play,

With boney and unkerchief'd neck defies

The rude inclemency of wintry ſkies,

And ſails with lappet-head and mincing airs

Duely at clink of bell, to morning pray'rs.

To thrift and parſimony much inclin'd,

She yet allows herſelf that boy behind;

The ſhiv'ring urchin, bending as he goes,

With ſlipſhod heels, and dew drop at his noſe,

His predeceſſors coat advanc'd to wear,

Which furture pages are yet doom'd to ſhare,

Carries her bible tuck'd beneath his arm,

And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm.

She, half an angel in her own account,

Doubts not hereafter with the ſaints to mount,

[81] Though not a grace appears on ſtricteſt ſearch,

But that ſhe faſts, and item, goes to church.

Conſcious of age ſhe recollects her youth,

And tells, not always with an eye to truth,

Who ſpann'd her waiſt, and who, where'er he came,

Scrawl'd upon glaſs Miſs Bridget's lovely name,

Who ſtole her ſlipper, fill'd it with tokay,

And drank the little bumper ev'ry day.

Of temper as invenom'd as an aſp,

Cenſorious, and her every word a waſp,

In faithful mem'ry ſhe records the crimes,

Or real, or fictitious, of the times,

Laughs at the reputations ſhe has torn,

And holds them dangling at arms length in ſcorn.

Such are the fruits of ſanctimonious pride,

Of malice fed while fleſh is mortified.

Take, Madam, the reward of all your pray'rs,

Where hermits and where Bramins meet with theirs,

Your portion is with them: nay, never frown,

But, if you pleaſe, ſome fathoms lower down.

[82] Artiſt attend—your bruſhes and your paint—

Produce them—take a chair—now draw a Saint.

Oh ſorrowful and ſad! the ſtreaming tears

Channel her cheeks, a Niobe appears.

Is this a Saint? Throw tints and all away,

True piety is chearful as the day,

Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan

For others woes, but ſmiles upon her own.

What purpoſe has the King of Saints in view?

Why falls the goſpel like a gracious dew?

To call up plenty from the teeming earth,

Or curſe the deſart with a tenfold dearth?

Is it that Adam's offspring may be ſav'd

From ſervile fear, or be the more enſlav'd?

[...] looſe the links that gall'd mankind before,

Or bind them faſter on, and add ſtill more?

The freeborn Chriſtian has no chains to prove,

Or if a chain, the golden one of love;

No fear attends to quench his glowing fires,

What fear he feels his gratitude inſpires.

[83] Shall he for ſuch deliv'rance freely wrought,

Recompenſe ill? He trembles at the thought:

His maſters int'reſt and his own combin'd,

Prompt ev'ry movement of his heart and mind;

Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince,

His freedom is the freedom of a Prince.

Man's obligations infinite, of courſe

His life ſhould prove that he perceives their force,

His utmoſt he can render is but ſmall,

The principle and motive all in all.

You have two ſervants—Tom, an arch, ſly rogue,

From top to toe the Geta now in vogue;

Genteel in figure, eaſy in addreſs,

Moves without noiſe, and ſwift as an expreſs,

Reports a meſſage with a pleaſing grace,

Expert in all the duties of his place:

Say, on what hinge does his obedience move?

Has he a world of gratitude and love?

No, not a ſpark—'tis all mere ſharpers play;

He likes your houſe, your houſemaid and your pay;

[84] Reduce his wages, or get rid of her,

Tom quits you, with, your moſt obedient Sir—

The dinner ſerv'd, Charles takes his uſual ſtand,

Watches your eye, anticipates command,

Sighs if perhaps your appetite ſhould fail,

And if he but ſuſpects a frown, turns pale;

Conſults all day your int'reſt and your eaſe,

Richly rewarded if he can but pleaſe,

And proud to make his firm attachment known,

To ſave your life would nobly riſque his own.

Now, which ſtands higheſt in your ſerious thought?

Charles, without doubt, ſay you—and ſo he ought;

One act that from a thankful heart proceeds,

Excels ten thouſand mercenary deeds.

Thus heav'n approves as honeſt and ſincere,

The work of gen'rous love and filial fear,

But with averted eyes th'omniſcient judge,

Scorns the baſe hireling and the ſlaviſh drudge.

[85] Where dwell theſe matchleſs Saints? Old Curio cries—

Ev'n at your ſide, Sir, and before your eyes,

The favour'd few, th' enthuſiaſts you deſpiſe.

And pleas'd at heart becauſe on holy ground,

Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found,

Reproach a people with his ſingle fall,

And caſt his filthy raiment at them all.

Attend—an apt ſimilitude ſhall ſhow,

Whence ſprings the conduct that offends you ſo.

See where it ſmoaks along the ſounding plain,

Blown all aſlant, a driving daſhing rain,

Peal upon peal redoubling all around,

Shakes it again and faſter to the ground,

Now flaſhing wide, now glancing as in play,

Swift beyond thought the light'nings dart away;

Ere yet it came the traveller urg'd his ſteed,

And hurried, but with unſucceſsful ſpeed,

Now drench'd throughout, and hopeleſs of his caſe,

He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace;

[86] Suppoſe, unlook'd for in a ſcene ſo rude,

Long hid by interpoſing hill or wood,

Some manſion neat and elegantly dreſs'd,

By ſome kind hoſpitable heart poſſeſs'd,

Offer him warmth, ſecurity and reſt;

Think with what pleaſure, ſafe and at his eaſe,

He hears the tempeſt howling in the trees,

What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ,

While danger paſt is turn'd to preſent joy.

So fares it with the ſinner when he feels,

A growing dread of vengeance at his heels,

His conſcience like a glaſſy lake before,

Laſh'd into foaming waves begins to roar,

The law grown clamorous, though ſilent long,

Arraigns him, charges him with every wrong,

Aſſerts the rights of his offended Lord,

And death or reſtitution is the word;

The laſt impoſſible, he fears the firſt,

And having well deſerv'd, expects the worſt

Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home,

Oh for a ſhelter from the wrath to come!

[87] Cruſh me ye rocks, ye falling mountains hide,

Or bury me in oceans angry tide—

The ſcrutiny of thoſe all ſeeing eyes

I dare not—and you need not, God replies;

The remedy you want I freely give,

The book ſhall teach you, read, believe and live:

'Tis done—the raging ſtorm is heard no more,

Mercy receives him on her peaceful ſhore,

And juſtice, guardian of the dread command,

Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand.

A ſoul redeem'd demands a life of praiſe,

Hence the complexion of his future days,

Hence a demeanor holy and unſpeck'd,

And the world's hatred as its ſure effect.

Some lead a life unblameable and juſt,

Their own dear virtue, their unſhaken truſt.

They never ſin—or if (as all offend)

Some trivial ſlips their daily walk attend,

The poor are near at hand, the charge is ſmall,

A ſlight gratuity atones for all.

[88] For though the Pope has loſt his int'reſt here,

And pardons are not ſold as once they were,

No Papiſt more deſirous to compound,

Than ſome grave ſinners upon Engliſh ground:

That plea refuted, other quirks they ſeek,

Mercy is infinite and man is weak,

The future ſhall obliterate the paſt,

And heav'n no doubt ſhall be their home at laſt.

Come then—a ſtill, ſmall whiſper in your ear,

He has no hope that never had a fear;

And he that never doubted of his ſtate,

He may perhaps—perhaps he may—too late.

The path to bliſs abounds with many a ſnare,

Learning is one, and wit, however rare:

The Frenchman firſt in literary fame,

(Mention him if you pleaſe—Voltaire? The ſame)

With ſpirit, genius, eloquence ſupplied,

Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily and died:

The ſcripture was his jeſt-book, whence he drew

Bon môts to gall the Chriſtian and the Jew:

[89] An infidel in health, but what when ſick?

Oh then, a text would touch him at the quick:

View him at Paris in his laſt career,

Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere,

Exalted on his pedeſtal of pride,

And fum'd with frankincenſe on ev'ry ſide,

He begs their flattery with his lateſt breath,

And ſmother'd in't at laſt, is prais'd to death.

Yon cottager who weaves at her own door,

Pillow and bobbins all her little ſtore,

Content though mean, and chearful, if not gay,

Shuffling her threads about the live-long day,

Juſt earns a ſcanty pittance, and at night

Lies down ſecure, her heart and pocket light;

She for her humble ſphere by nature fit,

Has little underſtanding, and no wit,

Receives no praiſe, but (though her lot be ſuch,

Toilſome and indigent) ſhe renders much;

Juſt knows, and knows no more, her bible true,

A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew,

[90] And in that charter reads with ſparkling eyes,

Her title to a treaſure in the ſkies.

Oh happy peaſant! Oh unhappy bard!

His the mere tinſel, her's the rich reward;

He prais'd perhaps for ages yet to come,

She never heard of half a mile from home;

He loſt in errors his vain heart prefers,

She ſafe in the ſimplicity of hers.

Not many wiſe, rich, noble, or profound

In ſcience, win one inch of heav'nly ground;

And is it not a mortifying thought

The poor ſhould gain it, and the rich ſhould not?

No—the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget

One pleaſure loſt, loſe heav'n without regret;

Regret would rouſe them and give birth to pray'r,

Pray'r would add faith, and faith would fix them there.

Not that the Former of us all in this,

Or aught he does, is govern'd by caprice,

The ſuppoſition is replete with ſin,

And bears the brand of blaſphemy burnt in.

[91] Not ſo—the ſilver trumpet's heav'nly call,

Sounds for the poor, but ſounds alike for all;

Kings are invited, and would kings obey,

No ſlaves on earth more welcome were than they:

But royalty, nobility, and ſtate,

Are ſuch a dead preponderating weight,

That endleſs bliſs (how ſtrange ſoe'er it ſeem)

In counterpoiſe, flies up and kicks the beam.

'Tis open and ye cannot enter—why?

Becauſe ye will not, Conyers would reply—

And he ſays much that many may diſpute

And cavil at with eaſe, but none refute.

Oh bleſs'd effect of penury and want,

The ſeed ſown there, how vigorous is the plant!

No ſoil like poverty for growth divine,

As leaneſt land ſupplies the richeſt wine.

Earth gives too little, giving only bread,

To nouriſh pride or turn the weakeſt head:

To them, the ſounding jargon of the ſchools,

Seems what it is, a cap and bells for fools:

[92] The light they walk by, kindled from above,

Shows them the ſhorteſt way to life and love:

They, ſtrangers to the controverſial field,

Where deiſts always foil'd, yet ſcorn to yield,

And never check'd by what impedes the wiſe,

Believe, ruſh forward, and poſſeſs the prize.

Envy ye great the dull unletter'd ſmall,

Ye have much cauſe for envy—but not all;

We boaſt ſome rich ones whom the goſpel ſways,

And one that wears a coronet and prays;

Like gleanings of an olive tree they ſhow,

Here and there one upon the topmoſt bough.

How readily upon the goſpel plan,

That queſtion has its anſwer—what is man?

Sinful and weak, in ev'ry ſenſe a wretch,

An inſtrument whoſe chords upon the ſtretch

And ſtrain'd to the laſt ſcrew that he can bear,

Yield only diſcord in his maker's ear:

Once the bleſt reſidence of truth divine,

Glorious as Solyma's interior ſhrine,

[93] Where in his own oracular abode,

Dwelt viſibly the light-creating God;

But made long ſince like Babylon of old,

A den of miſchiefs never to be told:

And ſhe, once miſtreſs of the realms around,

Now ſcatter'd wide and no where to be found,

As ſoon ſhall riſe and re-aſcend the throne,

By native pow'r and energy her own,

As nature at her own peculiar coſt,

Reſtore to man the glories he has loſt.

Go bid the winter ceaſe to chill the year,

Replace the wand'ring comet in his ſphere,

Then boaſt (but wait for that unhop'd-for hour)

The ſelf-reſtoring arm of human pow'r.

But what is man in his own proud eſteem?

Hear him, himſelf the poet and the theme;

A monarch cloath'd with majeſty and awe,

His mind his kingdom and his will his law.

Grace in his mien and glory in his eyes,

Supreme on earth and worthy of the ſkies,

[94] Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod,

And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God.

So ſings he, charm'd with his own mind and form,

The ſong magnificent, the theme a worm:

Himſelf ſo much the ſource of his delight,

His maker has no beauty in his ſight:

See where he ſits contemplative and fixt,

Pleaſure and wonder in his features mixt,

His paſſions tam'd and all at his controul,

How perfect the compoſure of his ſoul!

Complacency has breath'd a gentle gale

O'er all his thoughts, and ſwell'd his eaſy ſail:

His books well trimm'd and in the gayeſt ſtile,

Like regimented coxcombs rank and file,

Adorn his intellects as well as ſhelves,

And teach him notions ſplendid as themſelves:

The bible only ſtands neglected there,

Though that of all moſt worthy of his care,

And like an infant, troubleſome awake,

Is left to ſleep for peace and quiet ſake.

[95] What ſhall the man deſerve of human kind,

Whoſe happy ſkill and induſtry combin'd,

Shall prove (what argument could never yet)

The bible an impoſture and a cheat?

The praiſes of the libertine profeſs'd,

The worſt of men, and curſes of the beſt.

Where ſhould the living, weeping o'er his woes,

The dying, trembling at their awful cloſe,

Where the betray'd, forſaken and oppreſs'd,

The thouſands whom the world forbids to reſt,

Where ſhould they find (thoſe comforts at an end

The ſcripture yields) or hope to find a friend?

Sorrow might muſe herſelf to madneſs then,

And ſeeking exile from the ſight of men,

Bury herſelf in ſolitude profound,

Grow frantic with her pangs and bite the ground.

Thus often unbelief grown ſick of life,

Flies to the tempting pool or felon knife,

The jury meet, the coroner is ſhort,

And lunacy the verdict of the court:

[96] Reverſe the ſentence, let the truth be known,

Such lunacy is ignorance alone;

They knew not, what ſome biſhops may not know,

That ſcripture is the only cure of woe:

That field of promiſe, how it flings abroad

Its odour o'er the Chriſtians thorny road;

The ſoul repoſing on aſſur'd relief,

Feels herſelf happy amidſt all her grief,

Forgets her labour as ſhe toils along,

Weeps tears of joy, and burſts into a ſong.

But the ſame word that like the poliſh'd ſhare

Ploughs up the roots of a believer's care,

Kills too the flow'ry weeds wheree'r they grow,

That bind the ſinner's Bacchanalian brow.

Oh that unwelcome voice of heav'nly love,

Sad meſſenger of mercy from above,

How does it grate upon his thankleſs ear,

Crippling his pleaſures with the cramp of fear!

His will and judgment at continual ſtrife,

That civil war imbitters all his life;

[97] In vain he points his pow'rs againſt the ſkies,

In vain he cloſes or averts his eyes,

Truth will intrude—ſhe bids him yet beware—

And ſhakes the ſceptic in the ſcorner's chair.

Though various foes againſt the truth combine,

Pride above all oppoſes her deſign;

Pride, of a growth ſuperior to the reſt,

The ſubtleſt ſerpent with the loftieſt creſt,

Swells at the thought, and kindling into rage,

Would hiſs the cherub mercy from the ſtage.

And is the ſoul indeed ſo loſt, ſhe cries,

Fall'n from her glory and too weak to riſe,

Torpid and dull beneath a frozen zone,

Has ſhe no ſpark that may be deem'd her own?

Grant her indebted to what zealots call

Grace undeſerv'd, yet ſurely not for all—

Some beams of rectitude ſhe yet diſplays,

Some love of virtue and ſome pow'r to praiſe,

Can lift herſelf above corporeal things,

And ſoaring on her own unborrow'd wings,

[98] Poſſeſs herſelf of all that's good or true,

Aſſert the ſkies, and vindicate her due.

Paſt indiſcretion is a venial crime,

And if the youth, unmellow'd yet by time,

Bore on his branch luxuriant then, and rude,

Fruits of a blighted ſize, auſtere and crude,

Maturer years ſhall happier ſtores produce,

And meliorate the well concocted juice.

Then conſcious of her meritorious zeal,

To juſtice ſhe may make her bold appeal,

And leave to mercy with a tranquil mind,

The worthleſs and unfruitful of mankind.

Hear then how mercy ſlighted and defied,

Retorts th' affront againſt the crown of pride.

Periſh the virtue, as it ought, abhorr'd,

And the fool with it that inſults his Lord.

Th' atonement a Redeemer's love has wrought

Is not for you▪ the [...]ighteous need it not.

[...] [...]ooing all ſhe meets

[...] of the public ſtreets,

[99] Herſelf from morn to night, from night to morn,

Her own abhorrence, and as much your ſcorn,

The gracious ſhow'r, unlimited and free,

Shall fall on her, when heav'n denies it thee.

Of all that wiſdom dictates, this the drift,

That man is dead in ſin, and life a gift.

Is virtue then, unleſs of chriſtian growth,

Mere fallacy, or fooliſhneſs, or both,

Ten thouſand ſages loſt in endleſs woe,

For ignorance of what they could not know?

That ſpeech betrays at once a bigot's tongue,

Charge not a God with ſuch outrageous wrong.

Truly not I—the partial light men have,

My creed perſuades me, well employed may ſave,

While he that ſcorns the noon-day beam perverſe,

Shall find the bleſſing, unimprov'd, a curſe.

Let heathen worthies whoſe exalted mind,

Left ſenſuality and droſs behind,

Poſſeſs for me their undiſputed lot,

And take unenvied the reward they ſought.

[100] But ſtill in virtue of a Savior's plea,

Not blind by choice, but deſtin'd not to ſee.

Their fortitude and wiſdom were a flame

Celeſtial, though they knew not whence it came,

Deriv'd from the ſame ſource of light and grace

That guides the chriſtian in his ſwifter race;

Their judge was conſcience, and her rule their law,

That rule purſued with rev'rence and with awe,

Led them, however fault'ring, faint and ſlow,

From what they knew, to what they wiſh'd to know;

But let not him that ſhares a brighter day,

Traduce the ſplendor of a noon-tide ray,

Prefer the twilight of a darker time,

And deem his baſe ſtupidity no crime;

The wretch that ſlights the bounty of the ſkies,

And ſinks while favour'd with the means to riſe,

Shall find them rated at their full amount,

The good he ſcorn'd all carried to account.

Marſhalling all his terrors as he came,

Thunder and earthquake and devouring flame,

[101] From Sinai's top Jehovah gave the law,

Life for obedience, death for ev'ry flaw.

When the great ſov'reign would his will expreſs.

He gives a perfect rule; what can he leſs?

And guards it with a ſanction as ſevere

As vengeance can inflict, or ſinners fear:

Elſe his own glorious rights he would diſclaim,

And man might ſafely trifle with his name:

He bids him glow with unremitting love

To all on earth, and to himſelf above;

Condemns th' injurious deed, the ſland'rous tongue,

The thought that meditates a brother's wrong;

Brings not alone, the more conſpicuous part,

His conduct to the teſt, but tries his heart.

Hark! univerſal nature ſhook and groan'd,

'Twas the laſt trumpet—ſee the judge enthron'd:

Rouſe all your courage at your utmoſt need,

Now ſummon ev'ry virtue, ſtand and plead.

What, ſilent? Is your boaſting heard no more?

That ſelf-renouncing wiſdom learn'd before,

[102] Had ſhed immortal glories on your brow,

That all your virtues cannot purchaſe now.

All joy to the believer! He can ſpeak—

Trembling yet happy, confident yet meek.

Since the dear hour that brought me to thy foot,

And cut up all my follies by the root,

I never truſted in an arm but thine,

Nor hop'd, but in thy righteouſneſs divine:

My pray'rs and alms, imperfect and defil'd,

Were but the feeble efforts of a child,

Howe'er perform'd, it was their brighteſt part,

That they proceeded from a grateful heart:

Cleans'd in thine own all-purifying blood,

Forgive their evil and accept their good;

I caſt them at thy feet—my only plea

Is what it was, dependence upon thee;

While ſtruggling in the vale of tears below,

That never fail'd, nor ſhall it fail me now.

Angelic gratulations rend the ſkies,

Pride falls unpitied, never more to riſe,

Humility is crown'd, and faith receives the prize.

EXPOSTULATION.

[]

Tantane, tam patiens, nullo certamine tolli

Dona ſines?

VIRG.

WHY weeps the muſe for England?

What appears

In England's caſe to move the muſe to tears?

From ſide to ſide of her delightful iſle,

Is ſhe not cloath'd with a perpetual ſmile?

Can nature add a charm, or art confer

A new found luxury not ſeen in her?

[104] Where under heav'n is pleaſure more purſued,

Or where does cold reflection leſs intrude?

Her fields a rich expanſe of wavy corn

Pour'd out from plenty's overflowing horn,

Ambroſial gardens in which art ſupplies

The fervor and the force of Indian ſkies,

Her peaceful ſhores, where buſy commerce waits

To pour his golden tide through all her gates,

Whom fiery ſuns that ſcorch the ruſſet ſpice

Of eaſtern groves, and oceans floor'd with ice;

Forbid in vain to puſh his daring way

To darker climes, or climes of brighter day,

Whom the winds waft where'er the billows roll,

From the world's girdle to the frozen pole;

The chariots bounding in her wheel-worn ſtreets,

Her vaults below where ev'ry vintage meets,

Her theatres, her revels, and her ſports,

The ſcenes to which not youth alone reſorts,

But age in ſpite of weakneſs and of pain

Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again,

[105] All ſpeak her happy—let the muſe look round

From Eaſt to Weſt, no ſorrow can be found,

Or only what in cottages confin'd,

Sighs unregarded to the paſſing wind;

Then wherefore weep for England, what appears

In England's caſe to move the muſe to tears?

The prophet wept for Iſrael, wiſh'd his eyes

Were fountains fed with infinite ſupplies;

For Iſrael dealt in robbery and wrong,

There were the ſcorner's and the ſland'rer's tongue,

Oaths uſed as playthings or convenient tools,

As Int'reſt biaſs'd knaves, or faſhion fools,

Adult'ry neighing at his neighbour's door,

Oppreſſion labouring hard to grind the poor,

The partial balance and deceitſul weight,

The treach'rous ſmile, a maſk for ſecret hate,

Hypocriſy, formality in pray'r,

And the dull ſervice of the lip were there.

Her women inſolent and ſelf-careſs'd,

By vanity's unwearied finger dreſs'd,

[106] Forgot the bluſh that virgin fears impart

To modeſt cheeks, and borrowed one from art;

Were juſt ſuch trifles without worth or uſe,

As ſilly pride and idleneſs produce,

Curl'd, ſcented, furbelow'd and flounc'd around,

With feet too delicate to touch the ground,

They ſtretch'd the neck, and roll'd the wanton eye,

And ſigh'd for ev'ry fool that flutter'd by.

He ſaw his people ſlaves to ev'ry luſt,

Lewd, avaricious, arrogant, unjuſt,

He heard the wheels of an avenging God

Groan heavily along the diſtant road;

Saw Babylon ſet wide her two leav'd braſs

To let the military deluge paſs;

Jeruſalem a prey, her glory ſoil'd,

Her princes captive, and her treaſures ſpoil'd;

Wept till all Iſrael heard his bitter cry,

Stamp'd with his foot and ſmote upon his thigh;

But wept and ſtamp'd and ſmote his thigh in vain,

Pleaſure is deaf when told of future pain,

[107] And ſounds prophetic are too rough to ſuit

Ears long accuſtom'd to the pleaſing lute;

They ſcorn'd his inſpiration and his theme,

Pronounc'd him frantic and his fears a dream,

With ſelf-indulgence wing'd the fleeting hours,

Till the foe found them, and down fell the tow'rs.

Long time Aſſyria bound them in her chain,

Till penitence had purg'd the public ſtain,

And Cyrus, with relenting pity mov'd,

Return'd them happy to the land they lov'd:

There, proof againſt proſperity, awhile

They ſtood the teſt of her enſnaring ſmile,

And had the grace in ſcenes of peace to ſhow

The virtue they had learn'd in ſcenes of woe.

But man is frail and can but ill ſuſtain

A long immunity from grief and pain,

And after all the joys that plenty leads,

With tip-toe ſtep vice ſilently ſucceeds.

When he that rul'd them with a ſhepherd's rod,

In form a man, in dignity a God,

[108] Came not expected in that humble guiſe,

To ſift, aud ſearch them with unerring eyes,

He found conceal'd beneath a fair outſide,

The filth of rottenneſs and worm of pride,

Their piety a ſyſtem of deceit,

Scripture employ'd to ſanctify the cheat,

The phariſee the dupe of his own art,

Self-idolized and yet a knave at heart.

