Book i.

The gin-palace:

Behold the schools, in which plebeian minds Once simple are initiated in arts, Which some may practice with politer grace, But none with readier skill. 'Tis here they learn The road that leads from competence and peace, To indigence and rapine, till at last Society, grown weary of the load, Shakes her incumber'd lap, and casts them out. But censure profits little: vain th' attempt To advertise in verse a public pest, That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds His hungry acres, stinks, and is of use. Th' excise is fatten'd with the rich result Of all this riot, and ten thousand casks, For ever dribbling out their base contents, Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state, Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. Drink, and be mad then; 'tis your country bids! Gloriously drunk obey th' important call! Her cause demands the assistance of your throats; Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.

_Task_, book iv.

We add a few short passages:

How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat Whom I may whisper--solitude is sweet.

Not to understand a treasure's worth Till time has stolen away the slighted good Is cause of half the poverty we feel, And makes the world the wilderness it is.

Not a year but pilfers as he goes Some youthful grace, that age would gladly keep.

When one that holds communion with the skies Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis even as if an angel shook his wings; Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide, That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.

We must not omit a most splendid specimen of Cowper's poetic genius, entitled the "Yardley Oak." It is an unfinished poem, and supposed to have been written in the year 1791, and laid aside, without ever having been resumed, when his attention was engrossed with the edition of Milton. Whatever may be the history of this admirable fragment, it has justly acquired for Cowper the reputation of having produced one of the richest and most highly finished pieces of versification that ever flowed from the pen of a poet. Its existence even was unknown both to Dr. Johnson and Hayley, till the latter discovered it buried in a mass of papers. We subjoin in a note a letter addressed by Dr. Johnson to Hayley, containing further particulars.[781]

[781]

"January 6, 1804.

"Among our dear Cowper's papers, I found the following memorandum:

YARDLEY OAK IN GIRTH, FEET 22, INCHES 6½. THE OAK AT YARDLEY LODGE, FEET 28, INCHES 5.

As to Yardley Oak, it stands in Yardley Chase, where the Earls of Northampton have a fine seat. It was a favourite walk of our dear Cowper, and he once carried me to see that oak. I believe it is five miles at least from Weston Lodge. It is indeed a noble tree, perfectly sound, and stands in an open part of the Chase, with only one or two others near it, so as to be seen to advantage.

"With respect to the oak at Yardley Lodge, that is quite in decay--a pollard, and almost hollow. I took an excrescence from it in the year 1791, and, if I mistake not, Cowper told me it is said to have been an oak in the time of the Conqueror. This latter oak is on the road to the former, but not above half so far from Weston Lodge, being only just beyond Killick and Dinglederry. This is all I can tell you about the oaks. They were old acquaintance and great favourites of the bard. How rejoiced I am to hear that he has immortalized one of them in blank verse! Where could those one hundred and sixty-one lines lie hid? Till this very day I never heard of their existence, nor suspected it."

Though this fragment is inserted among the poems, we extract the following passages, as expressive of the vigour and inspiration of true poetic genius.

Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball, Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs, And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil, Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'd The soft receptacle, in which, secure, Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. So Fancy dreams.

Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods; And Time hath made thee what thou art--a cave For owls to roost in! Once thy spreading boughs O'erhung the champaign: and the numerous flocks, That graz'd it, stood beneath that ample cope Uncrowded, yet safe-sheltered from the storm. No flock frequents thee now. While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd Of treeship--first a seedling, hid in grass; Then twig; then sapling; and as cent'ry roll'd Slow after century, a giant bulk Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root Upheav'd above the soil, and sides imboss'd With prominent wens globose--till, at the last, The rottenness which time is charg'd to inflict On other mighty ones found also thee.

Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to the root--and time has been When tempests could not.[782]

[782] The late Samuel Whitbread, Esq., was an enthusiastic admirer of the poetry of Cowper, and solicitous to obtain a relic of the Yardley oak. Mr. Bull, of Newport Pagnel, promised to send a specimen, but some little delay having occurred, Mr. Whitbread addressed to him the following verses, which, emanating from such a man, and not having met the public eye, will, we are persuaded, be considered as a literary curiosity, and of no mean merit.

"Send me the precious bit of oak, Which your own hand so fondly took From off the consecrated tree, A relic dear to you and me. To many 'twould a bauble prove Not worth the keeping.--Those who love The teeming grand poetic mind, Which God thought fit in chains to bind, Of dreadful, dark despairing gloom; Yet left within such ample room, For coruscations strong and bright: Such beams of everlasting light, As make men envy, love, and dread, The structure of that wondrous head, Must prize a bit of Judith's stem, That brought to light that precious gem-- The fragment: which in verse sublime Records her honours to all time."

With these acknowledged claims to popular favour, it is pleasing to reflect on the singular moderation of Cowper amidst the snares of literary fame. His motives seem to have been pure and simple, and his main design to elevate the character of the age, and to glorify God. He was not insensible to the value of applause, when conferred by a liberal and powerful mind, but even in this instance it was a subdued and chastened feeling. A more pleasing evidence could not be adduced than when Hayley, in one of his visits to Weston, brought a recent newspaper containing a speech of Mr. Fox, in which that distinguished orator had quoted the following impressive verses on the Bastille, in the House of Commons.

Ye horrid tow'rs, the abode of broken hearts: Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair, That monarchs have supplied from age to age With music, such as suits their sov'reign ears, The sighs and groans of miserable men! There's not an English heart that would not leap, To hear that ye were fall'n at last; to know, That e'en our enemies, so oft employ'd In forging chains for us, themselves were free.[783]

[783] These lines were written prophetically, and previously to the event.

Mrs. Unwin discovered marks of vivid satisfaction, Cowper smiled, and was silent.[784]

[784] The late Lord Erskine was a frequent reciter of passages from Cowper's poems. The Editor is indebted to E. H. Barker, Esq. of Thetford, for the following anecdote which was communicated to him by Joseph Jekyll, Esq., the eminent counsellor.

Mr. Jekyll was dining with Lord Oxford, and among the company were Dr. Parr, Horne Tooke, Lord Erskine, and Mr. W. Scott, (brother to Lady Oxford.) Lord Erskine recited, in his admirable manner, the verses of Cowper about the _Captive_, without saying whose they were: Dr. Parr expressed great admiration of the verses, and said that he had never heard of them or seen them before; he inquired whose they were? H. Tooke said, "Why, Cowper's." Dr. Parr said he had never read Cowper's poems. "Not read Cowper's poems!" said Horne Tooke, "and you never will, I suppose, Dr. Parr, till they are turned into Greek?" When the company went into the drawing-room, Lady Oxford presented Dr. Parr with a small edition of Cowper's Poems, and Mr. Jekyll was desired by her ladyship to write in the book, "From the Countess of Oxford to Dr. Parr." Horne Tooke wrote also underneath, "Who never read the book," and signed his name to it: all present signed their names and added some remark, and among the rest W. Scott. At the sale of Dr. Parr's books, this volume fetched about five pounds, being considered valuable and curious, as the W. Scott signed was supposed to have been _Sir_ W. Scott (since Lord Stowell.) Lord Stowell afterwards took great pains to contradict the report.

We have mentioned how little Cowper was elated by praise. We shall now state how much he was depressed by unjust censure. His first volume of poems had been severely criticised by the Analytical Review. His feelings are recorded in the following (hitherto unpublished) letter to John Thornton, Esq.

Olney, May 21, 1782.

Dear Sir,--You have my sincere thanks for your obliging communication, both of my book to Dr. Franklin, and of his opinion of it to me. Some of the periodical critics, I understand have spoken of it with contempt enough; but, while gentlemen of taste and candour have more favourable thoughts of it, I see reason to be less concerned than I have been about their judgment, hastily framed perhaps, and certainly not without prejudice against the subjects of which it treats.

Your friendly intimation of the Doctor's sentiments reached me very seasonably, just when, in a fit of despondence, to which no man is naturally more inclined, I had begun to regret the publication of it, and had consequently resolved to write no more. For if a man has the fortune to please none but his friends and their connexions, he has reason enough to conclude that he is indebted for the measure of success he meets with, not to the real value of his book, but to the partiality of the few that approve it. But I now feel myself differently affected towards my favourite employment; for which sudden change in my sentiments I may thank you and your correspondent in France, his entire unacquaintedness with me, a man whom he never saw, nor will see, his character as a man of sense and condition, and his acknowledged merit as an ingenious and elegant writer, and especially his having arrived at an age when men are not to be pleased they know not why, are so many circumstances that give a value to his commendations, and make them the most flattering a poor poet could receive, quite out of conceit with himself, and quite out of heart with his occupations.

If you think it worth your while, when you write next to the Doctor, to inform him how much he has encouraged me by his approbation, and to add my respects to him, you will oblige me still further; for next to the pleasure it would afford me to hear that it has been useful to any, I cannot have a greater, so far as my volume is in question, than to hear that it has pleased the judicious.

Mrs. Unwin desires me to add her respectful compliments.

I am, dear sir, Your affectionate and most obedient servant, W. C.

To John Thornton, Esq. Clapham, Surrey.

* * * * *

Through this harsh and unwarrantable exercise of criticism, the world might never have possessed the immortal poem of "The Task," if an American philosopher had not awarded that honourable meed of just praise and commendation, which an English critic thought proper to withhold.

But it is not merely the poetic claims of Cowper which have earned for him so just a title to public gratitude and praise. It would be unjust not to bestow particular notice on a talent, in which he singularly excelled, and one that friendship ought especially to honour, as she is indebted to it for a considerable portion of her happiest sources of delight--we mean the talent of writing letters.