When nations are to periſh in their ſins,

'Tis in the church the leproſy begins:

The prieſt whoſe office is, with zeal ſincere

To watch the fountain, and preſerve it clear,

Careleſsly nods and ſleeps upon the brink,

While others poiſon what the flock muſt drink;

Or waking at the call of luſt alone,

Infuſes lies and errors of his own:

His unſuſpecting ſheep believe it pure,

And tainted by the very means of cure,

Catch from each other a contagious ſpot,

The foul forerunner of a general rot:

[109] Then truth is huſh'd that hereſy may preach,

And all is traſh that reaſon cannot reach;

Then God's own image on the ſoul impreſs'd,

Becomes a mock'ry and a ſtanding jeſt,

And faith, the root whence only can ariſe

The graces of a life that wins the ſkies,

Loſes at once all value and eſteem,

Pronounc'd by gray beards a pernicious dream:

Then ceremony leads her bigots forth,

Prepar'd to fight for ſhadows of no worth,

While truths on which eternal things depend,

Find not, or hardly find a ſingle friend:

As ſoldiers watch the ſignal of command,

They learn to bow, to kneel, to ſit, to ſtand,

Happy to fill religion's vacant place

With hollow form and geſture and grimace.

Such when the teacher of his church was there,

People and prieſt, the ſons of Iſrael were,

Stiff in the letter, lax in the deſign

And import of their oracles divine,

[110] Their learning legendary, falſe, abſurd,

And yet exalted above God's own word,

They drew a curſe from an intended good,

Puff'd up with gifts they never underſtood.

He judg'd them with as terrible a frown,

As if, not love, but wrath had brought him down,

Yet he was gentle as ſoft ſummer airs,

Had grace for other ſins, but none for theirs.

Through all he ſpoke a noble plainneſs ran,

Rhet'ric is artifice, the work of man,

And tricks and turns that fancy may deviſe,

Are far too mean for him that rules the ſkies.

Th' aſtoniſh'd vulgar trembl'd while he tore

The maſk from faces never ſeen before;

He ſtripp'd th' impoſtors in the noon-day ſun,

Show'd that they follow'd all they ſeem'd to ſhun,

Their pray'rs made public, their exceſſes kept

As private as the chambers where they ſlept.

The temple and its holy rites profan'd

By mumm'ries he that dwelt in it diſdain'd,

[111] Uplifted hands that at convenient times

Could act extortion and the worſt of crimes,

Waſh'd with a neatneſs ſcrupulouſly nice,

And free from ev'ry taint but that of vice.

Judgment, however tardy, mends her pace

When obſtinacy once has conquer'd grace.

They ſaw diſtemper heal'd, and life reſtor'd

In anſwer to the fiat of his word,

Confeſs'd the wonder, and with daring tongue,

Blaſphem'd th' authority from which it ſprung.

They knew by ſure prognoſtics ſeen on high,

The future tone and temper of the ſky,

But grave diſſemblers, could not underſtand

That ſin let looſe ſpeaks puniſhment at hand.

Aſk now of hiſtory's authentic page,

And call up evidence from ev'ry age,

Diſplay with buſy and laborious hand

The bleſſings of the moſt indebted land,

What nation will you find, whoſe annals prove

So rich an int'reſt in almighty love?

[112] Where dwell they now, where dwelt in antient day

A people planted, water'd, bleſt as they?

Let Egypt's plagues, and Canaan's woes proclaim

The favours pour'd upon the Jewiſh name;

Their freedom purchas'd for them, at the coſt

Of all their hard oppreſſors valued moſt,

Their title to a country not their own,

Made ſure by prodigies 'till then unknown,

For them, the ſtate they left made waſte and void,

For them, the ſtates to which they went, deſtroy'd;

A cloud to meaſure out their march by day,

By night a fire to cheer the gloomy way,

That moving ſignal ſummoning, when beſt

Their hoſt to move, and when it ſtay'd, to reſt.

For them the rocks diſſolv'd into a flood,

The dews condens'd into angelic food,

Their very garments ſacred, old yet new,

And time forbid to touch them as he flew,

Streams ſwell'd above the bank, enjoin'd to ſtand,

While they paſs'd through to their appointed land,

[113] Their leader arm'd with meekneſs, zeal and love,

And grac'd with clear credentials from above,

Themſelves ſecur'd beneath th' Almighty wing,

Their God their captain^*, lawgiver, and king.

Crown'd with a thouſand vict'ries, and at laſt

Lords of the conquer'd ſoil, there rooted faſt,

In peace poſſeſſing what they won by war,

Their name far publiſh'd and rever'd as far;

Where will you find a race like theirs, endow'd

With all that man e'er wiſh'd, or Heav'n beſtow'd?

They and they only amongſt all mankind

Receiv'd the tranſcript of th' eternal mind,

Were truſted with his own engraven laws,

And conſtituted guardians of his cauſe,

Theirs were the prophets, theirs the prieſtly call,

And theirs by birth the Saviour of us all.

In vain the nations that had ſeen them riſe,

With fierce and envious yet admiring eyes,

Had ſought to cruſh them, guarded as they were

By power divine, and ſkill that could not err,

[114] Had they maintain'd allegiance firm and ſure,

And kept the faith immaculate and pure,

Then the proud eagles of all-conqu'ring Rome

Had found one city not to be o'ercome,

And the twelve ſtandards of the tribes unfurl'd:

Had bid defiance to the warring world.

But grace abus'd brings forth the fouleſt deeds,

As richeſt ſoil the moſt luxuriant weeds;

Cur'd of the golden calves their fathers ſin,

They ſet up ſelf, that idol god within,

View'd a Deliv'rer with diſdain and hate,

Who left them ſtill a tributary ſtate,

Seiz'd faſt his hand, held out to ſet them free

From a worſe yoke, and nail'd it to the tree;

There was the conſummation and the crown,

The flow'r of Iſrael's infamy full blown;

Thence date their ſad declenſion and their fall,

Their woes not yet repeal'd, thence date them all.

Thus fell the beſt inſtructed in her day,

And the moſt favor'd land, look where we may.

[115] Philoſophy indeed on Grecian eyes

Had pour'd the day, and clear'd the Roman ſkies;

In other climes perhaps creative art,

With pow'r ſurpaſſing theirs perform'd her part,

Might give more life to marble, or might fill

The glowing tablets with a juſter ſkill,

Might ſhine in fable, and grace idle themes

With all th' embroid'ry of poetic dreams;

'Twas theirs alone to dive into the plan

That truth and mercy had reveal'd to man,

And while the world beſide, that plan unknown,

Deified uſeleſs wood or ſenſeleſs ſtone,

They breath'd in faith their well-directed pray'rs,

And the true God, the God of truth was theirs.

Their glory faded, and their race diſpers'd,

The laſt of nations now, though once the firſt;

They warn and teach the proudeſt, would they learn,

Keep wiſdom or meet vengeance in your turn:

If we eſcap'd not, if Heav'n ſpar'd not us,

Peel'd, ſcatter'd, and exterminated thus;

[116] If vice receiv'd her retribution due

When we were viſited, what hope for you?

When God ariſes with an awful frown,

To puniſh luſt, or pluck preſumption down;

When gifts perverted or not duly priz'd,

Pleaſure o'ervalued and his grace deſpis'd,

Provoke the vengeance of his righteous hand

To pour down wrath upon a thankleſs land,

He will be found impartially ſevere,

Too juſt to wink, or ſpeak the guilty clear.

Oh Iſrael, of all nations moſt undone!

Thy diadem diſplac'd, thy ſceptre gone;

Thy temple, once thy glory, fall'n and ras'd,

And thou a worſhipper e'en where thou mayſt;

Thy ſervices once holy without ſpot,

Mere ſhadows now, their antient pomp forgot;

Thy Levites once a conſecrated hoſt,

No longer Levites, and their lineage loſt,

And thou thyſelf o'er ev'ry country ſown,

With none on earth that thou canſt call thine own;

[117] Cry aloud thou that ſitteſt in the duſt,

Cry to the proud, the cruel and unjuſt,

Knock at the gates of nations, rouſe their fears,

Say wrath is coming and the ſtorm appears,

But raiſe the ſhrilleſt cry in Britiſh ears.

What ails thee, reſtleſs as the waves that roar,

And fling their foam againſt thy chalky ſhore?

Miſtreſs, at leaſt while Providence ſhall pleaſe,

And trident-bearing queen of the wide ſeas—

Why, having kept good faith, and often ſhown

Friendſhip and truth to others, findſt thou none?

Thou that haſt ſet the perſecuted free,

None interpoſes now to ſuccour thee;

Countries indebted to thy pow'r, that ſhine

With light deriv'd from thee, would ſmother thine;

Thy very children watch for thy diſgrace,

A lawleſs brood, and curſe thee to thy face:

Thy rulers load thy credit year by year

With ſums Peruvian mines could never clear,

As if like arches built with ſkilful hand,

The more 'twere preſs'd the firmer it would ſtand.

[118] The cry in all thy ſhips is ſtill the ſame,

Speed us away to battle and to fame,

Thy mariners explore the wild expanſe,

Impatient to deſcry the flags of France,

But though they fight as thine have ever fought,

Return aſham'd without the wreaths they ſought:

Thy ſenate is a ſcene of civil jar,

Chaos of contrarieties at war,

Where ſharp and ſolid, phlegmatic and light,

Diſcordant atoms meet, ferment and fight,

Where obſtinacy takes his ſturdy ſtand,

To diſconcert what policy has plann'd,

Where policy is buſied all night long

In ſetting right what faction has ſet wrong,

Where flails of oratory threſh the floor,

That yields them chaff and duſt, and nothing more.

Thy rack'd inhabitants repine, complain,

Tax'd 'till the brow of labour ſweats in vain,

War lays a burthen on the reeling ſtate,

And peace does nothing to relieve the weight,

[119] Succeſſive loads ſucceeding broils impoſe,

And ſighing millions prophecy the cloſe.

Is adverſe providence when ponder'd well,

So dimly writ or difficult to ſpell,

Thou canſt not read with readineſs and eaſe,

Providence adverſe in events like theſe?

Know then, that heav'nly wiſdom on this ball

Creates, gives birth to, guides, conſummates all:

That while laborious and quick-thoughted man

Snuffs up the praiſe of what he ſeems to plan;

He firſt conceives, then perfects his deſign,

As a mere inſtrument in hands divine:

Blind to the working of that ſecret pow'r

That balances the wings of ev'ry hour,

The buſy trifler dreams himſelf alone,

Frames many a purpoſe, and God works his own.

States thrive or wither as moons wax and wane,

Ev'n as his will and his decrees ordain;

While honour, virtue, piety bear ſway,

They flouriſh, and as theſe decline, decay.

[120] In juſt reſentment of his injur'd laws,

He pours contempt on them and on their cauſe,

Strikes the rough thread of error right athwart

The web of ev'ry ſcheme they have at heart,

Bids rottenneſs invade and bring to duſt

The pillars of ſupport in which they truſt,

And do his errand of diſgrace and ſhame

On the chief ſtrength and glory of the frame.

None ever yet impeded what he wrought,

None bars him out from his moſt ſecret thought;

Darkneſs itſelf before his eye is light,

And Hell's cloſe miſchief naked in his ſight.

Stand now and judge thyſelf—haſt thou incurr'd

His anger who can waſte thee with a word,

Who poiſes and proportions ſea and land,

Weighing them in the hollow of his hand,

And in whoſe awful ſight all nations ſeem

As graſshoppers, as duſt, a drop, a dream?

Haſt thou (a ſacrilege his ſoul abhors)

Claim'd all the glory of thy proſp'rous wars,

[121] Proud of thy fleets and armies, ſtol'n the gem

Of his juſt praiſe to laviſh it on them?

Haſt thou not learn'd what thou art often told,

A truth ſtill ſacred, and believ'd of old,

That no ſucceſs attends on ſpears and ſwords

Unbleſt, and that the battle is the Lord's?

That courage is his creature, and diſmay

The poſt that at his bidding ſpeeds away,

Ghaſtly in feature, and his ſtamm'ring tongue

With doleful rumor and ſad preſage hung,

To quell the valor of the ſtouteſt heart,

And teach the combatant a woman's part?

That he bids thouſands fly when none purſue,

Saves as he will by many or by few,

And claims for ever as his royal right

Th' event and ſure deciſion of the fight.

Haſt thou, though ſuckl'd at fair freedom's breaſt,

Exported ſlav'ry to the conquer'd Eaſt,

Pull'd down the tyrants India ſerv'd with dread,

And rais'd thyſelf, a greater, in their ſtead,

[122] Gone thither arm'd and hungry, returned full,

Fed from the richeſt veins of the Mogul,

A deſpot big with pow'r obtain'd by wealth,

And that obtain'd by rapine and by ſtealth?

With Aſiatic vices ſtor'd thy mind,

But left their virtues and thine own behind,

And having truck'd thy ſoul, brought home the fee,

To tempt the poor to ſell himſelf to thee?

Haſt thou by ſtatute ſhov'd from its deſign

The Savior's feaſt, his own bleſt bread and wine,

And made the ſymbols of atoning grace

An office-key, a pick-lock to a place,

That infidels may prove their title good

By an oath dipp'd in ſacramental blood?

A blot that will be ſtill a blot, in ſpite

Of all that grave apologiſts may write,

And though a Biſhop toil to cleanſe the ſtain,

He wipes and ſcours the ſilver cup in vain.

And haſt thou ſworn on ev'ry ſlight pretence,

'Till perjuries are common as bad pence,

[123] While thouſands, careleſs of the damning ſin,

Kiſs the book's outſide who ne'er look within?

Haſt thou, when heav'n has cloath'd thee with diſgrace,

And long provok'd, repaid thee to thy face,

(For thou haſt known eclipſes, and endur'd

Dimneſs and anguiſh all thy beams obſcur'd,

When ſin has ſhed diſhonour on thy brow,

And never of a ſabler hue than now)

Haſt thou with heart perverſe and conſcience ſear'd,

Deſpiſing all rebuke, ſtill perſever'd,

And having choſen evil, ſcorn'd the voice

That cried repent—and gloried in thy choice?

Thy faſtings, when calamity at laſt

Suggeſts th' expedient of an yearly faſt,

What mean they? Canſt thou dream there is a pow'r

In lighter diet at a later hour,

To charm to ſleep the threat'nings of the ſkies,

And hide paſt folly from all-ſeeing eyes?

[124] The faſt that wins deliv'rance, and ſuſpends

The ſtroke that a vindictive God intends,

Is to renounce hypocriſy, to draw

Thy life upon the pattern of the law,

To war with pleaſures idolized before,

To vanquiſh luſt, and wear its yoke no more.

All faſting elſe, whate'er be the pretence,

Is wooing mercy by renew'd offence.

Haſt thou within thee ſin that in old time

Brought fire from heav'n, the ſex-abuſing crime,

Whoſe horrid perpetration ſtamps diſgrace

Baboons are free from, upon human race?

Think on the fruitful and well-water'd ſpot

That fed the flocks and herds of wealthy Lot,

Where Paradiſe ſeem'd ſtill vouchſaf'd on earth,

Burning and ſcorch'd into perpetual dearth,

Or in his words who damn'd the baſe deſire,

Suff'ring the vengeance of eternal fire:

Then nature injur'd, ſcandaliz'd, defil'd,

Unveil'd her bluſhing cheek, look'd on and ſmil'd,

Beheld with joy the lovely ſcene defac'd,

And prais'd the wrath that lay'd her beauties waſte.

[125] Far be the thought from any verſe of mine,

And farther ſtill the form'd and fixt deſign,

To thruſt the charge of deeds that I deteſt,

Againſt an innocent unconſcious breaſt:

The man that dares traduce becauſe he can

With ſafety to himſelf, is not a man:

An individual is a ſacred mark,

Not to be pierc'd in play or in the dark,

But public cenſure ſpeaks a public foe,

Unleſs a zeal for virtue guide the blow.

The prieſtly brotherhood, devout, ſincere,

From mean ſelf-int'reſt and ambition clear,

Their hope in Heav'n, ſervility their ſcorn,

Prompt to perſuade, expoſtulate and warn,

Their wiſdom pure, and giv'n them from above,

Their uſefulneſs inſur'd by zeal and love,

As meek as the man Moſes, and withal

As bold as in Agrippa's preſence, Paul,

Should fly the world's contaminating touch

Holy and unpolluted—are thine ſuch?

[126] Except a few with Eli's ſpirit bleſt,

Hophni and Phineas may deſcribe the reſt.

Where ſhall a teacher look in days like theſe,

For ears and hearts that he can hope to pleaſe?

Look to the poor—the ſimple and the plain

Will hear perhaps thy ſalutary ſtrain;

Humility is gentle, apt to learn,

Speak but the word, will liſten and return:

Alas, not ſo! the pooreſt of the flock

Are proud, and ſet their faces as a rock,

Denied that earthly opulence they chuſe,

God's better gift they ſcoff at and refuſe.

The rich, the produce of a nobler ſtem,

Are more intelligent at leaſt, try them:

Oh vain enquiry! they without remorſe

Are altogether gone a devious courſe,

Where beck'ning pleaſure leads them, wildly ſtray,

Have burſt the bands and caſt the yoke away.

Now borne upon the wings of truth, ſublime,

Review thy dim original and prime;

[127] This iſland ſpot of unreclaim'd rude earth,

The cradle that receiv'd thee at thy birth,

Was rock'd by many a rough Norwegian blaſt,

And Daniſh howlings ſcar'd thee as they paſs'd,

For thou waſt born amid the din of arms,

And ſuck'd a breaſt that panted with alarms.

While yet thou waſt a grov'ling puling chit,

Thy bones not faſhion'd and thy joints not knit,

The Roman taught thy ſtubborn knee to bow,

Though twice a Caeſar could not bend thee now:

His victory was that of orient light,

When the ſun's ſhafts diſperſe the gloom of night:

Thy language at this diſtant moment ſhows

How much the country to the conqu'ror owes,

Expreſſive, energetic and refin'd,

It ſparkles with the gems he left behind:

He brought thy land a bleſſing when he came,

He found thee ſavage, and he left thee tame,

Taught thee to cloath thy pink'd and painted hide,

And grace thy figure with a ſoldier's pride,

[128] He ſow'd the ſeeds of order where he went,

Improv'd thee far beyond his own intent,

And while he rul'd thee by the ſword alone,

Made thee at laſt a warrior like his own.

Religion if in heav'nly truths attir'd,

Needs only to be ſeen to be admir'd,

But thine as dark as witch'ries of the night,

Was form'd to harden hearts and ſhock the ſight:

Thy Druids ſtruck the well-ſtrung harps they bore,

With fingers deeply dy'd in human gore,

And while the victim ſlowly bled to death,

Upon the tolling chords rung out his dying breath.

Who brought the lamp that with awak'ning beams

Diſpell'd thy gloom and broke away thy dreams,

Tradition, now decrepid and worn out,

Babbler of antient fables, leaves a doubt:

But ſtill light reach'd thee; and thoſe gods of thine

Woden and Thor, each tott'ring in his ſhrine,

Fell broken and defac'd at his own door,

As Dagon in Philiſtia long before.

[129] But Rome with ſorceries and magic wand,

Soon rais'd a cloud that darken'd ev'ry land,

And thine was ſmother'd in the ſtench and fog

Of Tiber's marſhes and the papal bog:

Then prieſts with bulls and briefs and ſhaven crowns,

And griping fiſts and unrelenting frowns,

Legates and delegates with pow'rs from hell,

Though heav'nly in pretenſion, fleec'd thee well;

And to this hour to keep it freſh in mind,

Some twigs of that old ſcourge are left behind.^*

Thy ſoldiery the pope's well-manag'd pack,

Were train'd beneath his laſh and knew the ſmack,

And when he laid them on the ſcent of blood:

Would hunt a Saracen through fire and flood.

Laviſh of life to win an empty tomb,

That prov'd a mint of wealth, a mine to Rome,

They left their bones beneath unfriendly ſkies,

His worthleſs abſolution all the prize.

Thou waſt the verieſt ſlave in days of yore,

That ever dragg'd a chain or tugg'd an oar;

[130] Thy monarchs arbitrary, fierce, unjuſt,

Themſelves the ſlaves of bigotry or luſt,

Diſdain'd thy counſels, only in diſtreſs

Found thee a goodly ſpunge for pow'r to preſs.

Thy chiefs, the lords of many a petty fee,

Provok'd and harraſs'd, in return plagu'd thee,

Call'd thee away from peaceable employ,

Domeſtic happineſs and rural joy,

To waſte thy life in arms, or lay it down

In cauſeleſs feuds and bick'rings of their own:

Thy parliaments ador'd on bended knees

The ſov'reignty they were conven'd to pleaſe;

Whate'er was aſk'd, too timid to reſiſt,

Comply'd with, and were graciouſly diſmiſs'd:

And if ſome Spartan ſoul a doubt expreſs'd

And bluſhing at the tameneſs of the reſt,

Dar'd to ſuppoſe the ſubject had a choice,

He was a traitor by the gen'ral voice.

Oh ſlave! with pow'rs thou didſt not dare exert,

Verſe cannot ſtoop ſo low as thy deſert,

[131] It ſhakes the ſides of ſplenetic diſdain,

Thou ſelf-entitled ruler of the main,

To trace thee to the date when yon fair ſea

That clips thy ſhores, had no ſuch charms for thee,

When other nations flew from coaſt to coaſt,

And thou hadſt neither fleet nor flag to boaſt.

Kneel now, and lay thy forehead in the duſt,

Bluſh if thou canſt, not petrified, thou muſt:

Act but an honeſt and a faithful part,

Compare what then thou waſt, with what thou art,

And God's diſpoſing providence confeſs'd,

Obduracy itſelf muſt yield the reſt—

Then thou art bound to ſerve him, and to prove

Hour after hour thy gratitude and love.

Has he not hid thee and thy favour'd land

For ages ſafe beneath his ſhelt'ring hand,

Giv'n thee his bleſſing on the cleareſt proof,

Bid nations leagu'd againſt thee ſtand aloof,

And charg'd hoſtility and hate to roar

Where elſe they would, but not upon thy ſhore?

[132] His pow'r ſecur'd thee when preſumptuous Spain

Baptiz'd her fleet invincible in vain;

Her gloomy monarch, doubtful, and reſign'd

To ev'ry pang that racks an anxious mind,

Aſk'd of the waves that broke upon his coaſt,

What tidings? and the ſurge replied—all loſt—

And when the Stuart leaning on the Scot,

Then too much fear'd and now too much forgot,

Pierc'd to the very center of thy realm,

And hop'd to ſeize his abdicated helm,

'Twas but to prove how quickly with a frown,

He that had rais'd thee could have pluck'd thee down.

Peculiar is the grace by thee poſſeſs'd,

Thy foes implacable, thy land at reſt;

Thy thunders travel over earth and ſeas,

And all at home is pleaſure, wealth and eaſe.

'Tis thus, extending his tempeſtuous arm,

Thy Maker fills the nations with alarm,

While his own Heav'n ſurveys the troubled ſcene,

And feels no change, unſhaken and ſerene.

[133] Freedom, in other lands ſcarce known to ſhine,

Pours out a flood of ſplendour upon thine;

Thou haſt as bright an int'reſt in her rays,

As ever Roman had in Rome's beſt days.

True freedom is, where no reſtraint is known

That ſcripture, juſtice, and good ſenſe diſown,

Where only vice and injury are tied,

And all from ſhore to ſhore is free beſide,

Such freedom is—and Windſor's hoary tow'rs

Stood trembling at the boldneſs of thy pow'rs,

That won a nymph on that immortal plain,

Like her the fabled Phoebus woo'd in vain;

He found the laurel only—happier you,

Th' unfading laurel and the virgin too.^*

Now think, if pleaſure have a thought to ſpare,

If God himſelf be not beneath her care;

If bus'neſs, conſtant as the wheels of time,

Can pauſe one hour to read a ſerious rhime;

[134] If the new mail thy merchants now receive,

Or expectation of the next give leave,

Oh think, if chargeable with deep arrears

For ſuch indulgence gilding all thy years,

How much though long neglected, ſhining yet,

The beams of heav'nly truth have ſwell'd the debt.

When perſecuting zeal made royal ſport

With tortur'd innocence in Mary's court,

And Bonner, blithe as ſhepherd at a wake,

Enjoy'd the ſhow, and danc'd about the ſtake;

The ſacred book, its value underſtood,

Receiv'd the ſeal of martyrdom in blood.

Thoſe holy men, ſo full of truth and grace,

Seem to reflection of a diff'rent race,

Meek, modeſt, venerable, wiſe, ſincere,

In ſuch a cauſe they could not dare to fear,

They could not purchaſe earth with ſuch a prize,

Nor ſpare a life too ſhort to reach the ſkies.

From them to thee convey'd along the tide,

Their ſtreaming hearts pour'd freely when they died,

[135] Thoſe truths which neither uſe nor years impair,

Invite thee, wooe thee, to the bliſs they ſhare.