Those of Pope are generally considered to be too laboured, and deficient in ease. Swift is frequently ill-natured and offensive. Gray is admirable, but not equal to Cowper either in the graces of simplicity, or in the warmth of affection.

The letters of Cowper are not distinguished by any remarkable superiority of thought or diction; it is rather the easy and graceful flow of sentiment and feeling, his enthusiastic love of nature, his touching representations of common and domestic life, and above all, the ingenuous disclosure of the recesses of his own heart, that constitute their charm and excellence. They form a kind of biographical sketch, drawn by his own hand. His poetry proclaims the author, his correspondence depicts the man. We see him in his walks, in the privacy of his study, in his daily occupations, amid the endearments of home, and with all the qualities that inspire friendship, and awaken confidence and love. We learn what he thought, what he said, his views of men and manners, his personal habits and history. His ideas usually flow without premeditation. All is natural and easy. There is no display, no evidence of conscious superiority, no concealment of his real sentiments. He writes as he feels and thinks, and with such an air of truth and frankness, that he seems to stamp upon the letter the image of his mind, with the same fidelity of resemblance that the canvass represents his external form and features. We see in them the sterling good sense of a man, the playfulness and simplicity of a child, and the winning softness and delicacy of a woman's feelings. He can write upon any subject, or write without one. He can embellish what is real by the graces of his imagination, or invest what is imaginary with the semblance of reality. He can smile or he can weep, philosophize or trifle, descant with fervour on the loveliness of nature, talk about his tame hares, or cast the overflowings of an affectionate heart at the shrine of friendship. His correspondence is a wreath of many flowers. His letters will always be read with delight and interest, and by many, perhaps, will be considered to be the rivals of his poems. They are justly entitled to the eulogium which we know to have been pronounced upon them by Charles Fox,--that of being "the best specimens of epistolary excellence in the English language."

Among men distinguished by classical taste and acquirements, his Latin poems will ever be considered as elegant specimens of composition, and formed after the best models of antiquity.

There is one exquisite little gem, in Latin hexameters, entitled "Votum," beginning thus:

O matutini rores, auræque salubres,

which we believe has never received an English dress. A gentleman of literary taste has kindly furnished us with a pleasing version, which we are happy to subjoin in a note.[785] We trust the author will excuse the insertion of his name.

[785] THE WISH.

"Ye verdant hills, ye soft umbrageous vales, Fann'd by light Zephyr's health-inspiring gales; Ye woods, whose boughs in rich luxuriance wave; Ye sparkling rivulets, whose waters lave Those meads, where erst, at morning's dewy prime, (Reckless of shoals beneath the stream of Time,) My vagrant feet your flowery margin press'd, Whilst Heaven gave back the sunshine in my breast:-- O, would the powers that rule my wayward lot Restore me to the lone paternal cot!

There, far from folly, fraud's ensnaring wiles, The world's dark frown, or still more dangerous smiles, Let peaceful duties peaceful hours engage; Till, winding gently down the slope of age, Tranquil I mark life's swift-declining day Fling deeper shades athwart my lessening way; And pleased, at last put off this mortal coil, Again to mingle with its kindred soil Beneath the grassy turf, or silent stone; Unseen the path I trod, my resting-place unknown."

_T. Ostler._

We have thus endeavoured to exhibit the singular versatility of Cowper's genius, and the combination of powers not often united in the same mind. All that now remains is to consider the consecration of these faculties to high and holy ends; and the influence of his writings on the literary, the moral, and religious character of the age.

The great end and aim which he proposed to himself as an author, has already been illustrated from his writings; we add one more passage to show the sanctity of his character.

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 hoped, but in thy righteousness divine. My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled, Were but the feeble efforts of a child; Howe'er perform'd, it was their brightest part, That they proceeded from a grateful heart. Cleansed 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 failed, nor shall it fail me now.

_Truth._

We confess that we are edified by this simple, yet sublime and holy piety.

It was from this source that Cowper drew the materials that have given to his writings the character of so elevated a morality. Too seldom, alas! have poets consecrated their powers to the cause of divine truth. In modern times, especially, we have witnessed a voluptuous imagery and appeal to the passions, in some highly-gifted writers, which have contributed to undermine public morality, and to tarnish the purity of female minds. But it is the honourable distinction of Cowper's poetry, that nothing is to be found to excite a blush on the cheek of modesty, nor a single line that requires to be blotted out. He has done much to introduce a purer and more exalted taste; he is the poet of nature, the poet of the heart and conscience, and, what is a still higher praise, the poet of Christianity. He mingled the waters of Helicon with the hallowed streams of Siloam, and planted the cross amid the bowers of the muses. Johnson, indeed, has remarked, that religion is not susceptible of poetry.[786] If this be true, it can arise only from the want of religious authors and religious readers. But we venture to deny the position, and to maintain that religion ennobles whatever it touches. In architecture, what building ever rivalled the magnificence of the temple of Jerusalem, St. Peter's in Rome, or the imposing grandeur of St. Paul's? In painting, what power of art can surpass the Transfiguration of a Raphael, the Ecce Homo of a Guido, or the Elevation and Descent of the Cross in a Rubens? In poetry, where shall we find a nobler production of human genius than the Paradise Lost? Again, let us listen to the language of the pious Fénelon:

"No Greek or Latin poetry is comparable to the Psalms. That which begins, 'The God of gods, the Lord hath spoken, and hath called up the earth,' exceeds whatever human imagination has produced. Neither Homer, nor any other poet, equals Isaiah, in describing the majesty of God, in whose presence empires are as a grain of sand, and the whole universe as a tent, which to-day is set up, and removed to-morrow. Sometimes, as when he paints the charms of peace, Isaiah has the softness and sweetness of an eclogue; at others, he soars above mortal conception. But what is there in profane antiquity comparable to the wailings of Jeremiah, when he mourns over the calamities of his people? or to Nahum, when he foresees in spirit the downfall of Nineveh, under the assault of an innumerable army? We almost behold the formidable host, and hear the arms and the chariots. Read Daniel, denouncing to Belshazzar the vengeance of God, ready to fall upon him; compare it with the most sublime passages of pagan antiquity; you find nothing comparable to it. It must be added that, in the Scriptures, every thing sustains itself; whether we consider the historical, the legal, or the poetical part of it, the proper character appears in all."

[786] The reasons which he assigns, in justification of this opinion, are thus specified.

"Let no pious ear be offended if I advance, in opposition to many authorities, that poetical devotion cannot often please. The doctrines of religion may indeed be defended in a didactic poem; and he who has the happy power of arguing in verse will not lose it because his subject is sacred. A poet may describe the beauty and the grandeur of nature, the flowers of the spring, and the harvests of autumn, the vicissitudes of the tide, and the revolutions of the sky, and praise the Maker for his works, in lines which no reader shall lay aside. The subject of the disputation is not piety, but the motives to piety; that of the description is not God, but the works of God.

"Contemplative piety, or the intercourse between God and the human soul, cannot be poetical. Man, admitted to implore the mercy of his Creator, and plead the merits of his Redeemer, is already in a higher state than poetry can confer.

"The essence of poetry is invention; such invention as, by producing something unexpected, surprises and delights. The topics of devotion are few, and being few are universally known; but, few as they are, they can be made no more; they can receive no grace from novelty of sentiment, and very little from novelty of expression.

"Poetry pleases by exhibiting an idea more grateful to the mind than things themselves afford. This effect proceeds from the display of those parts of nature which attract, and the concealment of those which repel the imagination. But Religion must be shown as it is: suppression and addition equally corrupt it; and such as it is, it is known already.

"From poetry the reader justly expects, and from good poetry always obtains, the enlargement of his comprehension and elevation of his fancy; but this is rarely to be hoped by Christians from metrical devotion. Whatever is great, desirable, or tremendous, is comprised in the name of the Supreme Being. Omnipotence cannot be exalted; Infinity cannot be amplified; Perfection cannot be improved.

"The employments of pious meditation are Faith, Thanksgiving, Repentance, and Supplication. Faith invariably uniform, cannot be invested by fancy with decorations. Thanksgiving, the most joyful of all holy effusions, yet addressed to a Being without passions, is confined to a few modes, and is to be felt, rather than expressed. Repentance, trembling in the presence of the Judge, is not at leisure for cadences and epithets. Supplication of man to man may diffuse itself through many topics of persuasion; but supplication to God can only cry for mercy.

"Of sentiments purely religious it will be found that the most simple expression is the most sublime. Poetry loses its lustre and its power, because it is applied to the decoration of something more excellent than itself. All that pious verse can do is to help the memory and delight the ear, and for these purposes it may be very useful; but it supplies nothing to the mind. The ideas of Christian theology are too simple for eloquence, too sacred for fiction, and too majestic for ornament; to recommend them by tropes and figures, is to magnify by a concave mirror the sidereal hemisphere."--See Life of Waller.

These remarks seem to be founded on very erroneous principles; but having already offered our sentiments, we forbear any further comment, except to state that we profess to belong to the school of Cowper; that we participate in the expression of his regret,

"Pity that Religion has so seldom found A skilful guide into poetic ground:"

and that we cordially share in his conviction,

"The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to stray, And every Muse attend her on her way."

_Table Talk._

It would be singular, if a subject which unveils to the eye of faith the glories of the invisible world, and which is to be a theme of gratitude and praise throughout eternity, could inspire no ardour in a poet's soul; and if the wings of imagination could take flight to every world save to that which is eternal. We leave our Montgomeries to refute so gross an error, and appeal with confidence to the page of Cowper.

We quote the following passage, to show that religion can not only supply the noblest theme, but also communicate a corresponding sublimity of thought and language. It is the glowing and poetical description of the millennial period, commencing with--

Sweet is the harp of prophecy.