What dotage will not vanity maintain,

What web too weak to catch a modern brain?

The moles and bats in full aſſembly find

On ſpecial ſearch, the keen-ey'd eagle blind.

And did they dream, and art thou wiſer now?

Prove it—if better, I ſubmit and bow.

Wiſdom and goodneſs are twin-born, one heart

Muſt hold both ſiſters, never ſeen apart.

So then—as darkneſs overſpread the deep,

'Ere nature roſe from her eternal ſleep,

And this delightful earth and that fair ſky

Leap'd out of nothing, call'd by the Moſt High,

By ſuch a change thy darkneſs is made light,

Thy chaos order, and thy weakneſs, might,

And he whoſe pow'r mere nullity obeys,

Who found thee nothing, form'd thee for his praiſe.

To praiſe him is to ſerve him, and fulfil,

Doing and ſuff'ring, his unqueſtion'd will,

[136] 'Tis to believe what men inſpir'd of old,

Faithful and faithfully inform'd, unfold;

Candid and juſt, with no falſe aim in view,

To take for truth what cannot but be true,

To learn in God's own ſchool the Chriſtian part,

And bind the taſk aſſign'd thee to thine heart:

Happy the man there ſeeking and there found,

Happy the nation where ſuch men abound.

How ſhall a verſe impreſs thee? by what name

Shall I adjure thee not to court thy ſhame?

By theirs whoſe bright example unimpeach'd

Directs thee to that eminence they reach'd,

Heroes and worthies of days paſt, thy ſires?

Or his, who touch'd their hearts with hallow'd fires?

Their names, alas! in vain reproach an age

Whom all the vanities they ſcorn'd, engage,

And his that ſeraphs tremble at, is hung

Diſgracefully on ev'ry trifler's tongue,

Or ſerves the champion in forenſic war,

To flouriſh and parade with at the bar.

[137] Pleaſure herſelf perhaps ſuggeſts a plea,

If int'reſt move thee, to perſuade ev'n thee:

By ev'ry charm that ſmiles upon her face,

By joys poſſeſs'd, and joys ſtill held in chace,

If dear ſociety be worth a thought,

And if the feaſt of freedom cloy thee not,

Reflect that theſe and all that ſeems thine own,

Held by the tenure of his will alone,

Like angels in the ſervice of their Lord,

Remain with thee, or leave thee at his word;

That gratitude and temp'rance in our uſe

Of what he gives, unſparing and profuſe,

Secure the favour and enhance the joy,

That thankleſs waſte and wild abuſe deſtroy.

But above all reflect, how cheap ſoe'er

Thoſe rights that millions envy thee, appear,

And though reſolv'd to riſk them, and ſwim down

The tide of pleaſure, heedleſs of his frown,

That bleſſings truly ſacred, and when giv'n

Mark'd with the ſignature and ſtamp of Heav'n,

[138] The word of prophecy, thoſe truths divine

Which make that Heav'n, if thou deſire it, thine;

(Awful alternative! believ'd, belov'd,

Thy glory, and thy ſhame if unimprov'd,)

Are never long vouchſaf'd, if puſh'd aſide

With cold diſguſt or philoſophic pride,

And that judicially withdrawn, diſgrace,

Error and darkneſs occupy their place.

A world is up in arms, and thou, a ſpot

Not quickly found if negligently ſought,

Thy ſoul as ample as thy bounds are ſmall,

Endur'ſt the brunt, and dar'ſt defy them all:

And wilt thou join to this bold enterprize

A bolder ſtill, a conteſt with the ſkies?

Remember, if he guard thee and ſecure,

Whoe'er aſſails thee, thy ſucceſs is ſure;

But if he leave thee, though the ſkill and pow'r

Of nations ſworn to ſpoil thee and devour,

Were all collected in thy ſingle arm,

And thou couldſt laugh away the fear of harm,

[139] That ſtrength would fail, oppos'd againſt the puſh

And feeble onſet of a pigmy ruſh.

Say not (and if the thought of ſuch defence

Should ſpring within thy boſom, drive it thence)

What nation amongſt all my foes is free

From crimes as baſe as any charg'd on me?

Their meaſure fill'd—they too ſhall pay the debt.

Which God, though long forborn, will not forget;

But know, that wrath divine, when moſt ſevere,

Makes juſtice ſtill the guide of his career,

And will not puniſh in one mingled crowd,

Them without light, and thee without a cloud.

Muſe, hang this harp upon yon aged beech,

Still murm'ring with the ſolemn truths I teach,

And while, at intervals, a cold blaſt ſings

Through the dry leaves, and pants upon the ſtrings,

My ſoul ſhall ſigh in ſecret, and lament

A nation ſcourg'd, yet tardy to repent.

I know the warning ſong is ſung in vain,

That few will hear, and fewer heed the ſtrain:

[140] But if a fweeter voice, and one deſign'd

A bleſſing to my country and mankind,

Reclaim the wand'ring thouſands, and bring home

A flock ſo ſcatter'd and ſo wont to roam,

Then place it once again between my knees,

The ſound of truth will then be ſure to pleaſe,

And truth alone, where'er my life be caſt,

In ſcenes of plenty or the pining waſte,

Shall be my choſen theme, my glory to the laſt.

HOPE.

[]

‘—doceas iter et ſacra oſtia pandas. VIRG. EN. 6.’

ASK what is human life—the ſage replies

With diſappointment low'ring in his eyes,

A painful paſſage o'er a reſtleſs flood,

A vain purſuit of fugitive falſe good,

A ſcene of fancied bliſs and heart-felt care,

Cloſing at laſt in darkneſs and deſpair.—

[142] The poor, inur'd to drudgery and diſtreſs,

Act without aim, think little and feel leſs,

And no where but in feign'd Arcadian ſcenes,

Taſte happineſs, or know what pleaſure means.

Riches are paſs'd away from hand to hand,

As fortune, vice or folly may command;

As in a dance the pair that take the lead

Turn downward, and the loweſt pair ſucceed,

So ſhifting and ſo various is the plan

By which Heav'n rules the mixt affairs of man,

Viciſſitude wheels round the motley crowd,

The rich grow poor, the poor become purſe-proud:

Bus'neſs is labour, and man's weakneſs ſuch,

Pleaſure is labour too, and tires as much,

The very ſenſe of it foregoes its uſe,

By repetition pall'd, by age obtuſe.

Youth loſt in diſſipation, we deplore

Through life's ſad remnant, what no ſighs reſtore,

Our years, a fruitleſs race without a prize,

Too many, yet too few to make us wiſe.

[143] Dangling his cane about, and taking ſnuff,

Lothario cries, what philoſophic ſtuff.

Oh querulous and weak! whoſe uſeleſs brain

Once thought of nothing, and now thinks in vain,

Whoſe eye reverted weeps o'er all the paſt,

Whoſe proſpect ſhows thee a diſheartning waſte,

Would age in thee reſign his wintry reign,

And youth invigorate that frame again,

Renew'd deſire would grace with other ſpeech

Joys always priz'd, when plac'd within our reach.

For lift thy palſied head, ſhake off the gloom

That overhangs the borders of thy tomb,

See nature gay as when ſhe firſt began,

With ſmiles alluring her admirer, man,

She ſpreads the morning over eaſtern hills,

Earth glitters with the drops the night diſtils,

The ſun obedient, at her call appears

To fling his glories o'er the robe ſhe wears,

Banks cloath'd with flow'rs, groves fill'd with ſprightly ſounds,

The yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, riſing grounds,

[144] Streams edg'd with oſiers, fatt'ning ev'ry field

Where'er they flow, now ſeen and now conceal'd,

From the blue rim where ſkies and mountains meet,

Down to the very turf beneath thy feet,

Ten thouſand charms that only fools deſpiſe,

Or pride can look at with indiff'rent eyes,

All ſpeak one language, all with one ſweet voice

Cry to her univerſal realm, rejoice.

Man feels the ſpur of paſſions and deſires,

And ſhe gives largely more than he requires,

Not that his hours devoted all to care,

Hollow-ey'd abſtinence and lean deſpair,

The wretch may pine, while to his ſmell, taſte, ſight,

She holds a Paradiſe of rich delight,

But gently to rebuke his aukward fear,

To prove that what ſhe gives, ſhe gives ſincere,

To baniſh heſitation, and proclaim

His happineſs, her dear, her only aim.

'Tis grave philoſophy's abſurdeſt dream,

That Heav'n's intentions are not what they ſeem,

[145] That only ſhadows are diſpens'd below,

And earth has no reality but woe.

Thus things terreſtrial wear a diff'rent hue,

As youth or age perſuades, and neither true;

So Flora's wreath through colour'd chryſtal ſeen,

The roſe or lily appears blue or green,

But ſtill th' imputed tints are thoſe alone

The medium repreſents, and not their own.

To riſe at noon, ſit ſlipſhod and undreſs'd,

To read the news or fiddle as ſeems beſt,

'Till half the world comes rattling at his door,

To fill the dull vacuity 'till four,

And juſt when evening turns the blue vault grey,

To ſpend two hours in dreſſing for the day,

To make the ſun a bauble without uſe,

Save for the fruits his heav'nly beams produce,

Quite to forget, or deem it worth no thought,

Who bids him ſhine, or if he ſhine or not,

Through mere neceſſity to cloſe his eyes

Juſt when the larks and when the ſhepherds riſe,

[146] Is ſuch a life, ſo tediouſly the ſame,

So void of all utility or aim,

That poor JONQUIL, with almoſt ev'ry breath

Sighs for his exit, vulgarly call'd, death:

For he, with all his follies, has a mind

Not yet ſo blank, or faſhionably blind,

But now and then perhaps a feeble ray

Of diſtant wiſdom ſhoots acroſs his way,

By which he reads, that life without a plan,

As uſeleſs as the moment it began,

Serves merely as a ſoil for diſcontent

To thrive in, an incumbrance, e'er half ſpent.

Oh wearineſs beyond what aſſes feel,

That tread the circuit of the ciſtern wheel,

A dull rotation never at a ſtay,

Yeſterday's face twin image of to-day,

While converſation, an exhauſted ſtock,

Grows drowſy as the clicking of a clock.

No need, he cries, of gravity ſtuff'd out

With academic dignity devout,

[147] To read wiſe lectures, vanity the text;

Proclaim the remedy, ye learned, next,

For truth ſelf-evident with pomp impreſs'd,

Is vanity ſurpaſſing all the reſt.

That remedy, not hid in deeps profound,

Yet ſeldom ſought, where only to be found,

While paſſion turns aſide from its due ſcope

Th' enquirer's aim, that remedy, is hope.

Life is his gift, from whom whate'er life needs,

And ev'ry good and perfect gift proceeds,

Beſtow'd on man, like all that we partake,

Royally, freely, for his bounty ſake.

Tranſient indeed, as is the fleeting hour,

And yet the ſeed of an immortal flow'r,

Deſign'd in honour of his endleſs love,

To fill with fragrance his abode above.

No trifle, howſoever ſhort it ſeem,

And howſoever ſhadowy, no dream,

Its value, what no thought can aſcertain,

Nor all an angel's eloquence explain.

[148] Men deal with life, as children with their play,

Who firſt miſuſe, then caſt their toys away,

Live to no ſober purpoſe, and contend

That their creator had no ſerious end.

When God and man ſtand oppoſite in view,

Man's diſappointment muſt of courſe enſue.

The juſt Creator condeſcends to write

In beams of inextinguiſhable light,

His names of wiſdom, goodneſs, pow'r and love,

On all that blooms below or ſhines above,

To catch the wand'ring notice of mankind,

And teach the world, if not perverſely blind,

His gracious attributes, and prove the ſhare

His offspring hold in his paternal care.

If led from earthly things to things divine,

His creature thwart not his auguſt deſign,

Then praiſe is heard inſtead of reas'ning pride,

And captious cavil and complaint ſubſide.

Nature employ'd in her allotted place,

Is hand-maid to the purpoſes of grace,

[149] By good vouchſaf'd makes known ſuperior good,

And bliſs not ſeen by bleſſings underſtood.

That bliſs reveal'd in ſcripture with a glow

Bright as the covenant-inſuring bow,

Fires all his feelings with a noble ſcorn

Of ſenſual evil, and thus hope is born.

Hope ſets the ſtamp of vanity on all

That men have deem'd ſubſtantial ſince the fall,

Yet has the wond'rous virtue to educe

From emptineſs itſelf a real uſe,

And while ſhe takes as at a father's hand

What health and ſober appetite demand,

From fading good derives with chymic art

That laſting happineſs, a thankful heart.

Hope with uplifted foot ſet free from earth,

Pants for the place of her ethereal birth,

On ſteady wing ſails through th' immenſe abyſs,

Plucks amaranthin joys from bow'rs of bliſs,

And crowns the ſoul while yet a mourner here,

With wreaths like thoſe triumphant ſpirits wear.

[150] Hope as an anchor firm and ſure, holds faſt

The Chriſtian veſſel, and defies the blaſt;

Hope! nothing elſe can nouriſh and ſecure

His new-born virtues, and preſerve him pure;

Hope! let the wretch once conſcious of the joy,

Whom now deſpairing agonies deſtroy,

Speak, for he can, and none ſo well as he,

What treaſures center, what delights in thee.

Had he the gems, the ſpices, and the land

That boaſts the treaſure, all at his command,

The fragrant grove, th' ineſtimable mine,

Were light when weigh'd againſt one ſmile of thine.

Though claſp'd and cradl'd in his nurſe's arms,

He ſhine with all a cherub's artleſs charms,

Man is the genuine offspring of revolt,

Stubborn and ſturdy, a wild aſs's colt;

His paſſions like the wat'ry ſtores that ſleep

Beneath the ſmiling ſurface of the deep,

Wait but the laſhes of a wintry ſtorm,

To frown and roar, and ſhake his feeble form.

[151] From infancy through childhood's giddy maze,

Froward at ſchool, and fretful in his plays,

The puny tyrant burns to ſubjugate

The free republic of the whip-gig ſtate.

If one, his equal in athletic frame,

Or more provoking ſtill, of nobler name,

Dares ſtep acroſs his arbitrary views,

An Iliad, only not in verſe, enſues.

The little Greeks look trembling at the ſcales,

'Till the beſt tongue or heavieſt hand prevails.

Now ſee him launched into the world at large;

If prieſt, ſupinely droning o'er his charge,

Their fleece his pillow, and his weekly drawl,

Though ſhort, too long, the price he pays for all;

If lawyer, loud whatever cauſe he plead,

But proudeſt of the worſt, if that ſucceed.

Perhaps a grave phyſician, gath'ring fees,

Punctually paid for length'ning out diſeaſe,

No COTTON, whoſe humanity ſheds rays

That make ſuperior ſkill his ſecond praiſe.

[152] If arms engage him, he devotes to ſport

His date of life, ſo likely to be ſhort,

A ſoldier may be any thing, if brave,

So may a tradeſman, if not quite a knave.

Such ſtuff the world is made of; and mankind

To paſſion, int'reſt, pleaſure, whim reſign'd,

Inſiſt on, as if each were his own pope,

Forgiveneſs, and the privilege of hope;

But conſcience in ſome awful ſilent hour,

When captivating luſts have loſt their pow'r,

Perhaps when ſickneſs, or ſome fearful dream

Reminds him of religion, hated theme!

Starts from the down on which ſhe lately ſlept,

And tells of laws deſpis'd, at leaſt not kept;

Shows with a pointing finger and no noiſe,

A pale proceſſion of paſt ſinful joys,

All witneſſes of bleſſings foully ſcorn'd,

And life abus'd—and not to be ſuborn'd.

Mark theſe, ſhe ſays, theſe ſummoned from afar,

Begin their march to meet thee at the bar;

[153] There find a Judge, inexorably juſt,

And periſh there, as all preſumption muſt.

Peace be to thoſe (ſuch peace as earth can give)

Who live in pleaſure, dead ev'n while they live,

Born capable indeed of heav'nly truth,

But down to lateſt age from earlieſt youth

Their mind a wilderneſs through want of care,

The plough of wiſdom never ent'ring there.

Peace (if inſenſibility may claim

A right to the meek honours of her name)

To men of pedigree, their noble race

Emulous always of the neareſt place

To any throne, except the throne of grace.

Let cottagers and unenlightened ſwains

Revere the laws they dream that heav'n ordains,

Reſort on Sundays to the houſe of pray'r,

And aſk, and fancy they find bleſſings there;

Themſelves perhaps when weary they retreat

T' enjoy cool nature in a country ſeat,

T' exchange the center of a thouſand trades,

For clumps and lawns and temples and caſcades,

[154] May now and then their velvet cuſhions take,

And ſeem to pray for good example ſake;

Judging, in charity no doubt, the town

Pious enough, and having need of none.

Kind ſouls! to teach their tenantry to prize

What they themſelves without remorſe deſpiſe;

Nor hope have they nor fear of aught to come,

As well for them had prophecy been dumb;

They could have held the conduct they purſue,

Had Paul of Tarſus lived and died a Jew;

And truth propos'd to reas'ners wiſe as they,

Is a pearl caſt—completely caſt away.

They die—Death lends them, pleas'd and as in ſport,

All the grim honours of his ghaſtly court;

Far other paintings grace the chamber now,

Where late we ſaw the mimic landſcape glow;

The buſy heralds hang the ſable ſcene

With mournful 'ſcutcheons and dim lamps between,

Proclaim their titles to the crowd around,

But they that wore them, move not at the ſound;

[155] The coronet placed idly at their head,

Adds nothing now to the degraded dead,

And ev'n the ſtar that glitters on the bier,

Can only ſay, nobility lies here.

Peace to all ſuch—'twere pity to offend

By uſeleſs cenſure whom we cannot mend,

Life without hope can cloſe but in deſpair,

'Twas there we found them and muſt leave them there.

As when two pilgrims in a foreſt ſtray,

Both may be loſt, yet each in his own way,

So fares it with the multitudes beguil'd

In vain opinion's waſte and dang'rous wild;

Ten thouſand rove the brakes and thorns among,

Some eaſtward, and ſome weſtward, and all wrong:

But here, alas! the fatal diff'rence lies,

Each man's belief is right in his own eyes;

And he that blames what they have blindly choſe,

Incurs reſentment for the love he ſhows.

Say botaniſt! within whoſe province fall

The cedar and the hyſſop on the wall,

[156] Of all that deck the lanes, the fields, the bow'rs,

What parts the kindred tribes of weeds and flow'rs?

Sweet ſcent, or lovely form, or both combin'd,

Diſtinguiſh ev'ry cultivated kind,

The want of both denotes a meaner breed,

And Chloe from her garland picks the weed.

Thus hopes of every ſort, whatever ſect

Eſteem them, ſow them, rear them, and protect;

If wild in nature, and not duly found

Gethſemane! in thy dear, hallowed ground,

That cannot bear the blaze of ſcripture light,

Nor cheer the ſpirit, nor refreſh the ſight,

Nor animate the ſoul to Chriſtian deeds,

Oh caſt them from thee! are weeds, arrant weeds.

Ethelred's houſe, the center of ſix ways,

Diverging each from each, like equal rays,

Himſelf as bountiful as April rains,

Lord paramount of the ſurrounding plains,

Would give relief of bed and board to none,

But gueſts that ſought it in th' appointed, ONE.

[157] And they might enter at his open door,

Ev'n till his ſpacious hall would hold no more.

He ſent a ſervant forth by ev'ry road,

To ſound his horn and publiſh it abroad,

That all might mark, knight, menial, high and low,

An ord'nance it concern'd them much to know.

If after all, ſome headſtrong, hardy lowt,

Would diſobey, though ſure to be ſhut out,

Could he with reaſon murmur at his caſe,

Himſelf ſole author of his own diſgrace?

No! the decree was juſt and without flaw,

And he that made, had right to make the law;

His ſov'reign pow'r and pleaſure unreſtrain'd,

The wrong was his, who wrongfully complain'd.

Yet half mankind maintain a churliſh ſtrife

With him, the donor of eternal life,

Becauſe the deed by which his love confirms

The largeſs he beſtows, preſcribes the terms.

Compliance with his will your lot inſures,

Accept it only, and the boon is yours;

[158] And ſure it is as kind to ſmile and give,

As with a frown to ſay, do this and live.

Love is not pedlars trump'ry, bought and ſold,

He will give freely, or he will withold,

His ſoul abhors a mercenary thought,

And him as deeply who abhors it not;

He ſtipulates indeed, but merely this,

That man will freely take an unbought bliſs,

Will truſt him for a faithful gen'rous part,

Nor ſet a price upon a willing heart.

Of all the ways that ſeem to promiſe fair,

To place you where his ſaints his preſence ſhare,

This only can—for this plain cauſe, expreſs'd

In terms as plain; himſelf has ſhut the reſt.

But oh the ſtrife, the bick'ring and debate,

The tidings of unpurchas'd heav'n create!

The flirted fan, the bridle and the toſs,

All ſpeakers, yet all language at a loſs.

From ſtucco'd walls ſmart arguments rebound,

And beaus, adepts in ev'ry thing profound,

Die of diſdain, or whiſtle off the ſound.

[159] Such is the clamor of rooks, daws, and kites,

Th' exploſion of the levell'd tube excites,

Where mould'ring abbey-walls o'erhang the glade,

And oaks cooeval ſpread a mournful ſhade.

The ſcreaming nations hov'ring in mid air,

Loudly reſent the ſtranger's freedom there,

And ſeem to warn him never to repeat

His bold intruſion on their dark retreat.

Adieu, Vinoſo cries, e'er yet he ſips,

The purple bumper trembling at his lips,

Adieu to all morality! if grace

Make works a vain ingredient in the caſe.

The Chriſtian hope is—waiter, draw the cork—

If I miſtake not—blockhead! with a fork!

Without good works, whatever ſome may boaſt,

Mere folly and deluſion—Sir, your toaſt.

My firm perſuaſion is, at leaſt ſometimes,

That heav'n will weigh man's virtues and his crimes,

With nice attention in a righteous ſcale,

And ſave or damn as theſe or thoſe prevail.

[160] I plant my foot upon this ground of truſt,

And ſilence every fear with—God is juſt;

But if perchance on ſome dull drizzling day,

A thought intrude that ſays, or ſeems to ſay.

If thus th' important cauſe is to be tried,

Suppoſe the beam ſhould dip on the wrong ſide,

I ſoon recover from theſe needleſs frights,

And God is merciful—ſets all to rights.

Thus between juſtice, as my prime ſupport,

And mercy fled to, as the laſt reſort,

I glide and ſteal along with heav'n in view,

And—pardon me, the bottle ſtands with you.

I never will believe, the col'nel cries,

The ſanguinary ſchemes that ſome deviſe,

Who make the good Creator, on their plan,

A being of leſs equity than man.

If appetite, or what divines call luſt,

Which men comply with, e'en becauſe they muſt,

Be puniſh'd with perdition, who is pure?

Then theirs, no doubt, as well as mine, is ſure.

[161] If ſentence of eternal pain belong

To ev'ry ſudden ſlip and tranſient wrong,

Then heav'n enjoins the fallible and frail,

An hopeleſs taſk, and damns them if they fail.

My creed (whatever ſome creed-makers mean

By Athanaſian nonſenſe or Nicene)

My creed is, he is ſafe that does his beſt,

And death's a doom ſufficient for the reſt.

Right, ſays an enſign, and for aught I ſee,

Your faith and mine ſubſtantially agree:

The beſt of ev'ry man's performance here,

Is to diſcharge the duties of his ſphere.

A lawyer's dealing ſhould be juſt and fair,

Honeſty ſhines with great advantage there;

Faſting and pray'r ſit well upon a prieſt,

A decent caution and reſerve at leaſt.

A ſoldier's beſt is courage in the field,

With nothing here that wants to be conceal'd,

Manly deportment, gallant, eaſy, gay,

An hand as lib'ral as the light of day,

[161] The ſoldier thus endow'd, who never ſhrinks,

Nor cloſets up his thought what'er he thinks,

Who ſcorns to do an injury by ſtealth,

Muſt go to heav'n—and I muſt drink his health.

Sir Smug! he cries (for loweſt at the board,

Juſt made fifth chaplain of his patron lord,

His ſhoulders witneſſing by many a ſhrug,

How much his feelings ſuffered, ſat Sir Smug)

Your office is to winnow falſe from true,

Come, prophet, drink, and tell us what think you.

Sighing and ſmiling as he takes his glaſs,

Which they that wooe preferment, rarely paſs,

Fallible man, the church-bred youth replies,

Is ſtill found fallible, however wiſe,

And differing judgments ſerve but to declare

That truth lies ſomewhere, if we knew but where.