We have room only for the concluding portion:--

One song employs all nations, and all cry, "Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us!" The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks Shout to each other, and the mountain tops From distant mountains catch the flying joy; Till nation after nation taught the strain, Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. Behold the measure of the promise fill'd; See Salem built, the labour of a god! Bright as a sun the sacred city shines; All kingdoms and all princes of the earth Flock to that light; the glory of all lands Flows into her; unbounded is her joy, And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there; The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind, And Saba's spicy groves pay tribute there. Praise is in all her gates: upon her walls, And in her streets, and in her spacious courts, Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there Kneels with the native of the farthest west; And Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand, And worships. Her report has travell'd forth Into all lands. From every clime they come To see thy beauty, and to share thy joy, O Sion! An assembly such as Earth Saw never, such as Heaven stoops down to see.

_Task_, book vi.

By this devotional strain of poetry, so adapted to the spirit of the present age, Cowper is rapidly accomplishing a revolution in the public taste, and creating a new race of readers. He is purifying the literary atmosphere from its noxious vapours. The muse has too long taken her flight _downwards_; Cowper leads her to hold communion with the skies. He has taught us that literary celebrity, acquired at the cost of public morals, is but an inglorious triumph, and merits no better title than that of splendid infamy. His page has fully proved that the varied field of nature, the scenes of domestic life, and the rich domain of moral and religious truth, are sufficiently ample for the exercise of poetic taste and fancy; while they never fail to tranquillize the mind, to invigorate the principles, and to enlarge the bounds of virtuous pleasure.

The writings of Cowper have also been highly beneficial to the church of England. If he has been a severe, he has also been a faithful monitor. We allude to such passages as the following--

There stands the messenger of truth: there stands The legate of the skies!--His theme divine, His office sacred, his credentials clear. By him the violated law speaks out Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet As angels use, the gospel whispers peace. He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak, Reclaims the wand'rer, binds the broken heart, And, arm'd himself in panoply complete Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule Of holy discipline, to glorious war, The sacramental host of God's elect! Are all such teachers? Would to Heaven all were!

_Task_, book ii.

I venerate the man, whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause. To such I render more than mere respect, Whose actions say that they respect themselves. But, loose in morals, and in manners vain, In conversation frivolous, in dress Extreme-- From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, Preserve the church! and lay not careless hands On skulls that cannot teach and will not learn.

There was a period when the chase was not considered to be incompatible with the functions of the sacred office. On this subject Cowper exclaims, with just and indignant feeling--

Is this the path of sanctity? Is this To stand a way-mark in the road to bliss? 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!

_The Progress of Error._

The danger of popular applause:

O popular applause! what heart of man Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms? The wisest and the best feel urgent need Of all their caution in the gentlest gales; But, swell'd into a gust--who then, alas! With all his canvass set, and inexpert, And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power? Ah, spare your idol! think him human still. Charms he may have, but he has frailties too! Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire.

These rebukes, pungent as they are, were needed. The works of Mrs. Hannah More bear unquestionable testimony to this fact. But we may now record with gratitude a very perceptible change, and appeal to the evidences of reviving piety among all classes of the clergy.

Though the singular and mysterious malady of Cowper has been the occasion of repeated remark, yet we cannot dismiss the subject without a few concluding reflections.

In contrasting with his other letters the correspondence with Newton, the chosen depositary of all his secret woe, it is difficult to recognise in the writer the same identity of character. His mind appears to have undergone some transforming process, and the gay and lively tints of his sportive imagination to be suddenly shrouded in the gloom of a mysterious and appalling darkness. We seem to enter into the regions of sorrow and despair, and to trace the terrific inscription so finely drawn by the poet, in his celebrated "Inferno:"

"Voi ch' entrate lasciate ogni speranza."[787]

Ye who enter here leave all hope behind.

[787] See the "Inferno" of Dante, where this motto is inscribed over the entrance into the abodes of woe.

In contemplating this afflicting dispensation, and referring every event, as we must, to the appointment or permissive providence of God, we feel constrained to exclaim with the patriarch, "_The thunder of his power who can understand?_"[788] But life, as Bishop Hall observes, is made up of perturbations; and those seem most subject to their occurrence who are distinguished by the gifts of rank, fortune, or genius. Such is the discipline which the moral Governor of the world sees fit to employ for the purification of their possessors! In recording the lot of genius, Milton, it is known, was blind, Pope was afflicted with sickness, and Tasso, Swift, Smart, and Collins, were exposed to the aberrations of reason. "Moralists," says Dr. Johnson, "talk of the uncertainty of fortune, and of the transitoriness of beauty; but it is yet more dreadful to consider that the powers of the mind are equally liable to change--that understanding may make its appearance and depart, that it may blaze and expire." It seems as if the mind were too ethereal to be confined within the bounds of its earthly prison, or that the too frequent and intense exercise of thought disturbs the digestive organs, and lays the foundation of hypochondriacal feelings, which cloud the serenity of the soul. It is painful to reflect how much our sensations of comfort and happiness depend on the even flow and circulation of the blood. But the connexion of physical and moral causes has been the subject of philosophical remark in all ages. The somewhat analogous case of the celebrated Dr. Johnson seems to have been overlooked by preceding biographers of Cowper. "The morbid melancholy," observes Boswell, "which was lurking in his constitution, and to which we may ascribe those peculiarities, and that aversion to regular life, which, at a very early period, marked his character, gathered such strength in his twentieth year, as to afflict him in a dreadful manner. While he was at Lichfield, in the college vacation, in 1729, he felt himself overwhelmed with a horrible hypochondria, with perpetual irritation, fretfulness, and impatience; and with a dejection, gloom, and despair, which made existence misery. From this dismal malady he never afterwards was perfectly relieved; and all his labours, and all his enjoyments, were but temporary interruptions of its baleful influence."