Of all it ever was my lot to read

Of critics now alive or long ſince dead,

The book of all the world that charm'd me moſt

Was, well-a-day, the title-page was loſt.

[163] The writer well remarks, an heart that knows

To take with gratitude what heav'n beſtows,

With prudence always ready at our call,

To guide our uſe of it, is all in all.

Doubtleſs it is—to which of my own ſtore

I ſuperadd a few eſſentials more;

But theſe, excuſe the liberty I take,

I wave juſt now, for converſation ſake.—

Spoke like an oracle, they all exclaim,

And add Right Rev'rend to Smug's honour'd name,

And yet our lot is giv'n us in a land

Where buſy arts are never at a ſtand,

Where ſcience points her teleſcopic eye,

Familiar with the wonders of the ſky,

Where bold enquiry diving out of ſight,

Brings many a precious pearl of truth to light,

Where nought eludes the perſevering queſt,

That faſhion, taſte, or luxury ſuggeſt.

But above all, in her own light array'd,

See mercy's grand apocalypſe diſplay'd!

[164] The ſacred book no longer ſuffers wrong,

Bound in the fetters of an unknown tongue,

But ſpeaks with plainneſs art could never mend,

What ſimpleſt minds can ſooneſt comprehend.

God gives the word, the preachers throng around,

Live from his lips, and ſpread the glorious ſound:

That ſound beſpeaks ſalvation on her way,

The trumpet of a life-reſtoring day;

'Tis heard where England's eaſtern glory ſhines,

And in the gulphs of her Cornubian mines.

And ſtill it ſpreads. See Germany ſend forth

Her ^* ſons to pour it on the fartheſt north:

Fir'd with a zeal peculiar, they defy

The rage and rigor of a polar ſky,

And plant ſucceſsfully ſweet Sharon's roſe,

On icy plains and in eternal ſnows.

Oh bleſt within th' incloſure of your rocks,

Nor herds have ye to boaſt, nor bleating flocks,

No fertilizing ſtreams your fields divide,

That ſhow revers'd the villas on their ſide,

[165] No groves have ye; no cheerful ſound of bird,

Or voice of turtle in your land is heard,

Nor grateful eglantine regales the ſmell

Of thoſe that walk at ev'ning where ye dwell—

But winter arm'd with terrors, here unknown,

Sits abſolute on his unſhaken throne,

Piles up his ſtores amid'ſt the frozen waſte,

And bids the mountains he has built, ſtand faſt,

Beckons the legions of his ſtorms away

From happier ſcenes, to make your land a prey,

Proclaims the ſoil a conqueſt he has won,

And ſcorns to ſhare it with the diſtant ſun.

—Yet truth is yours, remote, unenvied iſle,

And peace, the genuine offspring of her ſmile,

The pride of letter'd ignorance that binds

In chains of error, our accompliſh'd minds,

That decks with all the ſplendor of the true

A falſe religion, is unknown to you.

Nature indeed vouchſafes for our delight

The ſweet viciſſitudes of day and night,

[166] Soft airs and genial moiſture, feed and cheer

Field, fruit and flow'r, and ev'ry creature here,

But brighter beams than his who fires the ſkies,

Have ris'n at length on your admiring eyes,

That ſhoot into your darkeſt caves the day

From which our nicer optics turn away.

Here ſee th' encouragement grace gives to vice,

The dire effect of mercy without price!

What were they?—what ſome fools are made by [...]

They were by nature, atheiſts, head and heart.

The groſs idolatry blind heathens teach

Was too refin'd for them, beyond their reach;

Not ev'n the glorious ſun, though men revere

The monarch moſt that ſeldom will appear,

And though his beams that quicken where they ſhine▪

May claim ſome right to be eſteem'd divine,

Not ev'n the ſun, deſirable as rare,

Could bend one knee, engage one vot'ry there;

They were what baſe credulity believes

True Chriſtians are, diſſemblers, drunkards, thieves▪

[167] The full-gorged ſavage at his nauſeous feaſt

Spent half the darkneſs, and ſnor'd out the reſt,

Was one, whom juſtice on an equal plan

Denouncing death upon the ſins of man,

Might almoſt have indulg'd with an eſcape,

Chargeable only with an human ſhape.

What are they now?—morality may ſpare

Her grave concern, her kind ſuſpicions there.

The wretch that once ſang wildly, danc'd and laugh'd,

And ſuck'd in dizzy madneſs with his draught,

Has wept a ſilent flood, revers'd his ways,

Is ſober, meek, benevolent, and prays;

Feeds ſparingly, communicates his ſtore,

Abhors the craft he boaſted of before,

And he that ſtole has learn'd to ſteal no more.

Well ſpake the prophet, let the deſart ſing,

Where ſprang the thorn, the ſpiry fir ſhall ſpring,

And where unſightly and rank thiſtles grew,

Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew.

Go now, and with important tone demand

On what foundation virtue is to ſtand,

[168] If ſelf-exalting claims be turn'd adrift,

And grace be grace indeed, and life a gift;

The poor reclaim'd inhabitant, his eyes

Gliſt'ning at once with pity and ſurpriſe,

Amaz'd that ſhadows ſhould obſcure the ſight

Of one whoſe birth was in a land of light,

Shall anſwer, Hope, ſweet Hope, has ſet me free,

And made all pleaſures elſe mere droſs to me.

Theſe amidſt ſcenes as waſte as if denied

The common care that waits on all beſide,

Wild as if nature there, void of all good,

Play'd only gambols in a frantic mood;

Yet charge not heav'nly ſkill with having plann'd

A play-thing world unworthy of his hand,

Can ſee his love, though ſecret evil lurks

In all we touch, ſtamp'd plainly on his works,

Deem life a bleſſing with its num'rous woes,

Nor ſpurn away a gift a God beſtows.

Hard taſk indeed, o'er arctic ſeas to roam!

Is hope exotic? grows it not at home?

[169] Yes, but an object bright as orient morn,

May preſs the eye too cloſely to be borne,

A diſtant virtue we can all confeſs,

It hurts our pride and moves our envy leſs.

Leuconomus (beneath well-ſounding Greek

I ſlur a name a poet muſt not ſpeak)

Stood pilloried on infamy's high ſtage,

And bore the pelting ſcorn of half an age,

The very butt of ſlander, and the blot

For ev'ry dart that malice ever ſhot.

The man that mentioned him, at once diſmiſs'd

All mercy from his lips, and ſneer'd and hiſs'd;

His crimes were ſuch as Sodom never knew,

And perjury ſtood up to ſwear all true;

His aim was miſchief, and his zeal pretence,

His ſpeech rebellion againſt common ſenſe,

A knave when tried on honeſty's plain rule,

And when by that of reaſon, a mere fool,

The world's beſt comfort was, his doom was paſs'd,

Die when he might, he muſt be damn'd at laſt.

[170] Now truth perform thine office, waft aſide

The curtain drawn by prejudice and pride,

Reveal (the man is dead) to wond'ring eyes,

This more than monſter in his proper guiſe.

He lov'd the world that hated him: the tear

That dropped upon his Bible was ſincere.

Aſſail'd by ſcandal and the tongue of ſtrife,

His only anſwer was a blameleſs life,

And he that forged and he that threw the dart,

Had each a brother's intereſt in his heart.

Paul's love of Chriſt, and ſteadineſs unbrib'd,

Were copied cloſe in him, and well tranſcrib'd;

He followed Paul: his zeal a kindred flame,

His apoſtolic charity the ſame,

Like him croſs'd chearfully tempeſtuous ſeas,

Forſaking country, kindred, friends, and eaſe;

Like him he labour'd, and like him, content

To bear it, ſuffer'd ſhame where'er he went.

Bluſh calumny! and write upon his tomb,

If honeſt eulogy can ſpare thee room,

[171] Thy deep repentance of thy thouſand lies,

Which aim'd at him, have pierc'd th' offended ſkies,

And ſay, blot out my ſin, confeſs'd, deplor'd,

Againſt thine image in thy ſaint, oh Lord!

No blinder bigot, I maintain it ſtill,

Than he that muſt have pleaſure, come what will;

He laughs, whatever weapon truth may draw,

And deems her ſharp artillery mere ſtraw.

Scripture indeed is plain, but God and he

On ſcripture-ground, are ſure to diſagree;

Some wiſer rule muſt teach him how to live,

Than that his Maker has ſeen fit to give,

Supple and flexible as Indian cane,

To take the bend his appetites ordain,

Contriv'd to ſuit frail nature's crazy caſe,

And reconcile his luſts with ſaving grace.

By this, with nice preciſion of deſign,

He draws upon life's map a zig-zag line,

That ſhows how far 'tis ſafe to follow ſin,

And where his danger and God's wrath begin.

[172] By this he forms, as pleas'd he ſports along,

His well pois'd eſtimate of right and wrong,

And finds the modiſh manners of the day,

Though looſe, as harmleſs as an infant's play.

Build by whatever plan caprice decrees,

With what materials, on what ground you pleaſe,

Your hope ſhall ſtand unblam'd, perhaps admir'd,

If not that hope the ſcripture has requir'd:

The ſtrange conceits, vain projects and wild dreams,

With which hypocriſy for ever teems,

(Though other follies ſtrike the public eye,

And raiſe a laugh) paſs unmoleſted by;

But if unblameable in word and thought,

A man ariſe, a man whom God has taught,

With all Elijah's dignity of tone,

And all the love of the beloved John,

To ſtorm the citadels they build in air,

And ſmite th' untemper'd wall, 'tis death to ſpare.

To ſweep away all refuges of lies,

And place, inſtead of quirks themſelves deviſe,

LAMA SABACTHANI, before their eyes,

[173] To prove that without Chriſt, all gain is loſs,

All hope, deſpair, that ſtands not on his croſs,

Except the few his God may have impreſs'd,

A tenfold frenzy ſeizes all the reſt.

Throughout mankind, the Chriſtian kind at leaſt,

There dwells a conſciouſneſs in ev'ry breaſt,

That folly ends where genuine hope begins,

And he that finds his heav'n muſt loſe his ſins:

Nature oppoſes with her utmoſt force,

This riving ſtroke, this ultimate divorce,

And while religion ſeems to be her view,

Hates with a deep ſincerity, the true;

For this of all that ever influenced man,

Since Abel worſhipp'd, or the world began,

This only ſpares no luſt, admits no plea,

But makes him, if at all, completely free,

Sounds forth the ſignal, as ſhe mounts her car,

Of an eternal, univerſal war,

Rejects all treaty, penetrates all wiles,

Scorns with the ſame indiff'rence frowns and ſmiles,

[174] Drives through the realms of ſin, where riot reels,

And grinds his crown beneath her burning wheels!

Hence all that is in man, pride, paſſion, art,

Powr's of the mind, and feelings of the heart,

Inſenſible of truth's almighty charms,

Starts at her firſt approach, and ſounds to arms!

While bigotry with well-diſſembled fears,

His eyes ſhut faſt, his fingers in his ears,

Mighty to parry, and puſh by God's word

With ſenſeleſs noiſe, his argument the ſword,

Pretends a zeal for godlineſs and grace,

And ſpits abhorrence in the Chriſtian's face.

Parent of hope, immortal truth, make known

Thy deathleſs wreaths, and triumphs all thine own:

The ſilent progreſs of thy pow'r is ſuch,

Thy means ſo feeble, and deſpis'd ſo much,

That few believe the wonders thou haſt wrought,

And none can teach them but whom thou haſt taught.

Oh ſee me ſworn to ſerve thee, and command

A painter's ſkill into a poet's hand,

[175] That while I trembling trace a work divine,

Fancy may ſtand aloof from the deſign,

And light and ſhade and ev'ry ſtroke be thine.

If ever thou haſt felt another's pain,

If ever when he ſigh'd, haſt ſigh'd again,

If ever on thine eye-lid ſtood the tear

That pity had engender'd, drop one here.

This man was happy—had the world's good word,

And with it ev'ry joy it can afford;

Friendſhip and love ſeem'd tenderly at ſtrife,

Which moſt ſhould ſweeten his untroubl'd life;

Politely learn'd, and of a gentle race,

Good-breeding and good ſenſe gave all a grace,

And whether at the toilette of the fair

He laugh'd and trifled, made him welcome there;

Or, if in maſculine debate he ſhar'd,

Inſur'd him mute attention and regard.

Alas how chang'd! expreſſive of his mind,

His eyes are ſunk, arms folded, head reclind,

Thoſe awful ſyllables, hell, death, and ſin,

Though whiſper'd, plainly tell what works within,

[176] That conſcience there performs her proper part,

And writes a doomſday ſentence on his heart;

Forſaking, and forſaken of all friends,

He now perceives where earthly pleaſure ends,

Hard taſk! for one who lately knew no care,

And harder ſtill as learnt beneath deſpair:

His hours no longer paſs unmark'd away,

A dark importance ſaddens every day,

He hears the notice of the clock, perplex'd,

And cries, perhaps eternity ſtrikes next:

Sweet muſic is no longer muſic here,

And laughter ſounds like madneſs in his ear,

His grief the world of all her pow'r diſarms,

Wine has no taſte, and beauty has no charms:

God's holy word, once trivial in his view,

Now by the voice of his experience, true,

Seems, as it is, the fountain whence alone

Muſt ſpring that hope he pants to make his own.

Now let the bright reverſe be known abroad,

Say, man's a worm, and pow'r belongs to God.

[177] As when a felon whom his country's laws

Have juſtly doom'd for ſome atrocious cauſe,

Expects in darkneſs and heart-chilling fears,

The ſhameful cloſe of all his miſpent years,

If chance, on heavy pinions ſlowly borne,

A tempeſt uſher in the dreaded morn,

Upon his dungeon walls the lightnings play,

The thunder ſeems to ſummon him away,

The warder at the door his key applies,

Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies:

If then, juſt then, all thoughts of mercy loſt,

When Hope, long ling'ring, at laſt yields the ghoſt,

The ſound of pardon pierce his ſtartled ear,

He drops at once his fetters and his fear,

A tranſport glows in all he looks and ſpeaks,

And the firſt thankful tears bedew his cheeks.

Joy, far ſuperior joy, that much outweighs

The comfort of a few poor added days,

Invades, poſſeſſes, and o'erwhelms the ſoul

Of him whom hope has with a touch made whole:

[178] 'Tis heav'n, all heav'n deſcending on the wings

Of the glad legions of the King of Kings;

'Tis more—'tis God diffus'd through ev'ry part,

'Tis God himſelf triumphant in his heart.

Oh welcome now, the ſun's once hated light,

His noon-day beams were never half ſo bright,

Not kindred minds alone are call'd t' employ

Their hours, their days in liſt'ning to his joy,

Unconſcious nature, all that he ſurveys,

Rocks, groves and ſtreams muſt join him in his praiſe.

Theſe are thy glorious works, eternal truth,

The ſcoff of wither'd age and beardleſs youth,

Theſe move the cenſure and illib'ral grin

Of fools that hate thee and delight in ſin:

But theſe ſhall laſt when night has quench'd the pole▪

And heav'n is all departed as a ſcroll:

And when, as juſtice has long ſince decreed,

This earth ſhall blaze, and a new world ſucceed,

Then theſe thy glorious works, and they that ſhare▪

That Hope which can alone exclude deſpair,

[179] Shall live exempt from weakneſs and decay,

The brighteſt wonders of an endleſs day.

Happy the bard, (if that fair name belong

To him that blends no fable with his ſong)

Whoſe lines uniting, by an honeſt art,

The faithful monitors and poets part,

Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind,

And while they captivate, inform the mind.

Still happier, if he till a thankful ſoil,

And fruit reward his honorable toil:

But happier far who comfort thoſe that wait

To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow'd gate;

Their language ſimple as their manners meek,

No ſhining ornaments have they to ſeek,

Nor labour they, nor time nor talents waſte

In ſorting flowers to ſuit a fickle taſte;

But while they ſpeak the wiſdom of the ſkies,

Which art can only darken and diſguiſe,

Th' abundant harveſt, recompence divine,

Repays their work—the gleaning only, mine.

CHARITY.

[]

Quâ nihil majus meliuſve terris

Fata donavere, boni (que) divi,

Nec dabunt, quamvis redeant in aurum

Tempora priſcum.

HOR. Lib. IV. Ode II.

FAIREST and foremoſt of the train that wait

On man's moſt dignified and happieſt ſtate,

Whether we name thee Charity or love,

Chief grace below, and all in all above,

Proſper (I preſs thee with a pow'rful plea)

A taſk I venture on, impell'd by thee:

Oh never ſeen but in thy bleſt effects,

Nor felt but in the ſoul that heav'n ſelects,

[181] Who ſeeks to praiſe thee, and to make thee known

To other hearts, muſt have thee in his own.

Come, prompt me with benevolent deſires,

Teach me to kindle at thy gentle fires,

And though diſgrac'd and ſlighted, to redeem

A poet's name, by making thee the theme.

God working ever on a ſocial plan,

By various ties attaches man to man:

He made at firſt, though free and unconfin'd,

One man the common father of the kind,

That ev'ry tribe, though plac'd as he ſees beſt,

Where ſeas or deſarts part them from the reſt,

Diff'ring in language, manners, or in face,

Might feel themſelves allied to all the race.

When Cook—lamented, and with tears as juſt

As ever mingled with heroic duſt,

Steer'd Britain's oak into a world unknown,

And in his country's glory ſought his own,

Wherever he found man, to nature true,

The rights of man were ſacred in his view:

[182] He ſooth'd with gifts and greeted with a ſmile

The ſimple native of the new-found iſle,

He ſpurn'd the wretch that ſlighted or withſtood

The tender argument of kindred blood,

Nor would endure that any ſhould controul

His free-born brethren of the ſouthern pole.

But though ſome nobler minds a law reſpect,

That none ſhall with impunity neglect,

In baſer ſouls unnumber'd evils meet,

To thwart its influence and its end defeat.

While Cook is loved for ſavage lives he ſaved,

See Cortez odious for a world enſlaved!

Where waſt thou then ſweet Charity, where then

Thou tutelary friend of helpleſs men?

Waſt thou in Monkiſh cells and nunn'ries found,

Or building hoſpitals on Engliſh ground?

No—Mammon makes the world his legatee

Through fear not love, and heav'n abhors the fee:

Wherever found (and all men need thy care)

Nor age nor infancy could find thee there.

[183] The hand that ſiew 'till it could ſlay no more,

Was glued to the ſword-hilt with Indian gore;

Their prince as juſtly ſeated on his throne,

As vain imperial Philip on his own,

Trick'd out of all his royalty by art,

That ſtripp'd him bare, and broke his honeſt heart,

Died by the ſentence of a ſhaven prieſt,

For ſcorning what they taught him to deteſt.

How dark the veil that intercepts the blaze

Of heav'ns myſterious purpoſes and ways;

God ſtood not, though he ſeem'd to ſtand aloof,

And at this hour the conqu'ror feels the proof.

The wreath he won drew down an inſtant curſe,

The fretting plague is in the public purſe,

The canker'd ſpoil corrodes the pining ſtate,

Starved by that indolence their mines create.

Oh could their antient Incas riſe again,

How would they take up Iſrael's taunting ſtrain!

Art thou too fall'n Iberia, do we ſee

The robber and the murth'rer weak as we?

[184] Thou that haſt waſted earth, and dared deſpiſe

Alike the wrath and mercy of the ſkies,

Thy pomp is in the grave, thy glory laid

Low in the pits thine avarice has made.

We come with joy from our eternal reſt,

To ſee th' oppreſſor in his turn oppreſs'd.

Art thou the God the thunder of whoſe hand

Roll'd over all our deſolated land,

Shook principalities and kingdoms down,

And made the mountains tremble at his frown?

The ſword ſhall light upon thy boaſted pow'rs,

And waſte them, as thy ſword has waſted ours.

'Tis thus Omnipotence his law fulfils,

And vengeance executes what juſtice wills.

Again—the band of commerce was deſign'd

T' aſſociate all the branches of mankind,

And if a boundleſs plenty be the robe,

Trade is the golden girdle of the globe:

Wiſe to promote whatever end he means,

God opens fruitful nature's various ſcenes,

[185] Each climate needs what other climes produce,

And offers ſomething to the gen'ral uſe;

No land but liſtens to the common call,

And in return receives ſupply from all;

This genial intercourſe and mutual aid,

Cheers what were elſe an univerſal ſhade,

Calls nature from her ivy-mantled den,

And ſoftens human rockwork into men.

Ingenious Art with her expreſſive face

Steps forth to faſhion and refine the race,

Not only fills neceſſity's demand,

But overcharges her capacious hand;

Capricious taſte itſelf can crave no more,

Than ſhe ſupplies from her abounding ſtore;

She ſtrikes out all that luxury can aſk,

And gains new vigour at her endleſs taſk.

Hers is the ſpacious arch, the ſhapely ſpire,

The painters pencil and the poets lyre;

From her the canvaſs borrows light and ſhade,

And verſe more laſting, hues that never fade.

[186] She guides the finger o'er the dancing keys,

Gives difficulty all the grace of eaſe,

And pours a torrent of ſweet notes around,

Faſt as the thirſting ear can drink the ſound.

Theſe are the gifts of art, and art thrives moſt

Where commerce has enrich'd the buſy coaſt:

He catches all improvements in his flight,

Spreads foreign wonders in his country's ſight,

Imports what others have invented well,

And ſtirs his own to match them, or excel.

'Tis thus reciprocating each with each,

Alternately the nations learn and teach;

While Providence enjoins to ev'ry ſoul

An union with the vaſt terraqueous whole.

Heav'n ſpeed the canvaſs gallantly unfurl'd

To furniſh and accommodate a world;

To give the Pole the produce of the ſun,

And knit th' unſocial climates into one.—

Soft airs and gentle heavings of the wave

Impel the fleet whoſe errand is to ſave,

[187] To ſuccour waſted regions, and replace

The ſmile of opulence in ſorrow's face.—

Let nothing adverſe, nothing unforeſeen,

Impede the bark that plows the deep ſerene,

Charg'd with a freight tranſcending in its worth

The gems of India, nature's rareſt birth,

That flies like Gabriel on his Lord's commands,

An herald of God's love, to pagan lands.—

But ah! what wiſh can proſper, or what pray'r,

For merchants rich in cargoes of deſpair,

Who drive a loathſome traffic, gage and ſpan,

And buy the muſcles and the bones of man?

The tender ties of father, huſband, friend,

All bonds of nature in that moment end,

And each endures while yet he draws his breath,

A ſtroke as fatal as the ſcythe of death.

The ſable warrior, frantic with regret

Of her he loves, and never can forget,

Loſes in tears the far receding ſhore,

But not the thought that they muſt meet no more;

[188] Depriv'd of her and freedom at a blow,

What has he left that he can yet forego?

Yes, to deep ſadneſs ſullenly reſign'd,

He feels his body's bondage in his mind,

Puts off his gen'rous nature, and to ſuit

His manners with his fate, puts on the brute.

Oh moſt degrading of all ills that wait

On man, a mourner in his beſt eſtate!

All other ſorrows virtue may endure,

And find ſubmiſſion more than half a cure;

Grief is itſelf a med'cine, and beſtow'd

T' improve the fortitude that bears the load,

To teach the wand'rer, as his woes encreaſe,

The path of wiſdom, all whoſe paths are peace.

But ſlav'ry!—virtue dreads it as her grave,

Patience itſelf is meanneſs in a ſlave:

Or if the will and ſovereignty of God

Bid ſuffer it awhile, and kiſs the rod,

Wait for the dawning of a brighter day,

And ſnap the chain the moment when you may.

[189] Nature imprints upon whate'er we ſee

That has a heart and life in it, be free;

The beaſts are chartered—neither age nor force

Can quell the love of freedom in a horſe:

He breaks the cord that held him at the rack,

And conſcious of an unincumber'd back,

Snuffs up the morning air, forgets the rein,

Looſe fly his forelock and his ample mane,

Reſponſive to the diſtant neigh he neighs,

No ſtops, till overleaping all delays,

He finds the paſture where his fellows graze.

Canſt thou, and honour'd with a Chriſtian name,

Buy what is woman-born, and feel no ſhame?

Trade in the blood of innocence, and plead

Expedience as a warrant for the deed?

So may the wolf whom famine has made bold

To quit the foreſt and invade the fold;

So may the ruffian who with ghoſtly glide,

Dagger in hand, ſteals cloſe to your bed-ſide;

Not he, but his emergence forc'd the door,

He found it inconvenient to be poor.

[190] Has God then giv'n its ſweetneſs to the cane

Unleſs his laws be trampled on—in vain?

Built a brave world, which cannot yet ſubſiſt,

Unleſs his right to rule it be diſmiſs'd?

Impudent blaſphemy! ſo folly pleads,

And av'rice being judge, with eaſe ſucceeds.

But grant the plea, and let it ſtand for juſt,

That man make man his prey, becauſe he muſt,

Still there is room for pity to abate

And ſooth the ſorrows of ſo ſad a ſtate.

A Briton knows, or if he knows it not,

The Scripture plac'd within his reach, he ought,

That ſouls have no diſcriminating hue,

Alike important in their Maker's view,

That none are free from blemiſh ſince the fall,

And love divine has paid one price for all.

The wretch that works and weeps without relief,

Has one that notices his ſilent grief,

He from whoſe hands alone all pow'r proceeds,

Ranks its abuſe among the fouleſt deeds,

Conſiders all injuſtice with a frown,

But marks the man that treads his fellow down.

[191] Begone, the whip and bell in that hard hand,

Are hateful enſigns of uſurp'd command,

Not Mexico could purchaſe kings a claim

To ſcourge him, wearineſs his only blame.

Remember, heav'n has an avenging rod;

To ſmite the poor is treaſon againſt God.

Trouble is grudgingly and hardly brook'd,

While life's ſublimeſt joys are overlook'd.

We wander o'er a ſun-burnt thirſty ſoil

Murm'ring and weary of our daily toil,

Forget t' enjoy the palm-tree's offer'd ſhade,

Or taſte the fountain in the neighb'ring glade:

Elſe who would loſe that had the pow'r t' improve

Th' occaſion of tranſmuting fear to love?

Oh 'tis a godlike privilege to ſave,

And he that ſcorns it is himſelf a ſlave.—

Inform his mind, one flaſh of heav'nly day

Would heal his heart and melt his chains away;

`Beauty for aſhes' is a gift indeed,

And ſlaves, by truth enlarg'd, are doubly freed:

[192] Then would he ſay, ſubmiſſive at thy feet,

While gratitude and love made ſervice ſweet,

My dear deliv'rer out of hopeleſs night,

Whoſe bounty bought me but to give me light,

I was a bondman on my native plain,

Sin forg'd, and ignorance made faſt the chain;

Thy lips have ſhed inſtruction as the dew,

Taught me what path to ſhun, and what purſue;

Farewell my former joys! I ſigh no more

For Africa's once lov'd, benighted ſhore,

Serving a benefactor I am free,

At my beſt home if not exiled from thee.

Some men make gain a fountain, whence proceeds

A ſtream of lib'ral and heroic deeds,

The ſwell of pity, not to be confin'd

Within the ſcanty limits of the mind,

Diſdains the bank, and throws the golden ſands,

A rich depoſit, on the bord'ring lands:

Theſe have an ear for his paternal call,

Who makes ſome rich for the ſupply of all,

[193] God's gift with pleaſure in his praiſe employ,

And THORNTON is familiar with the joy.

Oh could I worſhip aught beneath the ſkies,

That earth hath ſeen or fancy can deviſe,

Thine altar, ſacred liberty, ſhould ſtand,

Built by no mercenary vulgar hand,

With fragrant turf and flow'rs as wild and fair

As ever dreſs'd a bank or ſcented ſummer air.

Duely as ever on the mountain's height

The peep of morning ſhed a dawning light;

Again, when evening in her ſober veſt

Drew the grey curtain of the fading weſt,

My ſoul ſhould yield thee willing thanks and praiſe

For the chief bleſſings of my faireſt days:

But that were ſacrilege—praiſe is not thine,

But his who gave thee and preſerves thee mine:

Elſe I would ſay, and as I ſpake, bid fly

A captive bird into the boundleſs ſky,

This triple realm adores thee—thou art come

From Sparta hither, and art here at home;

[194] We feel thy force ſtill active, at this hour

Enjoy immunity from prieſtly pow'r,

While conſcience, happier than in antient years,

Owns no ſuperior but the God ſhe fears.

Propitious ſpirit! yet expunge a wrong

Thy rights have ſuffer'd, and our land, too long,

Teach mercy to ten thouſand hearts that ſhare

The fears and hopes of a commercial care;

Priſons expect the wicked, and were built

To bind the lawleſs and to puniſh guilt,

But ſhipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire and flood,

Are mighty miſchiefs, not to be withſtood,

And honeſt merit ſtands on ſlipp'ry ground,

Where covert guile and artifice abound:

Let juſt reſtraint for public peace deſign'd,

Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind,

The foe of virtue has no claim to thee,

But let inſolvent innocence go free.

Patron, of elſe the moſt deſpiſed of men,

Accept the tribute of a ſtranger's pen;

[195] Verſe, like the laurel its immortal meed,

Should be the guerdon of a noble deed,

I may alarm thee, but I fear the ſhame

(Charity choſen as my theme and aim)

I muſt incur, forgetting HOWARD'S name.

Bleſt with all wealth can give thee, to reſign

Joys doubly ſweet to feelings quick as thine,

To quit the bliſs thy rural ſcenes beſtow,

To ſeek a nobler amidſt ſcenes of woe,

To traverſe ſeas, range kingdoms, and bring home

Not the proud monuments of Greece or Rome,

But knowledge ſuch as only dungeons teach,

And only ſympathy like thine could reach;

That grief, ſequeſter'd from the public ſtage,

Might ſmooth her feathers and enjoy her cage,

Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal

The boldeſt patriot might be proud to feel.

Oh that the voice of clamor and debate,

That pleads for peace 'till it diſturbs the ſtate,

Were huſh'd in favour of thy gen'rous plea,

The poor thy clients, and heaven's ſmile thy fee.

[196] Philoſophy that does not dream or ſtray,

Walks arm in arm with nature all his way,

Compaſſes earth, dives into it, aſcends

Whatever ſteep enquiry recommends,

Sees planetary wonders ſmoothly roll

Round other ſyſtems under her controll,

Drinks wiſdom at the milky ſtream of light

That cheers the ſilent journey of the night,

And brings at his return a boſom charged,

With rich inſtruction, and a ſoul enlarged.

The treaſured ſweets of the capacious plan

That heav'n ſpreads wide before the view of man,

All prompt his pleaſed purſuit, and to purſue

Still prompt him, with a pleaſure always new:

He too has a connecting pow'r, and draws

Man to the center of the common cauſe,

Aiding a dubious and deficient ſight

With a new medium and a purer light.

All truth is precious if not all divine,

And what dilates the pow'rs muſt needs refine,

[197] He reads the ſkies, and watching ev'ry change,

Provides the faculties an ampler range,

And wins mankind, as his attempts prevail,

A proudcer ſtation on the gen'ral ſcale.

But reaſon ſtill unleſs divinely taught,

Whate'er ſhe learns, learns nothing as ſhe ought;

The lamp of revelation only, ſhows,

What human wiſdom cannot but oppoſe,

That man in nature's richeſt mantle clad,

And graced with all philoſophy can add,

Though fair without, and luminous within,

Is ſtill the progeny and heir of ſin.

Thus taught down falls the plumage of his pride,

He feels his need of an unerring guide,

And knows that falling he ſhall riſe no more,

Unleſs the pow'r that bade him ſtand, reſtore.

This is indeed philoſophy; this known,

Makes wiſdom, worthy of the name, his own;

And without this, whatever he diſcuſs,

Whether the ſpace between the ſtars and us,

[198] Whether he meaſure earth, compute the ſea,

Weigh ſunbeams, carve a fly, or ſpit a flea,

The ſolemn trifler with his boaſted ſkill

Toils much, and is a ſolemn trifler ſtill,

Blind was he born, and his miſguided eyes

Grown dim in trifling ſtudies, blind he dies.

Self-knowledge truly learn'd, of courſe implies

The rich poſſeſſion of a nobler prize,

For ſelf to ſelf, and God to man reveal'd,

(Two themes to nature's eye for ever ſeal'd)

Are taught by rays that fly with equal pace

From the ſame center of enlight'ning-grace.

Here ſtay thy foot, how copious and how clear

Th' o'erflowing well of Charity ſprings here!

Hark! 'tis the muſic of a thouſand rills,

Some through the groves, ſome down the ſloping hills,

Winding a ſecret or an open courſe,

And all ſupplied from an eternal ſource.

The ties of nature do but feebly bind,

And commerce partially reclaims mankind,

[199] Philoſophy without his heav'nly guide,

May blow up ſelf-conceit and nouriſh pride,

But while his province is the reas'ning part,

Has ſtill a veil of midnight on his heart:

'Tis truth divine exhibited on earth,

Gives Charity her being and her birth.

Suppoſe (when thought is warm and fancy flows,

What will not argument ſometimes ſuppoſe)

An iſle poſſeſs'd by creatures of our kind,

Endued with reaſon, yet by nature blind.

Let ſuppoſition lend her aid once more,

And land ſome grave optician on the ſhore,

He claps his lens, if haply they may ſee,

Cloſe to the part where viſion ought to be,

But finds that though his tubes aſſiſt the ſight,

They cannot give it, or make darkneſs light.

He reads wiſe lectures, and deſcribes aloud

A ſenſe they know not, to the wond'ring crowd,

He talks of light and the priſmatic hues,

As men of depth in erudition uſe,

[200] But all he gains for his harangue is—Well—

What monſtrous lies ſome travellers will tell.

The ſoul whoſe ſight all-quick'ning grace renews,

Takes the reſemblance of the good ſhe views,

As di'monds ſtript of their opaque diſguiſe,

Reflect the noon-day glory of the ſkies.

She ſpeaks of him, her author, guardian, friend,

Whoſe love knew no beginning, knows no end,

In language warm as all that love inſpires,

And in the glow of her intenſe deſires

Pants to communicate her noble fires.

She ſees a world ſtark blind to what employs

Her eager thought, and feeds her flowing joys,

Though wiſdom hail them, heedleſs of her call,

Flies to ſave ſome, and feels a pang for all:

Herſelf as weak as her ſupport is ſtrong,

She feels that frailty ſhe denied ſo long,

And from a knowledge of her own diſeaſe,

Learns to compaſſionate the ſick ſhe ſees.

Here ſee, acquitted of all vain pretence,

The reign of genuine Charity commence;

[201] Though ſcorn repay her ſympathetic tears,

She ſtill is kind, and ſtill ſhe perſeveres;

The truth ſhe loves, a ſightleſs world blaſpheme,

'Tis childiſh dotage, a delirious dream,

The danger they diſcern not, they deny,

Laugh at their only remedy, and die:

But ſtill a ſoul thus touch'd, can never ceaſe

Whoever threatens war to ſpeak of peace,

Pure in her aim and in her temper mild,

Her wiſdom ſeems the weakneſs of a child,

She makes excuſes where ſhe might condemn,

Reviled by thoſe that hate her, prays for them;

Suſpicion lurks not in her artleſs breaſt,

The worſt ſuggeſted, ſhe believes the beſt;

Not ſoon provoked, however ſtung and teaz'd,

And if perhaps made angry, ſoon appeas'd,

She rather waves than will diſpute her right,

And injur'd, makes forgiveneſs her delight.

Such was the pourtrait an apoſtle drew,

The bright original was one he knew,

Heav'n held his hand, the likeneſs muſt be true.

[202] When one that holds communion with the ſkies,

Has filled his urn where theſe pure waters riſe,

And once more mingles with us meaner things,

'Tis ev'n as if an angel ſhook his wings;

Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,

That tells us whence his treaſures are ſupplied.

So when a ſhip well freighted with the ſtores

The ſun matures on India's ſpicy ſhores,

Has dropt her anchor and her canvas furl'd,

In ſome ſafe haven of our weſtern world,

'Twere vain enquiry to what port ſhe went,

The gale informs us, laden with the ſcent.

Some ſeek, when queazy conſcience has its qualms,

To lull the painful malady with alms;

But charity not feign'd, intends alone

Another's good—theirs centers in their own;

And too ſhort-lived to reach the realms of peace,

Muſt ceaſe for ever when the poor ſhall ceaſe.

Flavia, moſt tender of her own good name,

Is rather careleſs of a ſiſter's fame,

[203] Her ſuperfluity the poor ſupplies,

But if ſhe touch a character, it dies.

The ſeeming virtue weigh'd againſt the vice,

She deems all ſafe, for ſhe has paid the price,

No charity but alms aught values ſhe,

Except in porcelain on her mantle-tree.

How many deeds with which the world has rung,

From pride in league with ignorance have ſprung?

But God o'erules all human follies ſtill,

And bends the tough materials to his will.

A conflagration or a wintry flood,

Has left ſome hundreds without home or food,

Extravagance and av'rice ſhall ſubſcribe,

While fame and ſelf-complacence are the bribe.

The brief proclaim'd, it viſits ev'ry pew,

But firſt the 'Squire's, a compliment but due:

With ſlow deliberation he unties

His glitt'ring purſe, that envy of all eyes,

And while the clerk juſt puzzles out the pſalm,

Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm,

[204] 'Till finding what he might have found before,

A ſmaller piece amidſt the precious ſtore,

Pinch'd cloſe between his finger and his thumb,

He half exhibits, and then drops the ſum;

Gold to be ſure!—throughout the town 'tis told

How the good 'Squire gives never leſs than gold.

From motives ſuch as his, though not the beſt,

Springs in due time ſupply for the diſtreſs'd,

Not leſs effectual than what love beſtows,

Except that office clips it as it goes.

But leſt I ſeem to ſin againſt a friend,

And wound the grace I mean to recommend,

(Though vice derided with a juſt deſign

Implies no treſpaſs againſt love divine)

Once more I would adopt the graver ſtile,

A teacher ſhould be ſparing of his ſmile.

Unleſs a love of virtue light the flame,

Satyr is more than thoſe he brands, to blame,

He hides behind a magiſterial air

His own offences, and ſtrips others bare,

[205] Affects indeed a moſt humane concern

That men if gently tutor'd will not learn,

That muleiſh folly not to be reclaim'd

By ſofter methods, muſt be made aſham'd,

But (I might inſtance in St. Patrick's dean)

Too often rails to gratify his ſpleen.

Moſt ſat'riſts are indeed a public ſcourge,

Their mildeſt phyſic is a farrier's purge,

Their acrid temper turns as ſoon as ſtirr'd

The milk of their good purpoſe all to curd,

Their zeal begotten as their works rehearſe,

By lean deſpair upon an empty purſe;

The wild aſſaſſins ſtart into the ſtreet,

Prepar'd to poignard whomſoe'er they meet;

No ſkill in ſwordſmanſhip however juſt,

Can be ſecure againſt a madman's thruſt,

And even virtue ſo unfairly match'd,

Although immortal, may be prick'd or ſcratch'd.

When ſcandal has new minted an old lie,

Or tax'd invention for a freſh ſupply,

[206] 'Tis called a ſatyr, and the world appears

Gath'ring around it with erected ears;

A thouſand names are toſs'd into the crowd,

Some whiſper'd ſoftly, and ſome twang'd aloud,

Juſt as the ſapience of an author's brain

Suggeſts it ſafe or dang'rous to be plain.

Strange! how the frequent interjected daſh,

Quickens a market and helps off the traſh,

Th' important letters that include the reſt,

Serve as a key to thoſe that are ſuppreſs'd,

Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw,

The world is charm'd, and Scrib. eſcapes the law.

So when the cold damp ſhades of night prevail,

Worms may be caught by either head or tail,

Forcibly drawn from many a cloſe receſs,

They meet with little pity, no redreſs;

Plung'd in the ſtream they lodge upon the mud,

Food for the famiſh'd rovers of the flood.

All zeal for a reform that gives offence

To peace and charity, is mere pretence:

[207] A bold remark, but which if well applied,

Would humble many a tow'ring poet's pride:

Perhaps the man was in a ſportive fit,

And had no other play-place for his wit;

Perhaps enchanted with the love of fame,

He ſought the jewel in his neighbour's ſhame;

Perhaps—whatever end he might purſue,

The cauſe of virtue could not be his view.

At ev'ry ſtroke wit flaſhes in our eyes,

The turns are quick, the poliſh'd points ſurpriſe,

But ſhine with cruel and tremendous charms,

That while they pleaſe poſſeſs us with alarms:

So have I ſeen, (and haſten'd to the ſight

On all the wings of holiday delight)

Where ſtands that monument of antient pow'r,

Named with emphatic dignity, the tow'r,

Guns, halberts, ſwords and piſtols, great and ſmall,

In ſtarry forms diſpoſed upon the wall;

We wonder, as we gazing ſtand below,

That braſs and ſteel ſhould make ſo fine a ſhow;

[208] But though we praiſe th' exact deſigner's ſkill,

Account them implements of miſchief ſtill.

No works ſhall find acceptance in that day

When all diſguiſes ſhall be rent away,

That ſquare not truly with the Scripture plan,

Nor ſpring from love to God, or love to man.

As he ordains things ſordid in their birth

To be reſolved into their parent earth,

And though the ſoul ſhall ſeek ſuperior orbs,

Whate'er this world produces, it abſorbs,

So ſelf ſtarts nothing but what tends apace

Home to the goal where it began the race.

Such as our motive is our aim muſt be,

If this be ſervile, that can ne'er be free;

If ſelf employ us, whatſoe'er is wrought,

We glorify that ſelf, not him we ought:

Such virtues had need prove their own reward,

The judge of all men owes them no regard.

True Charity, a plant divinely nurs'd,

Fed by the love from which it roſe at firſt,

[209] Thrives againſt hope and in the rudeſt ſcene,

Storms but enliven its unfading green;

Exub'rant is the ſhadow it ſupplies,

Its fruit on earth, its growth above the ſkies.

To look at him who form'd us and redeem'd,

So glorious now, though once ſo diſeſteem'd,

To ſee a God ſtretch forth his human hand,

T' uphold the boundleſs ſcenes of his command,

To recollect that in a form like ours,

He bruis'd beneath his feet th' infernal pow'rs,

Captivity led captive roſe to claim

The wreath he won ſo dearly, in our name,

That thron'd above all height, he condeſcends

To call the few that truſt in him his friends,

That in the heav'n of heav'ns, that ſpace he deems

Too ſcanty for th' exertion of his beams,

And ſhines as if impatient to beſtow

Life and a kingdom upon worms below;

That ſight imparts a never-dying flame,

Though feeble in degree, in kind the ſame;

[210] Like him, the ſoul thus kindled from above,

Spreads wide her arms of univerſal love,

And ſtill enlarg'd as ſhe receives the grace,

Includes creation in her cloſe embrace.

Behold a Chriſtian—and without the fires

The founder of that name alone inſpires,

Though all accompliſhments, all knowledge meet,

To make the ſhining prodigy complete,

Whoever boaſts that name—behold a cheat.

Were love in theſe the world's laſt doting years

As frequent, as the want of it appears,

The churches warm'd, they would no longer hold

Such frozen figures, ſtiff as they are cold;

Relenting forms would loſe their pow'r or ceaſe,

And ev'n the dipt and ſprinkled, live in peace;

Each heart would quit its priſon in the breaſt,

And flow in free communion with the reſt.

The ſtateſman ſkill'd in projects dark and deep,

Might burn his uſeleſs Machiavel, and ſleep;

His budget often filled yet always poor,

Might ſwing at eaſe behind his ſtudy door,

[211] No longer prey upon our annual rents,

Nor ſcare the nation with its big contents:

Diſbanded legions freely might depart,

And ſlaying man would ceaſe to be an art.

No learned diſputants would take the field,

Sure not to conquer, and ſure not to yield,

Both ſides deceiv'd if rightly underſtood,

Pelting each other for the public good.

Did Charity prevail, the preſs would prove

A vehicle of virtue, truth and love,

And I might ſpare myſelf the pains to ſhow

What few can learn, and all ſuppoſe they know.

Thus have I ſought to grace a ſerious lay

With many a wild indeed, but flow'ry ſpray,

In hopes to gain what elſe I muſt have loſt,

Th' attention pleaſure has ſo much engroſs'd.

But if unhappily deceiv'd I dream,

And prove too weak for ſo divine a theme,

Let Charity forgive me a miſtake

That zeal not vanity has chanc'd to make,

And ſpare the poet for his ſubject ſake.

CONVERSATION.

[]

Nam ne (que) me tantum venientis ſibilus auſtri,

Nec percuſſa juvant fluctû tam litora, nec quae

Saxoſas inter decurrunt flumina valles.

VIRG. ECL. 5.

THOUGH nature weigh our talents, and diſpenſ [...] ▪

To ev'ry man his modicum of ſenſe,

And Converſation in its better part,

May be eſteemed a gift and not an art,

Yet much depends, as in the tiller's toil,

On culture, and the ſowing of the ſoil.

Words learn'd by rote, a parrot may rehearſe,

But talking is not always to converſe,

[213] Not more diſtinct from harmony divine

The conſtant creaking of a country ſign.

As alphabets in ivory employ

Hour after hour the yet unletter'd boy,

Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee

Thoſe ſeeds of ſcience called his ABC,

So language in the mouths of the adult,

Witneſs its inſignificant reſult,

Too often proves an implement of play,

A toy to ſport with, and paſs time away.

Collect at evening what the day brought forth,

Compreſs the ſum into its ſolid worth,

And if it weigh th' importance of a fly,

The ſcales are falſe or Algebra a lie.

Sacred interpreter of human thought,

How few reſpect or uſe thee as they ought!

But all ſhall give account of ev'ry wrong

Who dare diſhonour or defile the tongue,

Who proſtitute it in the cauſe of vice,

Or ſell their glory at a market-price,

[214] Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon,

The dear-bought placeman, and the cheap buffoon.

There is a prurience in the ſpeech of ſome,

Wrath ſtays him, or elſe God would ſtrike them dumb;

His wiſe forbearance has their end in view,

They fill their meaſure and receive their due.

The heathen law-givers of antient days,

Names almoſt worthy of a Chriſtian praiſe,

Would drive them forth from the reſort of men,

And ſhut up ev'ry ſatyr in his den.

Oh come not ye near innocence and truth,

Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth!

Infectious as impure, your blighting pow'r

Taints in its rudiments the promiſed flow'r,

Its odour periſh'd and its charming hue,

Thenceforth 'tis hateful for it ſmells of you.

Not ev'n the vigorous and headlong rage

Of adoleſcence or a firmer age,

Affords a plea allowable or juſt,

For making ſpeech the pamperer of luſt;

[215] But when the breath of age commits the fault,

'Tis nauſeous as the vapor of a vault.

So wither'd ſtumps diſgrace the ſylvan ſcene,

No longer fruitful and no longer green,

The ſapleſs wood diveſted of the bark,

Grows fungous and takes fire at ev'ry ſpark.

Oaths terminate, as Paul obſerves, all ſtrife—

Some men have ſurely then a peaceful life,

Whatever ſubject occupy diſcourſe,

The feats of Veſtris or the naval force,

Aſſeveration bluſt'ring in your face

Makes contradiction ſuch an hopeleſs caſe;

In ev'ry tale they tell, or falſe or true,

Well known, or ſuch as no man ever knew,

They fix attention, heedleſs of your pain,

With oaths like rivets forced into the brain,

And ev'n when ſober truth prevails throughout,

They ſwear it, 'till affirmance breeds a doubt.

A Perſian, humble ſervant of the ſun,

Who though devout yet bigotry had none,

[216] Hearing a lawyer, grave in his addreſs,

With adjurations ev'ry word impreſs,

Suppoſed the man a biſhop, or at leaſt,

God's name ſo much upon his lips, a prieſt,

Bowed at the cloſe with all his graceful airs,

And begg'd an int'reſt in his frequent pray'rs.

Go quit the rank to which ye ſtood preferred,

Henceforth aſſociate in one common herd,

Religion, virtue, reaſon, common ſenſe

Pronounce your human form a falſe pretence,

A mere diſguiſe in which a devil lurks,

Who yet betrays his ſecret by his works.

Ye pow'rs who rule the tongue, if ſuch there are,

And make colloquial happineſs your care,

Preſerve me from the thing I dread and hate,

A duel in the form of a debate:

The claſh of arguments and jar of words

Worſe than the mortal brunt of rival ſwords,

Decide no queſtion with their tedious length,

For oppoſition gives opinion ſtrength,

[217] Divert the champions prodigal of breath,

And put the peaceably-diſpoſed to death.

Oh thwart me not, Sir Soph. at ev'ry turn,

Nor carp at ev'ry flaw you may diſcern,

Though ſyllogiſms hang not on my tongue,

I am not ſurely always in the wrong;

'Tis hard if all is falſe that I advance,

A fool muſt now and then be right, by chance.

Not that all freedom of diſſent I blame,

No—there I grant the privilege I claim.

A diſputable point is no man's ground,

Rove where you pleaſe, 'tis common all around,

Diſcourſe may want an animated—No—

To bruſh the ſurface and to make it flow,

But ſtill remember if you mean to pleaſe,

To preſs your point with modeſty and eaſe.