[788] Job xxvi. 14.

Let those to whom Providence has assigned a humbler path, learn the duty of contentment, and be thankful that if they are denied the honours attendant on rank and genius, they are at least exempted from its trials. For where there are _heights_, there are _depths_; and he who occupies the summit is often seen descending into the valley of humiliation.

That a similar morbid temperament may be traced in the case of Cowper is indisputable; nor can a more conclusive evidence be adduced than the words of his own memoir:--"I was struck, not long after my settlement in the Temple, with such a dejection of spirits, as none but they who have felt the same can have the least conception of. Day and night I was upon the rack, lying down in horror, and rising up in despair."[789] In his subsequent attack, religion became an adjunct, not a cause, for he describes himself at that period as having lived without religion. The impression under which he laboured was therefore manifestly not suggested by a theological creed, but was the delusion of a distempered fancy. Every other view is founded on misconception, and must inevitably tend to mislead the public.

[789] See page 451.

Before we conclude the Life of Cowper, there are some important reflections, arising from his unhappy malady, which we beg to impress on the attention of the reader.

The fruitful source of all his misery was the indulgence of an over-excited state of feeling. His mind was never quiescent. Occurrences, which an ordinary degree of self-possession would have met with calmness, or passive indifference, were to him the subject of mental agony and distress. His imagination gave magnitude to trifles, till what was at first ideal, at length assumed the character of a terrible reality. He was always anticipating evil; and so powerful is the influence of fancy that what we dread we seldom fail to realize. Thus Swift lived in the constant fear of mental imbecility, and at length incurred the calamity. We scarcely know a spectacle more pitiable, and yet more reprehensible. For what is the use of reason, if we reject its dictates? or the promise of the Spirit to help our infirmities, if we nevertheless yield to their sway? How important in the education of youth to repress the first symptoms of nervous irritability, to invigorate the principles, and to train the mind to habits of self-discipline, and firm reliance upon God! The far greater proportion of human trials originate not in the appointment of Providence, but may be traced to the want of a well-ordered and duly regulated mind; to the ascendency of passion, and to the absence of mental and moral energy. It is possible to indulge in a state of mind that shall rob every blessing of half its enjoyment, and give to every trial a double portion of bitterness.

We turn with delight to a more edifying feature in his character--

_His submission under this dark dispensation._

It is easy to exhibit the triumphs of faith in moments of exultation and joy; but the vivid energy of true faith is never more powerfully exemplified, than when it is left to its own naked exercise, unaided by the influence of exciting causes. It is amid the desolation of hope, and when the iron enters into the soul--it is amid pain, depression, and sorrow, when the eye is suffused with tears, and every nerve vibrates with emotion--to be able to exclaim at such a moment, "Here I am, let him do with me as seemeth him good;"[790] this is indeed the faith which is of the operation of the Spirit, which none but God can give, and which will finally lead to a triumphant crown.

[790] Letter to Newton, May 20, 1786.

That the mind should still indulge its sorrows, in moments of awakened feeling, is natural. On this subject we know nothing more touching than the manner in which Cowper parodies and appropriates to himself Milton's affecting lamentation over his own blindness:[791]

Seasons return, but not to me returns God, or the sweet approach of heavenly day, Or sight of cheering truth, or pardon seal'd, Or joy, or hope, or Jesus' face divine; But cloud, &c.

To this quotation we might add the affecting conclusion of the poem of "The Castaway."

We perish'd each alone; But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.[792]

[791] Paradise Lost, book iii.

[792] See p. 446.

_The overruling Providence of God is no less discernible in this event._

The severest trials are not without their alleviation, nor the accompaniment of some gracious purpose. Had it not been for Cowper's visitation, the world might never have been presented with The Task, nor the Church of Christ been edified with the Olney Hymns. He was constrained to write, in order to divert his melancholy. "Despair," he observes, "made amusement necessary, and I found poetry the most agreeable amusement."[793] "In such a situation of mind, encompassed by the midnight of absolute despair, and a thousand times filled with unspeakable horror, I first commenced an author. Distress drove me to it; and the impossibility of subsisting without some employment, still recommends it."[794] How wonderful are the ways of God, and what a powerful commentary on Cowper's own celebrated hymn--

God moves in a mysterious way, &c.