The mark at which my juſter aim I take,

Is contradiction for its own dear ſake;

Set your opinion at whatever pitch,

Knots and impediments make ſomething hitch,

[218] Adopt his own, 'tis equally in vain,

Your thread of argument is ſnapt again;

The wrangler, rather than accord with you,

Will judge himſelf deceiv'd, and prove it too.

Vociferated logic kills me quite,

A noiſy man is always in the right,

I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair,

Fix on the wainſcot a diſtreſsful ſtare,

And when I hope his blunders are all out,

Reply diſcreetly—to be ſure—no doubt.

DUBIUS is ſuch a ſcrupulous good man—

Yes—you may catch him tripping if you can.

He would not with a peremptory tone

Aſſert the noſe upon his face his own;

With heſitation admirably ſlow,

He humbly hopes, preſumes it may be ſo.

His evidence, if he were called by law,

To ſwear to ſome enormity he ſaw,

For want of prominence and juſt relief,

Would hang an honeſt man and ſave a thief.

[219] Through conſtant dread of giving truth offence,

He ties up all his hearers in ſuſpenſe,

Knows what he knows as if he knew it not,

What he remembers ſeems to have forgot,

His ſole opinion, whatſoe'er befall,

Cent'ring at laſt in having none at all.

Yet though he teaze and baulk your liſt'ning ear,

He makes one uſeful point exceeding clear;

Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme,

A ſceptic in philoſophy may ſeem,

Reduced to practice, his beloved rule,

Would only prove him a conſummate fool,

Uſeleſs in him alike both brain and ſpeech,

Fate having placed all truth above his reach;

His ambiguities his total ſum,

He might as well be blind and deaf and dumb.

Where men of judgment creep and feel their way,

The Poſitive pronounce without diſmay,

Their want of light and intellect ſupplied

By ſparks abſurdity ſtrikes out of pride:

[220] Without the means of knowing right from wrong,

They always are deciſive, clear and ſtrong;

Where others toil with philoſophic force,

Their nimble nonſenſe takes a ſhorter courſe,

Flings at your head conviction in the lump,

And gains remote concluſions at a jump:

Their own defect inviſible to them,

Seen in another they at once condemn,

And though ſelf-idolized in ev'ry caſe,

Hate their own likeneſs in a brother's face.

The cauſe is plain and not to be denied,

The proud are always moſt provok'd by pride,

Few competitions but engender ſpite,

And thoſe the moſt, where neither has a right.

The point of honour has been deemed of uſe,

To teach good manners and to curb abuſe;

Admit it true, the conſequence is clear,

Our poliſhed manners are a maſk we wear,

And at the bottom, barb'rous ſtill and rude,

We are reſtrained indeed, but not ſubdued;

[221] The very remedy, however ſure,

Springs from the miſchief it intends to cure,

And ſavage in its principle appears,

Tried, as it ſhould be, by the fruit it bears.

'Tis hard indeed if nothing will defend

Mankind from quarrels but their fatal end,

That now and then an hero muſt deceaſe,

That the ſurviving world may live in peace.

Perhaps at laſt, cloſe ſcrutiny may ſhow

The practice daſtardly and mean and low,

That men engage in it compelled by force,

And fear not courage is its proper ſource,

The fear of tyrant cuſtom, and the fear

Leſt fops ſhould cenſure us, and fools ſhould ſneer;

At leaſt to trample on our Maker's laws,

And hazard life, for any or no cauſe,

To ruſh into a fixt eternal ſtate,

Out of the very flames of rage and hate,

Or ſend another ſhiv'ring to the bar

With all the guilt of ſuch unnat'ral war,

[222] Whatever uſe may urge or honour plead,

On reaſon's verdict is a madman's deed.

Am I to ſet my life upon a throw

Becauſe a bear is rude and ſurly? No—

A moral, ſenſible and well-bred man

Will not affront me, and no other can.

Were I empow'rd to regulate the liſts,

They ſhould encounter with well-loaded fiſts,

A Trojan combat would be ſomething new,

Let DARES beat ENTELLUS black and blue,

Then each might ſhow to his admiring friends

In honourable bumps his rich amends,

And carry in contuſions of his ſcull,

A ſatisfactory receipt in full.

A ſtory in which native humour reigns

Is often uſeful, always entertains,

A graver fact enliſted on your ſide,

May furniſh illuſtration, well applied;

But ſedentary weavers of long tales,

Give me the fidgets and my patience fails.

[223] 'Tis the moſt aſinine employ on earth,

To hear them tell of parentage and birth,

And echo converſations dull and dry,

Embelliſhed with, he ſaid, and ſo ſaid I.

At ev'ry interview their route the ſame,

The repetition makes attention lame,

We buſtle up with unſucceſsful ſpeed,

And in the ſaddeſt part cry—droll indeed!

The path of narrative with care purſue,

Still making probability your clue,

On all the veſtiges of truth attend,

And let them guide you to a decent end.

Of all ambitions man may entertain,

The worſt that can invade a ſickly brain,

Is that which angles hourly for ſurprize,

And baits its hook with prodigies and lies.

Credulous infancy or age as weak

Are fitteſt auditors for ſuch to ſeek,

Who to pleaſe others will themſelves diſgrace,

Yet pleaſe not, but affront you to your face.

[224] A great retailer of this curious ware,

Having unloaded and made many ſtare,

Can this be true? an arch obſerver cries—

Yes, rather moved, I ſaw it with theſe eyes.

Sir! I believe it on that ground alone,

I could not, had I ſeen it with my own.

A tale ſhould be judicious, clear, ſuccinct,

The language plain, and incidents well-link'd,

Tell not as new what ev'ry body knows,

And new or old, ſtill haſten to a cloſe,

There centring in a focus, round and neat,

Let all your rays of information meet:

What neither yields us profit or delight,

Is like a nurſe's lullaby at night,

Guy Earl of Warwick and fair Eleanore,

Or giant-killing Jack would pleaſe me more.

The pipe with ſolemn interpoſing puff,

Makes half a ſentence at a time enough;

The dozing ſages drop the drowſy ſtrain,

Then pauſe, and puff—and ſpeak, and pauſe again.

[225] Such often like the tube they ſo admire,

Important trifles! have more ſmoke than fire.

Pernicious weed! whoſe ſcent the fair annoys

Unfriendly to ſociety's chief joys,

Thy worſt effect is baniſhing for hours

The ſex whoſe preſence civilizes ours:

Thou art indeed the drug a gard'ner wants,

To poiſon vermin that infeſt his plants,

But are we ſo to wit and beauty blind,

As to deſpiſe the glory of our kind,

And ſhow the ſofteſt minds and faireſt forms

As little mercy, as he, grubs and worms?

They dare not wait the riotous abuſe,

Thy thirſt-creating ſteams at length produce,

When wine has giv'n indecent language birth,

And forced the flood-gates of licentious mirth;

For ſea-born Venus her attachment ſhows

Still to that element from which ſhe roſe,

And with a quiet which no fumes diſturb,

Sips meek infuſions of a milder herb.

[226] Th' emphatic ſpeaker dearly loves t' oppoſe

In contact inconvenient, noſe to noſe,

As if the gnomon on his neighbour's phiz,

Touched with a magnet had attracted his.

His whiſper'd theme, dilated and at large,

Proves after all a wind-gun's airy charge,

An extract of his diary—no more,

A taſteleſs journal of the day before.

He walked abroad, o'ertaken in the rain

Called on a friend, drank tea, ſtept home again,

Reſumed his purpoſe, had a world of talk

With one he ſtumbled on, and loſt his walk.

I interrupt him with a ſudden bow,

Adieu dear Sir! leſt you ſhould loſe it now.

I cannot talk with civet in the room,

A fine puſs-gentleman that's all perfume;

The ſight's enough—no need to ſmell a beau—

Who thruſts his noſe into a raree-ſhow?

His odoriferous attempts to pleaſe,

Perhaps might proſper with a ſwarm of bees,

[227] But we that make no honey though we ſting,

Poets, are ſometimes apt to mawl the thing.

'Tis wrong to bring into a mixt reſort,

What makes ſome ſick, and others a-la-mort,

An argument of cogence, we may ſay,

Why ſuch an one ſhould keep himſelf away.

A graver coxcomb we may ſometimes ſee,

Quite as abſurd though not ſo light as he:

A ſhallow brain behind a ſerious maſk,

An oracle within an empty caſk,

The ſolemn fop; ſignificant and budge;

A fool with judges, amongſt fools a judge.

He ſays but little, and that little ſaid

Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead.

His wit invites you by his looks to come,

But when you knock it never is at home:

'Tis like a parcel ſent you by the ſtage,

Some handſome preſent, as your hopes preſage,

'Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove

An abſent friend's fidelity and love,

[228] But when unpack'd your diſappointment groans

To find it ſtuff'd with brickbats, earth and ſtones.

Some men employ their health, an ugly trick,

In making known how oft they have been ſick,

And give us in recitals of diſeaſe

A doctor's trouble, but without the fees:

Relate how many weeks they kept their bed,

How an emetic or cathartic ſped,

Nothing is ſlightly touched, much leſs forgot,

Noſe, ears, and eyes ſeem preſent on the ſpot.

Now the diſtemper ſpite of draught or pill

Victorious ſeem'd, and now the doctor's ſkill;

And now—alas for unforeſeen miſhaps!

They put on a damp night-cap and relapſe;

They thought they muſt have died they were ſo bad,

Their peeviſh hearers almoſt wiſh they had.

Some fretful tempers wince at ev'ry touch,

You always do too little or too much:

You ſpeak with life in hopes to entertain,

Your elevated voice goes through the brain;

[229] You fall at once into a lower key,

That's worſe—the drone-pipe of an humble bee.

The ſouthern ſaſh admits too ſtrong a light,

You riſe and drop the curtain—now its night.

He ſhakes with cold—you ſtir the fire and ſtrive

To make a blaze—that's roaſting him alive.

Serve him with ven'ſon and he chuſes fiſh,

With ſoal—that's juſt the ſort he would not wiſh,

He takes what he at firſt profeſs'd to loath,

And in due time feeds heartily on both;

Yet ſtill o'erclouded with a conſtant frown,

He does not ſwallow but he gulps it down.

Your hope to pleaſe him, vain on ev'ry plan,

Himſelf ſhould work that wonder if he can—

Alas! his efforts double his diſtteſs,

He likes yours little and his own ſtill leſs,

Thus always teazing others, always teazed,

His only pleaſure is—to be diſpleas'd.

I pity baſhful men, who feel the pain

Of fancied ſcorn and undeſerv'd diſdain,

[230] And bear the marks upon a bluſhing face

Of needleſs ſhame and ſelf-impoſed diſgrace.

Our ſenſibilities are ſo acute,

The fear of being ſilent makes us mute.

We ſometimes think we could a ſpeech produce

Much to the purpoſe, if our tongues were looſe,

But being tied, it dies upon the lip,

Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip:

Our waſted oil unprofitably burns

Like hidden lamps in old ſepulchral urns.

Few Frenchmen of this evil have complained,

It ſeems as if we Britons were ordained

By way of wholeſome curb upon our pride,

To fear each other, fearing none beſide.

The cauſe perhaps enquiry may deſcry,

Self-ſearching with an introverted eye,

Concealed within an unſuſpected part,

The vaineſt corner of our own vain heart:

For ever aiming at the world's eſteem,

Our ſelf-importance ruins its own ſcheme,

[231] In other eyes our talents rarely ſhown,

Become at length ſo ſplendid in our own,

We dare not riſque them into public view,

Leſt they miſcarry of what ſeems their due.

True modeſty is a diſcerning grace,

And only bluſhes in the proper place,

But counterfeit is blind, and ſkulks through fear,

Where 'tis a ſhame to be aſhamed t' appear;

Humility the parent of the firſt,

The laſt by vanity produced and nurſt.

The circle formed we ſit in ſilent ſtate,

Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate,

Yes ma'am, and no ma'am, utter'd ſoftly, ſhow

Ev'ry five minutes how the minutes go;

Each individual ſuffering a conſtraint

Poetry may, but colours cannot paint,

As if in cloſe committee on the ſky,

Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry;

And finds a changing clime, an happy ſource

Of wiſe reflection and well-timed diſcourſe.

[232] We next enquire, but ſoftly and by ſtealth,

Like conſervators of the public health,

Of epidemic throats if ſuch there are,

And coughs and rheums and phtiſic and catarrh.

That theme exhauſted, a wide chaſm enſues,

Filled up at laſt with intereſting news,

Who danced with whom, and who are like to wed,

And who is hanged, and who is brought to bed,

But fear to call a more important cauſe,

As if 'twere treaſon againſt Engliſh laws.

The viſit paid, with extaſy we come

As from a ſeven years tranſportation, home,

And there reſume an unembarraſs'd brow,

Recov'ring what we loſt we know not how,

The faculties that ſeem'd reduc'd to nought,

Expreſſion and the privilege of thought.

The reeking roaring hero of the chaſe,

I give him over as a deſp'rate caſe.

Phyſicians write in hopes to work a cure,

Never, if honeſt ones, when death is ſure;

[233] And though the fox he follows may be tamed,

A mere fox-follower never is reclaimed.

Some farrier ſhould preſcribe his proper courſe,

Whoſe only fit companion is his horſe,

Or if deſerving of a better doom

The noble beaſt judge otherwiſe, his groom.

Yet ev'n the rogue that ſerves him, though he ſtand

To take his honour's orders cap in hand,

Prefers his fellow-grooms with much good ſenſe,

Their ſkill a truth, his maſter's a pretence.

If neither horſe nor groom affect the ſquire,

Where can at laſt his jockeyſhip retire?

Oh to the club, the ſcene of ſavage joys,

The ſchool of coarſe good fellowſhip and noiſe;

There in the ſweet ſociety of thoſe

Whoſe friendſhip from his boyiſh years he choſe,

Let him improve his talent if he can,

'Till none but beaſts acknowledge him a man.

Man's heart had been impenetrably ſealed,

Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field,

[234] Had not his Maker's all-beſtowing hand

Giv'n him a ſoul and bade him underſtand.

The reas'oning pow'r vouchſafed of courſe inferred

The pow'r to cloath that reaſon with his word,

For all is perfect that God works on earth,

And he that gives conception, adds the birth.

If this be plain, 'tis plainly underſtood

What uſes of his boon the Giver would.

The mind diſpatched upon her buſy toil

Should range where Providence has bleſt the ſoil,

Viſiting ev'ry flow'r with labour meet,

And gathering all her treaſures ſweet by ſweet,

She ſhould imbue the tongue with what ſhe ſips,

And ſhed the balmy bleſſing on the lips,

That good diffuſed may more abundant grow,

And ſpeech may praiſe the pow'r that bids it flow.

Will the ſweet warbler of the live-long night

That fills the liſt'ning lover with delight,

Forget his harmony with rapture heard,

To learn the twitt'ring of a meaner bird,

[235] Or make the parrot's mimickry his choice,

That odious libel on an human voice?

No—nature unſophiſticate by man,

Starts not aſide from her Creator's plan,

The melody that was at firſt deſign'd

To cheer the rude forefathers of mankind,

Is note for note deliver'd in our ears,

In the laſt ſcene of her ſix thouſand years:

Yet Faſhion, leader of a chatt'ring train,

Whom man for his own hurt permits to reign,

Who ſhifts and changes all things but his ſhape,

And would degrade her vot'ry to an ape,

The fruitful parent of abuſe and wrong,

Holds an uſurp'd dominion o'er his tongue:

There ſits and prompts him with his own diſgrace,

Preſcribes the theme, the tone and the grimace,

And when accompliſhed in her wayward ſchool,

Calls gentleman whom ſhe has made a fool.

'Tis an unalterable fixt decree

That none could frame or ratify but ſhe,

[236] That heav'n and hell and righteouſneſs and ſin,

Snares in his path and foes that lurk within,

God and his attributes (a field of day

Where 'tis an angel's happineſs to ſtray)

Fruits of his love and wonders of his might,

Be never named in ears eſteemed polite.

That he who dares, when ſhe forbids, be grave,

Shall ſtand proſcribed, a madman or a knave,

A cloſe deſigner not to be believed,

Or if excus'd that charge, at leaſt deceived.

Oh folly worthy of the nurſe's lap,

Give it the breaſt or ſtop its mouth with pap!

Is it incredible, or can it ſeem

A dream to any except thoſe that dream,

That man ſhould love his Maker, and that fire

Warming his heart ſhould at his lips tranſpire?

Know then, and modeſtly let fall your eyes,

And vail your daring creſt that braves the ſkies,

That air of inſolence affronts your God,

You need his pardon, and provoke his rod,

[237] Now, in a poſture that becomes you more

Than that heroic ſtrut aſſumed before,

Know, your arrears with ev'ry hour accrue,

For mercy ſhown while wrath is juſtly due.

The time is ſhort, and there are ſouls on earth,

Though future pain may ſerve for preſent mirth,

Acquainted with the woes that fear or ſhame

By faſhion taught, forbade them once to name,

And having felt the pangs you deem a jeſt,

Have prov'd them truths too big to be expreſs'd:

Go ſeek on revelation's hallow'd ground,

Sure to ſucceed, the remedy they found,

Touch'd by that pow'r that you have dared to mock,

That makes ſeas ſtable and diſſolves the rock,

Your heart ſhall yield a life-renewing ſtream,

That fools, as you have done, ſhall call a dream.

It happened on a ſolemn even-tide,

Soon after He that was our ſurety died,

Two boſom-friends each penſively inclined,

The ſcene of all thoſe ſorrows left behind,

[238] Sought their own village, buſied as they went

In muſings worthy of the great event:

They ſpake of him they loved, of him whoſe life

Though blameleſs, had incurred perpetual ſtrife,

Whoſe deeds had left, in ſpite of hoſtile arts,

A deep memorial graven on their hearts;

The recollection like a vein of ore,

The farther traced enrich'd them ſtill the more,

They thought him, and they juſtly thought him one

Sent to do more than he appear'd to have done,

T' exalt a people, and to place them high

Above all elſe, and wonder'd he ſhould die.

E're yet they brought their journey to an end,

A ſtranger joined them, courteous as a friend,

And aſked them with a kind engaging air,

What their affliction was, and begged a ſhare.

Informed, he gather'd up the broken thread,

And truth and wiſdom gracing all he ſaid,

Explained, illuſtrated and ſearched ſo well

The tender theme on which they choſe to dwell,

[239] That reaching home, the night, they ſaid, is near,

We muſt not now be parted, ſojourn here—

The new acquaintance ſoon became a gueſt,

And made ſo welcome at their ſimple feaſt,

He bleſſed the bread, but vaniſh'd at the word,

And left them both exclaiming, 'twas the Lord!

Did not our hearts feel all he deigned to ſay,

Did they not burn within us by the way?

Now theirs was converſe ſuch as it behoves

Man to maintain, and ſuch as God approves;

Their views indeed were indiſtinct and dim,

But yet ſucceſsful being aimed at him.

Chriſt and his character their only ſcope,

Their object and their ſubject and their hope,

They felt what it became them much to feel,

And wanting him to looſe the ſacred ſeal,

Found him as prompt as their deſire was true,

To ſpread the new-born glories in their view.

Well—what are ages and the lapſe of time

Matched againſt truths as laſting as ſublime?

[240] Can length of years on God himſelf exact,

Or make that fiction which was once a fact?

No—marble and recording braſs decay,

And like the graver's mem'ry paſs away;

The works of man inherit, as is juſt,

Their authors frailty and return to duſt;

But truth divine for ever ſtands ſecure,

Its head as guarded as its baſe is ſure,

Fixt in the rolling flood of endleſs years

The pillar of th' eternal plan appears,

The raving ſtorm and daſhing wave defies,

Built by that architect who built the ſkies.

Hearts may be found that harbour at this hour,

That love of Chriſt in all its quick'ning pow'r,

And lips unſtained by folly or by ſtrife,

Whoſe wiſdom drawn from the deep well of life,

Taſtes of its healthful origin, and flows

A Jordan for th' ablution of our woes.

Oh days of heav'n and nights of equal praiſe,

Serene and peaceful as thoſe heav'nly days,

[241] When ſouls drawn upward in communion ſweet,

Enjoy the ſtillneſs of ſome cloſe retreat,

Diſcourſe as if releaſed and ſafe at home,

Of dangers paſt and wonders yet to come,

And ſpread the ſacred treaſures of the breaſt

Upon the lap of covenanted reſt.

What always dreaming over heav'nly things,

Like angel-heads in ſtone with pigeon-wings?

Canting and whining out all day the word

And half the night? fanatic and abſurd!

Mine be the friend leſs frequent in his pray'rs,

Who makes no buſtle with his ſoul's affairs,

Whoſe wit can brighten up a wintry day,

And chaſe the ſplenetic dull hours away,

Content on earth in earthly things to ſhine,

Who waits for heav'n e'er he becomes divine,

Leaves ſaints t' enjoy thoſe altitudes they teach,

And plucks the fruit plac'd more within his reach.

Well ſpoken, Advocate of ſin and ſhame,

Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name.

[242] Is ſparkling wit the world's excluſive right,

The fixt fee-ſimple of the vain and light?

Can hopes of heav'n, bright proſpects of an hour

That come to waft us out of ſorrow's pow'r,

Obſcure or quench a faculty that finds

Its happieſt ſoil in the ſereneſt minds?

Religion curbs indeed its wanton play,

And brings the trifler under rig'rous ſway,

But gives it uſefulneſs unknown before,

And purifying makes it ſhine the more.

A Chriſtian's wit is inoffenſive light,

A beam that aids but never grieves the ſight,

Vig'rous in age as in the fluſh of youth,

'Tis always active on the ſide of truth,

Temp'rance and peace inſure its healthful ſtate,

And make it brighteſt at its lateſt date.

Oh I have ſeen (nor hope perhaps in vain

E'er life go down to ſee ſuch ſights again)

A vet'ran warrior in the Chriſtian field,

Who never ſaw the ſword he could not wield;

[243] Grave without dullneſs, learned without pride,

Exact yet not preciſe, though meek, keen-eyed,

A man that would have foiled at their own play,

A dozen would-be's of the modern day:

Who when occaſion juſtified its uſe,

Had wit as bright as ready, to produce,

Could fetch from records of an earlier age,

Or from philoſophy's enlighten'd page

His rich materials, and regale your ear

With ſtrains it was a privilege to hear;

Yet above all his luxury ſupreme,

And his chief glory was the goſpel theme;

There he was copious as old Greece or Rome,

His happy eloquence ſeem'd there at home,

Ambitious, not to ſhine or to excel,

But to treat juſtly what he lov'd ſo well.

It moves me more perhaps than folly ought,

When ſome green heads as void of wit as thought,

Suppoſe themſelves monopoliſts of ſenſe,

And wiſer men's ability pretence.

[244] Though time will wear us, and we muſt grow old,

Such men are not forgot as ſoon as cold,

Their fragrant mem'ry will out laſt their tomb,

Embalmed for ever in its own perfume:

And to ſay truth, though in its early prime,

And when unſtained with any groſſer crime,

Youth has a ſprightlineſs and fire to boaſt,

That in the valley of decline are loſt,

And virtue with peculiar charms appears

Crown'd with the garland of life's blooming years;

Yet age by long experience well informed,

Well read, well temper'd, with religion warmed,

That fire abated which impells raſh youth,

Proud of his ſpeed to overſhoot the truth,

As time improves the grape's authentic juice,

Mellows and makes the ſpeech more fit for uſe,

And claims a rev'rence in its ſhort'ning day,

That 'tis an honour and a joy to pay.

The fruits of age, leſs fair, are yet more ſound,

Than thoſe a brighter ſeaſon pours around,

[245] And like the ſtores autumnal ſuns mature,

Through wintry rigours unimpaired endure.

What is fanatic frenzy, ſcorned ſo much,

And dreaded more than a contagious touch?

I grant it dang'rous, and approve your fear,

That fire is catching if you draw too near,

But ſage obſervers oft miſtake the flame,

And give true piety that odious name.

To tremble (as the creature of an hour

Ought at the view of an almighty pow'r)

Before his preſence, at whoſe awful throne

All tremble in all worlds, except our own,

To ſupplicate his mercy, love his ways,

And prize them above pleaſure, wealth or praiſe,

Though common ſenſe allowed a caſting voice,

And free from bias, muſt approve the choice,

Convicts a man fanatic in th' extreme,

And wild as madneſs in the world's eſteem.

But that diſeaſe when ſoberly defin'd

Is the falſe fire of an o'erheated mind,

[246] It views the truth with a diſtorted eye,

And either warps or lays it uſeleſs by,

'Tis narrow, ſelfiſh, arrogant, and draws

Its ſordid nouriſhment from man's applauſe,

And while at heart ſin unrelinquſh'd lies,

Preſumes itſelf chief fav'rite of the ſkies.