It will probably be found, at the last great day, that the darkest dispensations were the most essential links in the chain of providential dealings; and that what we least understood, and often contemplated with solemn awe on earth, will form the subject of never-ceasing praise in eternity.

[793] Letter to Newton, Aug. 6, 1785.

[794] Letter to Newton, May 20, 1786.

_Whatever were the trials of Cowper, they are now terminated._

It will be remembered that his kinsman saw, or thought he saw, in the features of his deceased friend, "an expression of calmness and composure, mingled, as it were, with holy surprise."[795] We would not attach too much importance to a look, but rather rest our hopes of Cowper's happiness on the covenanted mercy and faithfulness of God. Still the supposition is natural and soothing; and we by no means think it improbable that the disembodied spirit might communicate to the earthly lineaments, in the moment of departure, the impression of its own heavenly joy. And O! what must have been the expression of that surprise and joy, when, as his immortal spirit ascended to him that gave it, instead of beholding the averted eye of an offended God, he recognised the radiant smiles of his reconciled countenance, and the caresses of his tenderness and love--when all heaven burst upon his astonished view; and when, amid angels, and archangels, and the spirits of just men made perfect, he was invited to bear his part in the glorious song of the redeemed, _Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory, and honour, and power; for thou hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, and hast made us unto our God kings and priests for ever and ever_.

[795] See page 448.

But it is time to close our remarks on the Life and Writings of Cowper. It is a name that has long entwined itself around the affections of our heart, and appealed, from early days, both to conscience and feeling. We lament our inadequacy to fulfil all the duties of the present important undertaking, but the motives which have powerfully urged us to engage in it, are founded on a wish to exhibit Cowper in accordance with his own Christian character and principles; to vindicate him from prevailing misconceptions; and in imputing the gloom of depression, under which he laboured, to its true causes, so to treat this delicate subject as to make it the occasion of sympathizing interest, and not of revolting and agonized feelings. The private correspondence, in this respect, is invaluable, and absolutely essential to the clear elucidation of his case. Other documents have also been inserted that never appeared in any previous biography of Cowper; and private sources of information have been explored, not easily accessible to other inquirers. We trust this object has been attained, and the hope of so important a result is a source of cheering consolation. The history of Cowper is fruitful in the pathetic, the sublime, and the terrible, so as to produce an effect that seems almost to realize the fictions of romance. A life composed of such materials cannot fail to command attention. It possesses all the bolder lineaments of character, relieved by the familiar, the tender, the sportive, and the gay. Emotions are thus excited in which the heart loves to indulge; for who does not delight alternately in the calmness of repose, and in the excitement of awakened feeling?

But, independently of the interest created by the events of Cowper's life, there is something singularly impressive in the mechanism of his mind. It is so curiously wrought, and wonderfully made, as to form a subject for contemplation to the philosopher, the Christian, and the medical observer. The union of these several qualifications seems necessary to analyze the interior springs of thought and action, to mark the character of God's providential dealings, and to trace the influence of morbid temperament on the powers of the intellect and the passions of the soul. His mind presents the most wonderful combinations of the grave and the gay, the social and the retired, ministering to the spiritual joy of others, yet enveloped in the gloom of darkness, enchained with fetters, yet vigorous and free, soaring to the heights of Zion, yet precipitated to the depths below. It resembles a beautiful landscape, overshadowed by a dark and impending cloud. Every moment we expect the cloud to burst on the head of the devoted sufferer; and the awful anticipation would be fulfilled, were it not that a divine hand, which guides every event, and without which not even a sparrow falls to the ground, interposes and arrests the shock. Upwards of twenty years expired, during which he was thus graciously upheld. He then began to sink under his accumulated sorrows. But it is worthy of observation, that during this period his mind never suffered _a total alienation_. It was a partial eclipse, not night, nor yet day. He lived long enough, both for himself and others, sufficient to discharge all the claims of an affectionate friendship, and to raise to himself an imperishable name on the noble foundation of moral virtue. At length, when he stood alone, as it were, like a column in the melancholy waste; when he was his own world, and the solitary agent, around which clung the sensations of a heart always full, and the reflections of a mind unconscious of a pause--he died. But his last days and moments were soothed by the offices of Christian kindness, and the most disinterested regard. His beloved kinsman never left him till he had closed his eyes in death, and till the disembodied spirit, at length, found the rest in heaven, which for ever obliterated all its earthly sorrows.

_And there shall be no more curse, but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him. And they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light; and they shall reign for ever and ever._--Rev. xxii. 3-5.

ON THE GENIUS AND POETRY OF COWPER.

BY THE REV. J. W. CUNNINGHAM, A.M., VICAR OF HARROW.