'Tis ſuch a light as putrefaction breeds

In fly-blown fleſh, whereon the maggot feeds,

Shines in the dark, but uſher'd into day,

The ſtench remains, the luſtre dies away.

True bliſs, if man may reach it, is compoſed

Of hearts in union mutually diſcloſed:

And, farewell elſe all hope of pure delight,

Thoſe hearts ſhould be reclaim'd, renew'd, upright.

Bad men, profaning friendſhip's hallow'd name,

Form, in its ſtead, a covenant of ſhame,

A dark confed'racy againſt the laws

Of virtue, and religion's glorious cauſe.

They build each other up with dreadful ſkill,

As baſtions ſet point-blank againſt God's will,

[247] Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt,

Deeply reſolv'd to ſhut a Saviour out,

Call legions up from hell to back the deed,

And curſt with conqueſt, finally ſucceed:

But ſouls that carry on a bleſt exchange

Of joys they meet with in their heav'nly range,

And with a fearleſs confidence make known

The ſorrows ſympathy eſteems its own,

Daily derive encreaſing light and force

From ſuch communion in their pleaſant courſe,

Feel leſs the journey's roughneſs and its length,

Meet their oppoſers with united ſtrength,

And one in heart, in int'reſt and deſign,

Gird up each other to the race divine.

But Converſation, chuſe what theme we may,

And chiefly when religion leads the way,

Should flow like waters after ſummer ſhow'rs,

Not as if rais'd by mere mechanic pow'rs.

The Chriſtian in whoſe ſoul, though now diſtreſs'd,

Lives the dear thought of joys he once poſſeſs'd,

[248] When all his glowing language iſſued forth

With God's deep ſtamp upon its current worth,

Will ſpeak without diſguiſe, and muſt impart

Sad as it is, his undiſſembling heart,

Abhors conſtraint, and dares not feign a zeal,

Or ſeem to boaſt a fire he does not feel.

The ſong of Sion is a taſteleſs thing,

Unleſs when riſing on a joyful wing

The ſoul can mix with the celeſtial bands,

And give the ſtrain the compaſs it demands.

Strange tidings theſe to tell a world who treat

All but their own experience as deceit!

Will they believe, though credulous enough

To ſwallow much upon much weaker proof,

That there are bleſt inhabitants of earth,

Partakers of a new aethereal birth,

Their hopes, deſires and purpoſes eſtranged

From things terreſtrial, and divinely changed,

Their very language of a kind that ſpeaks

The ſoul's ſure int'reſt in the good ſhe ſeeks,

[249] Who deal with ſcripture, its importance felt,

As Tully with philoſophy once dealt,

And in the ſilent watches of the night,

And through the ſcenes of toil-renewing light,

The ſocial walk, or ſolitary ride,

Keep ſtill the dear companion at their ſide?

No—ſhame upon a ſelf-diſgracing age,

God's work may ſerve an ape upon a ſtage,

With ſuch a jeſt as fill'd with helliſh glee

Certain inviſibles as ſhrewd as he,

But veneration or reſpect finds none,

Save from the ſubjects of that work alone.

The world grown old, her deep diſcernment ſhows,

Claps ſpectacles on her ſagacious noſe,

Peruſes cloſely the true Chriſtian's face,

And finds it a mere maſk of ſly grimace,

Uſurps God's office, lays his boſom bare,

And finds hypocriſy cloſe-lurking there,

And ſerving God herſelf through mere conſtraint,

Concludes his unfeign'd love of him, a feint.

[250] And yet God knows, look human nature through,

(And in due time the world ſhall know it too)

That ſince the flow'rs of Eden ſelt the blaſt,

That after man's defection laid all waſte,

Sincerity towards th' heart-ſearching God,

Has made the new-born creature her abode,

Nor ſhall be found in unregen'rate ſouls,

Till the laſt fire burn all between the poles.

Sincerity! Why 'tis his only pride,

Weak and imperfect in all grace beſide,

He knows that God demands his heart entire,

And gives him all his juſt demands require.

Without it, his pretenſions were as vain,

As having it, he deems the world's diſdain;

That great defect would coſt him not alone

Man's favourable judgment, but his own,

His birthright ſhaken and no longer clear,

Than while his conduct proves his heart ſincere.

Retort the charge, and let the world be told

She boaſts a confidence ſhe does not hold,

[251] That conſcious of her crimes, ſhe feels inſtead,

A cold miſgiving, and a killing dread▪

That while in health, the ground of her ſupport

Is madly to forget that life is ſhort,

That fick, ſhe trembles, knowing ſhe muſt die,

Her hope preſumption, and her faith a lie.

That while ſhe doats and dreams that ſhe believes,

She mocks her maker and herſelf deceives,

Her utmoſt reach, hiſtorical aſſent,

The doctrines warpt to what they never meant.

That truth itſelf is in her head as dull

And uſeleſs as a candle in a ſcull,

And all her love of God a groundleſs claim,

A trick upon the canvaſs, painted flame.

Tell her again, the ſneer upon her face,

And all her cenſures of the work of grace,

Are inſincere, meant only to conceal

A dread ſhe would not, yet is forc'd to feel,

That in her heart the Chriſtian ſhe reveres,

And while ſhe ſeems to ſcorn him, only fears.

[252] A poet does not work by ſquare or line,

As ſmiths and joiners perfect a deſign,

At leaſt we moderns, our attention leſs,

Beyond th' example of our ſires, digreſs,

And claim a right to ſcamper and run wide,

Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide.

The world and I fortuitouſly met,

I ow'd a trifle and have paid the debt,

She did me wrong, I recompens'd the deed,

And having ſtruck the balance, now procecd.

Perhaps, however, as ſome years have paſs'd

Since ſhe and I converſed together laſt,

And I have liv'd recluſe in rural ſhades,

Which ſeldom a diſtinct report pervades,

Great changes and new manners have occurr'd,

And bleſt reforms that I have never heard,

And ſhe may now be as diſcreet and wiſe,

As once abſurd in all diſcerning eyes.

Sobriety perhaps may now be found,

Where once intoxication preſs'd the ground,

[253] The ſubtle and injurious may be juſt,

And he grown chaſte that was the ſlave of luſt;

Arts once eſteem'd may be with ſhame diſmiſs'd,

Charity may relax the miſer's fiſt,

The gameſter may have caſt his cards away,

Forgot to curſe and only kneel to pray.

It has indeed been told me (with what weight,

How credibly, 'tis hard for me to ſtate)

That fable's old that ſeem'd for ever mute,

Reviv'd, are haſt'ning into freſh repute,

And gods and goddeſſes diſcarded long,

Like uſeleſs lumber or a ſtroller's fong,

Are bringing into vogue their heathen train,

And Jupiter bids fair to rule again.

That certain feaſts are inſtituted now,

Where Venus hears the lover's tender vow,

That all Olympus through the country roves,

To conſecrate our few remaining groves,

And echo learns politely to repeat,

The praiſe of names for ages obſolete,

[254] That having proved the weakneſs, it ſhould ſeem,

Of revelation's ineffectual beam,

To bring the paſſions under ſober ſway,

And give the moral ſprings their proper play,

They mean to try what may at laſt be done

By ſtout ſubſtantial gods of wood and ſtone,

And whether Roman rites may not produce

The virtues of old Rome for Engliſh uſe.

May much ſucceſs attend the pious plan,

May Mercury once more embelliſh man,

Grace him again with long forgotten arts,

Reclaim his taſte and brighten up his parts,

Make him athletic as in days of old,

Learn'd at the bar, in the paloeſtra bold,

Diveſt the rougher ſex of female airs,

And teach the ſofter not to copy theirs.

The change ſhall pleaſe, nor ſhall it matter aught

Who works the wonder if it be but wrought.

'Tis time, hoewever, if the caſe ſtand thus,

For us plain folks and all who ſide with us,

[255] To build our altar, confident and bold,

And ſay as ſtern Elijah ſaid of old,

The ſtrife now ſtands upon a fair award,

If Is'rael's Lord be God, then ſerve the Lord—

If he be ſilent, faith is all a whim,

Then Baal is the God and worſhip him.

Digreſſion is ſo much in modern uſe,

Thought is ſo rare, and fancy ſo profuſe,

Some never ſeem ſo wide of their intent,

As when returning to the theme they meant.

As mendicants whoſe buſineſs is to roam,

Make ev'ry pariſh but their own, their home

Though ſuch continual zigzags in a book,

Such drunken reelings have an aukward look,

And I had rather creep to what is true,

Than rove and ſtagger with no mark in view,

Yet to conſult a little, ſeem'd no crime,

The freakiſh humour of the preſent time.

But now, to gather up what ſeems diſpers'd,

And touch the ſubject I deſign'd at firſt,

[256] May prove, though much beſide the rules of art,

Beſt for the public, and my wiſeſt part.

And firſt let no man charge me that I mean

To cloath in ſables every ſocial ſcene,

And give good company a face ſevere

As if they met around a father's bier;

For tell ſome men that pleaſure all their bent,

And laughter all their work, is life miſpent,

Their wiſdom burſts into this ſage reply,

Then mirth is ſin, and we ſhould always cry.

To find the medium aſks ſome ſhare of wit,

And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit.

But though life's valley be a vale of tears,

A brighter ſcene beyond that vale appears,

Whoſe glory with a light that never fades,

Shoots between ſcattered rocks and opening ſhades,

And while it ſhows the land the ſoul deſires,

The language of the land ſhe ſeeks, inſpires.

Thus touched, the tongue receives a ſacred cure

Of all that was abſurd, profane, impure,

[257] Held within modeſt bounds the tide of ſpeech

Purſues the courſe that truth and nature teach,

No longer labours merely to produce

The pomp of ſound, or tinkle without uſe,

Where'er it winds, the ſalutary ſtream

Sprightly and freſh, enriches ev'ry theme,

While all the happy man poſſeſs'd before,

The gift of nature or the claſſic ſtore,

Is made ſubſervient to the grand deſign

For which heav'n form'd the faculty divine.

So ſhould an ideot while at large he ſtrays,

Find the ſweet lyre on which an artiſt plays,

With raſh and aukward force the chords he ſhakes,

And grins with wonder at the jar he makes;

But let the wiſe and well-inſtructed hand,

Once take the ſhell beneath his juſt command,

In gentle ſounds it ſeems as it complained

Of the rude injuries it late ſuſtained,

'Till tun'd at length to ſome immortal ſong,

It ſounds Jehovah's name, and pours his praiſe along.

RETIREMENT.

[]

‘—ſtudiis florens ignobilis oti. VIRG. GEOR. LIB. 4.’

HACKNEY'D in buſineſs, wearied at that oar

Which thouſands once faſt chain'd to, quit no more,

But which when life at ebb runs weak and low,

All wiſh, or ſeem to wiſh they could forego,

The ſtateſman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade,

Pants for the refuge of ſome rural ſhade,

Where all his long anxieties forgot

Amid the charms of a ſequeſter'd ſpot,

[259] Or recollected only to gild o'er

And add a ſmile to what was ſweet before,

He may poſſeſs the joys he thinks he ſees,

Lay his old age upon the lap of eaſe,

Improve the remnant of his waſted ſpan,

And having liv'd a trifler, die a man.

Thus conſcience pleads her cauſe within the breaſt,

Though long rebell'd againſt, not yet ſuppreſs'd,

And calls a creature formed for God alone,

For heaven's high purpoſes and not his own,

Calls him away from ſelfiſh ends and aims,

From what debilitates and what inflames,

From cities humming with a reſtleſs crowd,

Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,

Whoſe higheſt praiſe is that they live in vain,

The dupes of pleaſure, or the ſlaves of gain,

Where works of man are cluſter'd cloſe around,

And works of God are hardly to be found,

To regions where in ſpite of ſin and woe,

Traces of Eden are ſtill ſeen below,

[260] Where mountain, river, foreſt, field and grove,

Remind him of his Maker's pow'r and love.

'Tis well if look'd for at ſo late a day,

In the laſt ſcene of ſuch a ſenſeleſs play,

True wiſdom will attend his feeble call,

And grace his action e'er the curtain fall.

Souls that have long deſpiſed their heav'nly birth,

Their wiſhes all impregnated with earth,

For threeſcore years employed with ceaſeleſs care,

In catching ſmoke and feeding upon air,

Converſant only with the ways of men,

Rarely redeem the ſhort remaining ten.

Invet'rate habits choak th' unfruitful heart,

Their fibres penetrate its tend'reſt part,

And draining its nutritious pow'rs to feed

Their noxious growth, ſtarve ev'ry better ſeed.

Happy if full of days—but happier far

If e'er we yet diſcern life's evening ſtar,

Sick of the ſervice of a world that feeds

Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds,

[261] We can eſcape from cuſtom's ideot ſway,

To ſerve the ſov'reign we were born t' obey.

Then ſweet to muſe upon his ſkill diſplay'd

(Infinite ſkill) in all that he has made!

To trace in nature's moſt minute deſign,

The ſignature and ſtamp of pow'r divine,

Contrivance intricate expreſs'd with eaſe

Where unaſſiſted ſight no beauty ſees,

The ſhapely limb and lubricated joint,

Within the ſmall dimenſions of a point,

Muſcle and nerve miraculouſly ſpun,

His mighty work who ſpeaks and it is done,

Th' inviſible in things ſcarce ſeen reveal'd,

To whom an atom is an ample field.

To wonder at a thouſand inſect forms,

Theſe hatch'd, and thoſe reſuſcitated worms,

New life ordain'd and brighter ſcenes to ſhare,

Once prone on earth, now buoyant upon air,

Whoſe ſhape would make them, had they bulk and ſize,

More hideous foes than fancy can deviſe,

[262] With helmed heads and dragon ſcales adorn'd,

The mighty myriads, now ſecurely ſcorn'd,

Would mock the majeſty of man's high birth,

Deſpiſe his bulwarks and unpeople earth.

Then with a glance of fancy to ſurvey,

Far as the faculty can ſtretch away,

Ten thouſand rivers poured at his command

From urns that never fail through ev'ry land,

Theſe like a deluge with impetuous force,

Thoſe winding modeſtly a ſilent courſe,

The cloud-ſurmounting alps, the fruitful vales,

Seas on which ev'ry nation ſpreads her ſails,

The ſun, a world whence other worlds drink light,

The creſcent moon, the diadem of night,

Stars countleſs, each in his appointed place,

Faſt-anchor'd in the deep abyſs of ſpace—

At ſuch a ſight to catch the poet's flame,

And with a rapture like his own exclaim,

Theſe are thy glorious works, thou ſource of good,

How dimly ſeen, how faintly underſtood!—

[263] Thine, and upheld by thy paternal care,

This univerſal frame, thus wond'rous fair;

Thy pow'r divine and bounty beyond thought,

Ador'd and prais'd in all that thou haſt wrought.

Abſorbed in that immenſity I ſee,

I ſhrink abaſed, and yet aſpire to thee;

Inſtruct me, guide me to that heav'nly day,

Thy words, more clearly than thy works diſplay,

That while thy truths my groſſer thoughts refine,

I may reſemble thee and call thee mine.

Oh bleſt proficiency! ſurpaſſing all

That men erroneouſly their glory call,

The recompence that arts or arms can yield,

The bar, the ſenate or the tented field.

Compar'd with this ſublimeſt life below,

Ye kings and rulers what have courts to ſhow?

Thus ſtudied, uſed and conſecrated thus,

Whatever is, ſeems form'd indeed for us,

Not as the plaything of a froward child,

Fretful unleſs diverted and beguiled,

[264] Much leſs to feed and fan the fatal fires

Of pride, ambition or impure deſires,

But as a ſcale by which the ſoul aſcends

From mighty means to more important ends,

Securely, though by ſteps but rarely trod,

Mounts from inferior beings up to God,

And ſees by no fallacious light or dim,

Earth made for man, and man himſelf for him.

Not that I mean t' approve, or would inforce

A ſuperſtitious and monaſtic courſe:

Truth is not local, God alike pervades

And fills the world of traffic and the ſhades,

And may be fear'd amid the buſieſt ſcenes,

Or ſcorn'd where buſineſs never intervenes.

But 'tis not eaſy with a mind like ours,

Conſcious of weakneſs in its nobleſt pow'rs,

And in a world where (other ills apart)

The roving eye miſleads the careleſs heart,

To limit thought, by nature prone to ſtray

Wherever freakiſh fancy points the way,

[265] To bid the pleadings of ſelf-love be ſtill,

Reſign our own and ſeek our maker's will,

To ſpread the page of ſcripture, and compare

Our conduct with the laws engraven there,

To meaſure all that paſſes in the breaſt,

Faithfully, fairly, by that ſacred teſt,

To dive into the ſecret deeps within,

To ſpare no paſſion and no fav'rite ſin,

And ſearch the themes important above all,

Ourſelves and our recov'ry from our fall.

But leiſure, ſilence, and a mind releas'd

From anxious thoughts how wealth may be encreas'd,

How to ſecure in ſome propitious hour,

The point of int'reſt or the poſt of power,

A ſoul ſerene, and equally retired,

From objects too much dreaded or deſired,

Safe from the clamours of perverſe diſpute,

At leaſt are friendly to the great purſuit.

Op'ning the map of God's extenſive plan,

We find a little iſle, this life of man,

[266] Eternity's unknown expanſe appears

Circling around and limiting his years;

The buſy race examine and explore

Each creek and cavern of the dang'rous ſhore,

With care collect what in their eyes excells,

Some, ſhining pebbles, and ſome, weeds and ſhells,

Thus laden dream that they are rich and great,

And happieſt he that groans beneath his weight;

The waves o'ertake them in their ſerious play,

And ev'ry hour ſweep multitudes away,

They ſhriek and ſink, ſurvivors ſtart and weep,

Purſue their ſport, and follow to the deep;

A few forſake the throng, with lifted eyes

Aſk wealth of heav'n, and gain a real prize,

Truth, wiſdom, grace, and peace like that above,

Seal'd with his ſignet whom they ſerve and love;

Scorn'd by the reſt, with patient hope they wait

A kind releaſe from their imperfect ſtate,

And unregretted are ſoon ſnatch'd away

From ſcenes of ſorrow into glorious day.

[267] Nor theſe alone prefer a life recluſe,

Who ſeek retirement for its proper uſe,

The love of change that lives in ev'ry breaſt,

Genius, and temper, and deſire of reſt,

Diſcordant motives in one center meet,

And each inclines it's vot'ry to retreat.

Some minds by nature are averſe to noiſe.

And hate the tumult half the world enjoys,

The lure of av'rice, or the pompous prize

That courts diſplay before ambitious eyes,

The fruits that hang on pleaſure's flow'ry ſtem,

Whate'er enchants them are no ſnares to them.

To them the deep receſs of duſky groves,

Or foreſt where the deer ſecurely roves,

The fall of waters and the ſong of birds,

And hills that echo to the diſtant herds,

Are luxuries excelling all the glare

The world can boaſt, and her chief fav'rites ſhare.

With eager ſtep and careleſsly array'd,

For ſuch a cauſe the poet ſeeks the ſhade,

[268] From all he ſees he catches new delight,

Pleas'd fancy claps her pinions at the ſight,

The riſing or the ſetting orb of day,

The clouds that flit, or ſlowly float away,

Nature in all the various ſhapes ſhe wears,

Frowning in ſtorms, or breathing gentle airs,

The ſnowy robe her wintry ſtate aſſumes,

Her ſummer heats, her fruits, and her perfumes,

All, all alike tranſport the glowing bard,

Succeſs in rhime his glory and reward.

Oh nature! whoſe Elyſian ſcenes diſcloſe

His bright perfections at whoſe word they roſe,

Next to that pow'r who form'd thee and ſuſtains,

Be thou the great inſpirer of my ſtrains.

Still as I touch the lyre, do thou expand

Thy genuine charms, and guide an artleſs hand,

That I may catch a fire but rarely known,

Give uſeful light though I ſhould miſs renown,

And poring on thy page, whoſe ev'ry line

Bears proof of an intelligence divine,

[269] May feel an heart enrich'd by what it pays,

That builds its glory on its Maker's praiſe.

Woe to the man whoſe wit diſclaims its uſe,

Glitt'ring in vain, or only to ſeduce,

Who ſtudies nature with a wanton eye,

Admires the work, but ſlips the leſſon by,

His hours of leiſure and receſs employs,

In drawing pictures of forbidden joys,

Retires to blazon his own worthleſs name,

Or ſhoot the careleſs with a ſurer aim.

The lover too ſhuns buſineſs and alarms,

Tender idolator of abſent charms.

Saints offer nothing in their warmeſt prayr's,

That he devotes not with a zeal like theirs;

'Tis conſecration of his heart, ſoul, time,

And every thought that wanders is a crime.

In ſighs he worſhips his ſupremely fair,

And weeps a ſad libation in deſpair,

Adores a creature, and devout in vain,

Wins in return an anſwer of diſdain.

[270] As woodbine weds the plants within her reach,

Rough elm, or ſmooth-grain'd aſh, or gloſſy beech,

In ſpiral rings aſcends the trunk, and lays

Her golden taſſels on the leafy ſprays,

But does a miſchief while ſhe lends a grace,

Streight'ning its growth by ſuch a ſtrict embrace,

So love that clings around the nobleſt minds,

Forbids th' advancement of the ſoul he binds,

The ſuitor's air indeed he ſoon improves,

And forms it to the taſte of her he loves,

Teaches his eyes a language, and no leſs

Refines his ſpeech and faſhions his addreſs;

But farewell promiſes of happier fruits,

Manly deſigns, and learning's grave purſuits,

Girt with a chain he cannot wiſh to break,

His only-bliſs is ſorrow for her ſake,

Who will may pant for glory and excell,

Her ſmile his aim, all higher aims farewell!

Thyrſis, Alexis, or whatever name

May leaſt offend againſt ſo pure a flame,

[271] Though ſage advice of friends the moſt ſincere,

Sounds harſhly in ſo delicate an ear,

And lovers of all creatures, tame or wild,

Can leaſt brook management, however mild,

Yet let a poet (poetry diſarms

The fierceſt animals with magic charms)

Riſque an intruſion on thy penſive mood,

And wooe and win thee to thy proper good.

Paſtoral images and ſtill retreats,

Umbrageous walks and ſolitary ſeats,

Sweet birds in concert with harmonious ſtreams,

Soft airs, nocturnal vigils, and day-dreams,

Are all enchantments in a caſe like thine▪

Conſpire againſt thy peace with one deſign,

Sooth thee to make thee but a ſurer prey,

And feed the fire that waſtes thy pow'rs away.

Up—God has formed thee with a wiſer view,

Not to be led in chains, but to ſubdue,

Calls thee to cope with enemies, and firſt

Points out a conflict with thyſelf, the worſt.

[272] Woman indeed, a gift he would beſtow

When he deſign'd a paradiſe below,

The richeſt earthly boon his hands afford,

Deſerves to be belov'd, but not ador'd.

Poſt away ſwiftly to more active ſcenes,

Collect the ſcatter'd truths that ſtudy gleans,

Mix with the world, but with its wiſer part,

No longer give an image all thine heart,

Its empire is not her's, nor is it thine,

'Tis God's juſt claim, prerogative divine.

Virtuous and faithful HEBERDEN! whoſe ſkill

Attempts no taſk it cannot well fulfill,

Gives melancholy up to nature's care,

And ſends the patient into purer air.

Look where he comes—in this embower'd alcove,

Stand cloſe conceal'd, and ſee a ſtatue move:

Lips buſy, and eyes fixt, foot falling ſlow,

Arms hanging idly down, hands claſp'd below,

Interpret to the marking eye, diſtreſs,

Such as its ſymptoms can alone expreſs.

[273] That tongue is ſilent now, that ſilent tongue

Could argue once, could jeſt or joint the ſong,

Could give advice, could cenſure or commend,

Or charm the ſorrows of a drooping friend.

Renounced alike its office and its ſport,

Its briſker and its graver ſtrains fall ſhort,

Both fail beneath a fever's ſecret ſway,

And like a ſummer-brook are paſt away.

This is a ſight for pity to peruſe

'Till ſhe reſemble faintly what ſhe views,

'Till ſympathy contract a kindred pain,

Pierced with the woes that ſhe laments in vain.

This of all maladies that man infeſt,

Claims moſt compaſſion and receives the leaſt,

Job felt it when he groan'd beneath the rod,

And the barbed arrows of a frowning God,

And ſuch emollients as his friends could ſpare,

Friends ſuch as his for modern Jobs prepare.

Bleſt, (rather curſt) with hearts that never feel,

Kept ſnug in caſkets of cloſe-hammer'd ſteel,

[274] With mouths made only to grin wide and eat,

And minds that deem derided pain, a treat,

With limbs of Britiſh oak and nerves of wire,

And wit that puppet-prompters might inſpire,

Their ſov'reign noſtrum is a clumſy joke,

On pangs inforc'd with God's ſevereſt ſtroke.

But with a ſoul that ever felt the ſting

Of ſorrow, ſorrow is a ſacred thing,

Not to moleſt, or irritate, or raiſe

A laugh at its expence, is ſlender praiſe;

He that has not uſurp'd the name of man.

Does all, and deems too little, all he can,

T' aſſuage the throbbings of the ſeſter'd part,

And ſtaunch the bleedings of a broken heart;

'Tis not as heads that never ach ſuppoſe,

Forg'ry of fancy and a dream of woes,

Man is an harp whoſe chords elude the ſight,

Each yielding harmony, diſpoſed aright,

The ſcrews revers'd (a taſk which if he pleaſe

God in a moment executes with eaſe)

[275] Ten thouſand thouſand ſtrings at once go looſe,

Loſt, 'till he tune them, all their pow'r and uſe.

Then neither heathy wilds, nor ſcenes as fair

As ever recompenſed the peaſant's care,

Nor ſoft declivities with tufted hills,

Nor view of waters turning buſy mills,

Parks in which art preceptreſs nature weds,

Nor gardens interſpers'd with flow'ry beds,

Nor gales that catch the ſcent of blooming groves,

And waft it to the mourner as he roves,

Can call up life into his faded eye,

That paſſes all he ſees unheeded by:

No wounds like thoſe a wounded ſpirit feels,

No cure for ſuch, 'till God who makes them, heals.

And thou ſad ſuff'rer under nameleſs ill,

That yields not to the touch of human ſkill,

Improve the kind occaſion, underſtand

A father's frown, and kiſs his chaſt'ning hand:

To thee the day-ſpring and the blaze of noon,

The purple evening and reſplendent moon,

[276] The ſtars that ſprinkled o'er the vault of night

Seem drops deſcending in a ſhow'r of light,

Shine not, or undeſired and hated ſhine,

Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine:

Yet ſeek him, in his favour life is found,

All bliſs beſide, a ſhadow or a ſound:

Then heav'n eclipſed ſo long, and this dull earth

Shall ſeem to ſtart into a ſecond birth,

Nature aſſuming a more lovely face,

Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace,

Shall be deſpiſed and overlook'd no more,

Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before,

Impart to things inanimate a voice,

And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice,

The ſound ſhall run along the winding vales,

And thou enjoy an Eden e'er it fails.

Ye groves (the ſtateſman at his deſk exclaims

Sick of a thouſand diſappointed aims)

My patrimonial treaſure and my pride,

Beneath your ſhades your gray poſſeſſor hide,

[277] Receive me languiſhing for that repoſe

The ſervant of the public never knows.

Ye ſaw me once (ah thoſe regretted days

When boyiſh innocence was all my praiſe)

Hour after hour delightfully allot

To ſtudies then familiar, ſince forgot,

And cultivate a taſte for antient ſong,

Catching its ardour as I muſed along;

Nor ſeldom, as propitious heav'n might ſend,

What once I valued and could boaſt, a friend,

Were witneſſes how cordially I preſs'd

His undiſſembling virtue to my breaſt;

Receive me now, not uncorrupt as then,

Nor guiltleſs of corrupting other men,

But vers'd in arts that while they ſeem to ſtay

A falling empire, haſten its decay.

To the fair haven of my native home,

The wreck of what I was, fatigued I come,

For once I can approve the patriot's voice,

And make the courſe he recommends, my choice,

[278] We meet at laſt in one ſincere deſire,

His wiſh and mine both prompt me to retire.

'Tis done—he ſteps into the welcome chaiſe,

Lolls at his eaſe behind four handſome bays,

That whirl away from bus'neſs and debate,

The diſincumber'd Atlas of the ſtate.

Aſk not the boy, who when the breeze of morn

Firſt ſhakes the glitt'ring drops from ev'ry thorn,

Unfolds his flock, then under bank or buſh

Sits linking cherry ſtones or platting ruſh,

How fair is freedom?—he was always free—

To carve his ruſtic name upon a tree,

To ſnare the mole, or with ill-faſhion'd hook

To draw th' incautious minnow from the brook,

Are life's prime pleaſures in his ſimple view,

His flock the chief concern he ever knew:

She ſhines but little in his heedleſs eyes,

The good we never miſs, we rarely prize.

But aſk the noble drudge in ſtate-affairs,

Eſcap'd from office and its conſtant cares,

[279] What charms he ſees in freedom's ſmile expreſs'd,

In freedom loſt ſo long, now repoſſeſs'd,

The tongue whoſe ſtrains were cogent as commands,

Revered at home, and felt in foreign lands,

Shall own itſelf a ſtamm'rer in that cauſe,

Or plead its ſilence as its beſt applauſe.

He knows indeed that whether dreſs'd or rude,

Wild without art, or artfully ſubdued,

Nature in ev'ry form inſpires delight,

But never mark'd her with ſo juſt a ſight.

Her hedge row ſhrubs, a variegated ſtore,

With woodbine and wild roſes mantled o'er,

Green baulks and furrow'd lands, the ſtream that ſpreads

Its cooling vapour o'er the dewy meads,

Downs that almoſt eſcape th' enquiring eye,

That melt and fade into the diſtant ſkie,

Beauties he lately ſlighted as he paſs'd,

Seem all created ſince he travell'd laſt.

Maſter of all th' enjoyments he deſign'd,

No rough annoyance rankling in his mind,

[280] What early philoſophic hours he keeps,

How regular his meals, how ſound he ſleeps!

Not ſounder he that on the mainmaſt head,

While morning kindles with a windy red,

Begins a long look-out for diſtant land,

Nor quits till evening-watch his giddy ſtand,

Then ſwift deſcending with a ſeaman's haſte,

Slips to his hammock, and forgets the blaſt.

He chuſes company, but not the ſquire's,

Whoſe wit is rudeneſs, whoſe good breeding tires;

Nor yet the parſon's, who would gladly come,

Obſequious when abroad, though proud at home,

Nor can he much affect the neighb'ring peer,

Whoſe toe of emulation treads too near,

But wiſely ſeeks a more convenient friend,

With whom, diſmiſſing forms, he may unbend,

A man whom marks of condeſcending grace

Teach, while they flatter him, his proper place,

Who comes when call'd, and at a word withdraws,

Speaks with reſerve, and liſtens with applauſe,

[281] Some plain mechanic, who without pretence

To birth or wit, nor gives nor takes offence,

On whom he reſts well pleas'd his weary pow'rs,

And talks and laughs away his vacant hours.

The tide of life, ſwift always in its courſe,

May run in cities with a briſker force,

But no where with a current ſo ſerene,

Or half ſo clear as in the rural ſcene.

Yet how fallacious is all earthly bliſs,

What obvious truths the wiſeſt heads may miſs;

Some pleaſures live a month, and ſome a year,

But ſhort the date of all we gather here,

Nor happineſs is felt, except the true,

That does not charm the more for being new.

This obſervation, as it chanced, not made,

Or if the thought occurr'd, not duely weigh'd,

He ſighs—for after all, by ſlow degrees,

The ſpot he loved has loſt the pow'r to pleaſe;

To croſs his ambling poney day by day,

Seems at the beſt, but dreaming life away,

[282] The proſpect, ſuch as might enchant deſpair,

He views it not, or ſees no beauty there,

With aching heart and diſcontented looks,

Returns at noon, to billiards or to books,

But feels while graſping at his faded joys,

A ſecret thirſt of his renounced employs,

He chides the tardineſs of every poſt,

Pants to be told of battles won or loſt,

Blames his own indolence, obſerves, though late,

'Tis criminal to leave a ſinking ſtate,

Flies to the levee, and receiv'd with grace,

Kneels, kiſſes hands, and ſhines again in place.

Suburban villas, highway-ſide retreats,

That dread th' encroachment of our growing ſtreets,

Tight boxes, neatly ſaſh'd, and in a blaze

With all a July ſun's collected rays,

Delight the citizen, who gaſping there

Breathes clouds of duſt and calls it country air.

Oh ſweet retirement, who would baulk the thought,

That could afford retirement, or could not?

[283] 'Tis ſuch an eaſy walk, ſo ſmooth and ſtrait,

The ſecond mileſtone fronts the garden gate,

A ſtep if fair, and if a ſhow'r approach,

You find ſafe ſhelter in the next ſtage-coach.

There priſon'd in a parlour ſnug and ſmall,

Like bottled waſps upon a ſouthern wall,

The man of bus'neſs and his friends compreſs'd,

Forget their labours, and yet find no reſt;

But ſtill 'tis rural—trees are to be ſeen

From ev'ry window, and the fields are green,

Ducks paddle in the pond before the door,

And what could a remoter ſcene ſhow more?

A ſenſe of elegance we rarely find

The portion of a mean or vulgar mind,

And ignorance of better things, makes man

Who cannot much, rejoice in what he can;

And he that deems his leiſure well beſtow'd

In contemplations of a turnpike road,

Is occupied as well, employs his hours

As wiſely, and as much improves his pow'rs,

[284] As he that ſlumbers in pavilion's graced

With all the charms of an accompliſh'd taſte.

Yet hence alas! Inſolvencies, and hence

Th' unpitied victim of ill-judg'd expence,

From all his weariſome engagements freed,

Shakes hands with bus'neſs, and retires indeed.

Your prudent grand mammas ye modern belles,

Content with Briſtol, Bath, and Tunbridge-wells,

When health requir'd it would conſent to roam,

Elſe more attach'd to pleaſures found at home.

But now alike, gay widow, virgin, wife,

Ingenious to diverſify dull life,

In coaches, chaiſes, caravans and hoys,

Fly to the coaſt for daily, nightly joys,

And all impatient of dry land, agree

With one conſent to ruſh into the ſea.—

Ocean exhibits, fathomleſs and broad,

Much of the pow'r and majeſty of God.

He ſwathes about the ſwelling of the deep,

That ſhines and reſts, as infants ſmile and ſleep,

[285] Vaſt as it is, it anſwers as it flows

The breathings of the lighteſt air that blows,

Curling and whit'ning over all the waſte,

The riſing waves obey th' increaſing blaſt,

Abrupt and horrid as the tempeſt roars,

Thunder and flaſh upon the ſtedfaſt ſhores,

'Till he that rides the whirlwind, checks the rein,

Then, all the world of waters ſleeps again.—

Nereids or Dryads, as the faſhion leads,

Now in the floods, now panting in the meads,

Vot'ries of pleaſure ſtill, where'er ſhe dwells,

Near barren rocks, in palaces or cells,

Oh grant a poet leave to recommend,

(A poet fond of nature and your friend)

Her ſlighted works to your admiring view,

Her works muſt needs excel, who faſhion'd you.

Would ye, when rambling in your morning ride,

With ſome unmeaning coxcomb at your ſide,

Condemn the prattler for his idle pains,

To waſte unheard the muſic of his ſtrains,

[286] And deaf to all the impertinence of tongue,

That while it courts, affronts and does you wrong.

Mark well the finiſh'd plan without a fault,

The ſeas globoſe and huge, th' o'erarching vault,

Earth's millions daily fed, a world employ'd

In gath'ring plenty yet to be enjoy'd,

'Till gratitude grew vocal in the praiſe

Of God, beneficent in all his ways,

Grac'd with ſuch wiſdom how would beauty ſhine?

Ye want but that to ſeem indeed divine.

Anticipated rents and bills unpaid,

Force many a ſhining youth into the ſhade,

Not to redeem his time but his eſtate,

And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate.

There hid in loath'd obſcurity, remov'd

From pleaſures left, but never more belov'd,

He juſt endures, and with a ſickly ſpleen

Sighs o'er the beauties of the charming ſcene.

Nature indeed looks prettily in rhime,

Streams tinkle ſweetly in poetic chime,

[287] The warblings of the black-bird, clear and ſtrong,

Are muſical enough in Thomſon's ſong,

And Cobham's groves and Windſor's green retreats,

When Pope deſcribes them, have a thouſand ſweets,

He likes the country, but in truth muſt own,

Moſt likes it, when he ſtudies it in town.

Poor Jack—no matter who—for when I blame

I pity, and muſt therefore ſink the name,

Liv'd in his ſaddle, lov'd the chace, the courſe,

And always, e'er he mounted, kiſs'd his horſe.

Th' eſtate his ſires had own'd in antient years,

Was quickly diſtanc'd, match'd againſt a peer's.

Jack vaniſh'd, was regretted and forgot,

'Tis wild good-nature's never-failing lot.

At length, when all had long ſuppos'd him dead,

By cold ſubmerſion, razor, rope or lead,

My lord, alighting at his uſual place,

The crown, took notice of an oſtler's face.

Jack knew his friend, but hop'd in that diſguiſe

He might eſcape the moſt obſerving eyes,

[288] And whiſtling as if unconcern'd and gay,

Curried his nag and look'd another way.

Convinc'd at laſt upon a nearer view,

'Twas he, the ſame, the very Jack he knew,

O'erwhelm'd at once with wonder, grief and joy,

He preſs'd him much to quit his baſe employ,

His countenance, his purſe, his heart, his hand,

Infl'ence and pow'r were all at his command.

Peers are not always gen'rous as well-bred,

But Granby was, meant truly what he ſaid.

Jack bow'd and was oblig'd—confeſs'd 'twas ſtrange

That ſo retir'd he ſhould not wiſh a change,

But knew no medium between guzzling beer,

And his old ſtint, three thouſand pounds a year.

Thus ſome retire to nouriſh hopeleſs woe,

Some ſeeking happineſs not found below,

Some to comply with humour, and a mind

To ſocial ſcenes by nature diſinclin'd,

Some ſway'd by faſhion, ſome by deep diſguſt,

Some ſelf-impoveriſh'd, and becauſe they muſt,

[289] But few that court Retirement, are aware

Of half the toils they muſt encounter there.

Lucrative offices are ſeldom loſt

For want of pow'rs proportion'd to the poſt:

Give ev'n a dunce th' employment he deſires,

And he ſoon finds the talents it requires;

A buſineſs with an income at its heels,

Furniſhes always oil for its own wheels.

But in his arduous enterprize to cloſe

His active years with indolent repoſe,

He finds the labours of that ſtate exceed

His utmoſt faculties, ſevere indeed.

'Tis eaſy to reſign a toilſome place,

But not to manage leiſure with a grace,

Abſence of occupation is not reſt,

A mind quite vacant is a mind diſtreſs'd.

The vet'ran ſteed excuſed his taſk at length,

In kind compaſſion of his failing ſtrength,

And turn'd into the park or mead to graze,

Exempt from future ſervice all his days,

[290] There feels a pleaſure perfect in its kind,

Ranges at liberty, and ſnuffs the wind.

But when his lord would quit the buſy road,

To taſte a joy like that he has beſtow'd,

He proves, leſs happy than his favour'd brute,

A life of eaſe a difficult purſuit.

Thought, to the man that never thinks, may ſeem

As natural, as when aſleep, to dream,

But reveries (for human minds will act)

Specious in ſhow, impoſſible in fact,

Thoſe flimſy webs that break as ſoon as wrought,

Attain not to the dignity of thought.

Nor yet the ſwarms that occupy the brain

Where dreams of dreſs, intrigue, and pleaſure reign,

Nor ſuch as uſeleſs converſation breeds,

Or luſt engenders, and indulgence feeds.

Whence, and what are we? to what end ordain'd?

What means the drama by the world ſuſtain'd?

Buſineſs or vain amuſement, care or mirth,

Divide the frail inhabitants of earth,

[291] Is duty a mere ſport, or an employ?

Life an intruſted talent, or a toy?

Is there as reaſon, conſcience, ſcripture ſay,

Cauſe to provide for a great future day,

When earth's aſſign'd duration at an end,

Man ſhall be ſummon'd and the dead attend?

The trumpet—will it ſound? the curtain riſe?

And ſhow th' auguſt tribunal of the ſkies,

Where no prevarication ſhall avail,

Where eloquence and artifice ſhall fail,

The pride of arrogant diſtinctions fall,

And conſcience and our conduct judge us all?

Pardon me, ye that give the midnight oil,

To learned cares or philoſophic toil,

Though I revere your honourable names,

Your uſeful labors and important aims,

And hold the world indebted to your aid,

Enrich'd with the diſcoveries ye have made,

Yet let me ſtand excuſed, if I eſteem

A mind employ'd on ſo ſublime a theme,

[292] Puſhing her bold enquiry to the date

And outline of the preſent tranſient ſtate,

And after poiſing her advent'rous wings,

Settling at laſt upon eternal things,

Far more intelligent, and better taught

The ſtrenuous uſe of profitable thought,

Than ye when happieſt, and enlighten'd moſt,

And higheſt in renown, can juſtly boaſt.

A mind unnerv'd, or indiſpos'd to bear

The weight of ſubjects worthieſt of her care,

Whatever hopes a change of ſcene inſpires,

Muſt change her nature, or in vain retires.

An idler is a watch that wants both hands,

As uſeleſs if it goes as when it ſtands.

Books therefore, not the ſcandal of the ſhelves,

In which lewd ſenſualiſts print out themſelves,

Nor thoſe in which the ſtage gives vice a blow,

With what ſucceſs, let modern manners ſhow,

Nor his, who for the bane of thouſands born,

Built God a church and laugh'd his word to ſcorn,

[293] Skilful alike to ſeem devout and juſt,

And ſtab religion with a ſly ſide-thruſt;

Nor thoſe of learn'd philologiſts, who chaſe

A panting ſyllable through time and ſpace,

Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark,

To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's ark;

But ſuch as learning without falſe pretence,

The friend of truth, th' aſſociate of ſound ſenſe,

And ſuch as in the zeal of good deſign,

Strong judgment lab'ring in rhe ſcripture mine,

All ſuch as manly and great ſouls produce,

Worthy to live, and of eternal uſe;

Behold in theſe what leiſure hours demand,

Amuſement and true knowledge hand in hand.

Luxury gives the mind a childiſh caſt,

And while ſhe poliſhes, perverts the taſte,

Habits of cloſe attention, thinking heads,

Become more rare as diſſipation ſpreads,

'Till authors hear at length, one gen'ral cry,

Tickle and entertain us, or we die.

[294] The loud demand from year to year the ſame,

Beggars invention and makes fancy lame,

'Till farce itſelf moſt mournfully jejune,

Calls for the kind aſſiſtance of a tune,

And novels (witneſs ev'ry month's review)

Belie their name and offer nothing new.

The mind relaxing into needfull ſport,

Should turn to writers of an abler ſort,

Whoſe wit well manag'd, and whoſe claſſic ſtile,

Give truth a luſtre, and make wiſdom ſmile.

Friends (for I cannot ſtint as ſome have done

Too rigid in my view, that name to one,

Though one, I grant it in th' gen'rous breaſt

Will ſtand advanc'd a ſtep above the reſt,

Flow'rs by that name promiſcuouſly we call,

But one, the roſe, the regent of them all)

Friends, not adopted with a ſchool-boy's haſte,

But choſen with a nice diſcerning taſte,

Well-born, well-diſciplin'd, who plac'd a-part

From vulgar minds, have honour much at heart,

[295] And (tho' the world may think th' ingredients odd)

The love of virtue, and the fear of God!

Such friends prevent what elſe wou'd ſoon ſucceed,

A temper ruſtic as the life we lead,

And keep the poliſh of the manners clean,

As their's who buſtle in the buſieſt ſcene▪

For ſolitude, however ſome may rave,

Seeming a ſanctuary, proves a grave,

A ſepulchre in which the living lie,

Where all good qualities grow ſick and die.

I praiſe the ^* Frenchman, his remark was ſhrew'd—

How ſweet, how paſſing ſweet is ſolitude!

But grant me ſtill a friend in my retreat,

Whom I may whiſper, ſolitude is ſweet.

Yet neither theſe delights, nor aught beſide

That appetite can aſk, or wealth provide,

Can ſave us always from a tedious day,

Or ſhine the dullneſs of ſtill life away;

Divine communion carefully enjoy'd,

Or ſought with energy, muſt fill the void.

[296] Oh ſacred art, to which alone life owes

Its happieſt ſeaſons, and a peaceful cloſe,

Scorn'd in a world, indebted to that ſcorn

For evils daily felt and hardly borne,

Not knowing thee, we reap with bleeding hands,

Flow'rs of rank odor upon thorny lands,

And while experience cautions us in vain,

Graſp ſeeming happineſs, and find it pain.

Deſpondence, ſelf-deſerted in her grief,

Loſt by abandoning her own relief,

Murmuring and ungrateful diſcontent,

That ſcorns afflictions mercifully meant,

Thoſe humours tart as wines upon the fret,

Which idleneſs and wearineſs beget,

Theſe and a thouſand plagues that haunt the breaſt

Fond of the phantom of an earthly reſt,

Divine communion chaſes as the day

Drives to their dens th' obedient beaſts of prey.

See Judah's promiſed king, bereft of all,

Driv'n out an exile from the face of Saul,

[297] To diſtant caves the lonely wand'rer flies,

To ſeek that peace a tyrant's frown denies.

Hear the ſweet accents of his tuneful voice,

Hear him o'erwhelm'd with ſorrow, yet rejoice,

No womaniſh or wailing grief has part,

No, not a moment, in his royal heart,

Tis manly muſic, ſuch as martyrs make,

Suff'ring with gladneſs for a Saviour's ſake;

His ſoul exults, hope animates his lays,

The ſenſe of mercy kindles into praiſe,

And wilds familiar with the lion's roar,

Ring with extatic ſounds unheard before;

'Tis love like his that can alone defeat

The foes of man, or make a deſart ſweet.

Religion does not cenſure or exclude

Unnumber'd pleaſures harmleſsly purſued.

To ſtudy culture, and with artful toil

To meliorate and tame the ſtubborn ſoil,

To give diſſimilar yet fruitful lands

The grain or herb or plant that each demands,

[298] To cheriſh virtue in an humble ſtate,

And ſhare the joys your bounty may create,

To mark the matchleſs workings of the pow'r

That ſhuts within its ſeed the future flow'r,

Bids theſe in elegance of form excell,

In colour theſe, and thoſe delight the ſmell,

Sends nature forth, the daughter of the ſkies,

To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes;

To teach the canvaſs innocent deceit,

Or lay the landſcape on the ſnowy ſheet,

Theſe, theſe are arts purſued without a crime,

That leave no ſtain upon the wing of time.

Me poetry (or rather notes that aim

Feebly and vainly at poetic fame)

Employs, ſhut out from more important views,

Faſt by the banks of the ſlow-winding Ouſe,

Content, if thus ſequeſter'd I may raiſe

A monitor's, though not a poet's praiſe,

And while I teach an art too little known,

To cloſe life wiſely, may not waſte my own.

CONTENTS.

TABLE TALK.

THE PROGRESS OF ERROR.

TRUTH.

EXPOSTULATION.

HOPE.

CHARITY.

CONVERSATION.

RETIREMENT.

THE DOVES.

A FABLE.

MORAL.

A COMPARISON.

ANOTHER.Addreſſed to a YOUNG LADY.

VERSES, ſuppoſed to be written by ALEXANDER SELKIRK, during his ſolitary Abode in the Iſland of JUAN FERNANDEZ.

On the Promotion of EDWARD THURLOW, Eſq. to the Lord High Chancellorſhip of ENGLAND.

ODE TO PEACE.

HUMAN FRAILTY.

THE MODERN PATRIOT.

On obſerving ſome Names of little Note recorded in the BIOGRAPHIA BRITANNICA.

REPORT Of an adjudged Caſe not to be found in any of the Books.

On the Burning of LORD MANSFIELD'S Library, together with his MSS. by the Mob, in the Month of June, 1780.

ON THE SAME.

THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED; OR, HYPOCRISY DETECTED.*

THE LILY AND THE ROSE.

IDEM LATINE REDDITUM.

THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM.

VOTUM.

On a GOLDFINCH ſtarved to Death in his Cage.

The PINE APPLE and the BEE.

HORACE. Book the 2d. ODE the 10th.

A REFLECTION on the foregoing ODE.

Tranſlations from VINCENT BOURNE.

1. THE GLOW-WORM,

2. THE JACK DAW.

3. THE CRICKET.

4. THE PARROT.

THE SHRUBBERY, Written in a Time of Affliction.

THE WINTER NOSEGAY.

MUTUAL FORBEARANCE, Neceſſary to the Happineſs of the Married State.

To the REV. MR. NEWTON. An Invitation into the Country.

TRANSLATION OF PRIOR'S CHLOE AND EUPHELIA.

BOADICEA, AN ODE.

HEROISM.

THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE PLANT.

To the Rev. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

Appendix A ERRATA.

ANOTHER.
Addreſſed to a YOUNG LADY.

THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED; OR, HYPOCRISY DETECTED.^*