In presenting to the public the first Complete Edition of the Works of Cowper, it is thought desirable to prefix to the Poems a short dissertation on his Genius and Poetry. It is true that criticisms abound which have nearly the same object. It is true also that some of these criticisms are of a very high order of excellence. But perhaps their very number and merit supply a reason for adding at least one to the catalogue. The observations of the different Reviewers are scattered over so large a number of volumes, and these volumes are many of them, either of so expensive or so ephemeral a character, that an essay which endeavours to collect these criticisms into a focus, and present them at once to the eye of the reader, is far from superfluous. And the present critique pretends to little more than the accomplishment of this object. The writer is not ashamed to profit from the labour and genius of his predecessors in the same course, and to let them say for him, what he could not say so well for himself.

With this apology for what might otherwise be deemed a work of supererogation, we enter upon the proposed undertaking.

And here we must begin by observing that it is impossible not to be struck with certain peculiarities in the _history_ of Cowper, as connected with his poetical productions. Although, as it has been truly said of him--"born a poet, if ever there was one,"--thinking and feeling upon all occasions as none but a poet could, expressing himself in verse with almost incredible facility, it does not appear that Cowper, between the ages of fourteen and thirty-three, produced anything beyond the most trifling specimens of his art. The only lines characteristic of his genius and peculiarities as a poet, and which, though composed at a distance of more than thirty years from the publication of "The Task," have so intimate a resemblance to it as to seem to be a page out of the same volume, are those written at the age of eighteen, on finding the heel of an old shoe.

"This ponderous heel of perforated hide, Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks) The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown Upbore: on this supported, oft he stretched, With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe, Flattening the stubborn clod; till cruel time, (What will not cruel time?) or a wry step, Sever'd the strict cohesion; when, alas! He who could erst, with even, equal pace, Pursue his destin'd way, with symmetry, And some proportion form'd, now, on one side, Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys, Cursing his frail supporter, treach'rous prop! With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on."

A few light and agreeable poems, two hymns written at Huntingdon, with about sixty others composed at Olney, are almost the only known poetical productions of his pen between the years 1749 and 1782, at which last period he committed his volume of poems in rhyme to the press. There are examples in the physical world, of mountains reposing in coldness and quietness for ages; and, at length, without any apparently new stimulus, awaking from their slumber, and deluging the surrounding vineyards with streams of fire. But it is, we believe, an unheard-of poetical phenomenon, for a mind teeming with such tendencies and capabilities as that of Cowper, to sleep through so long a period, and, at length, suddenly to awake, when illness and age might seem to have laid their palsying hand upon its energies, and at once to erect itself into poetical life and supremacy. In general, the poet either 'lisps in numbers,' or begins to put forth his hidden powers under the exciting influence of some new passion or emotion--such as love, fear, hope, or disappointment. But, how wide of this was the history of Cowper! In his case, the muse had no infancy, but sprang full armed from the brain of the poet.

But, if the tardy development of the poetical powers of our author was one peculiarity in his case, the suddenness and completeness of the development, when it did take place, was, under his circumstances, a still greater subject of surprise. In the account of his life we learn, that, after quitting Westminster school, at the age of eighteen, he spent three years in a solicitor's office; and passed from thence, at the age of twenty-one, into chambers in the Inner Temple. Soon after this event, he says of himself, "I was struck, not long after my settlement in the Temple, with such a dejection of spirits, as none but they who have felt the same can have the least conception of. Day and night I was upon the rack, lying down in horror, rising up in despair. I presently lost all relish for the studies to which before I had been closely attached. The classics had no longer any charm for me. I had need of something more salutary than amusement, but I had no one to direct me where to find it." This dejection of mind, as our readers are aware, led him onward from depth to depth of misery and despair, till at length he was borne away, helpless and hopeless, in the year 1768, to an asylum for insane patients at St. Albans. Released from the awful grasp of a perverted imagination, chiefly by the power of that religion, which, in spite of every fact in his history, has been, with malignant hatred to Christianity, charged as the cause of his madness, he spent the two happiest years of his life at Huntingdon. After this, he retired with the Unwin family to Olney, in Buckinghamshire; and there, after passing through the most tremendous mental conflicts, sank again into a state of despondency; from which he at length awoke, (if it might be called awaking,) not indeed to be freed from his delusions, but, whilst under their dominion, to delight, instruct, and astonish mankind, with some of the most original and enchanting poems in any language. The philosophical work of Browne, dedicated to Queen Caroline, and composed, as the author says, by a man who had lost his "rational soul," has been always reputed the miracle of literature. But Browne's case is scarcely more remarkable than that of Cowper. That a work sparkling with the most childlike gaiety and brilliant wit; exhibiting the most cheerful views of the character of God, the face of nature, and the circumstances of man, should proceed from a writer who at the time regarded God as an implacable enemy; the earth we live on, as the mere porch to a world of punishment; and human life, at least in his own case, as the cloudy morning of a day of interminable anguish--all this is to be explained only by the fact that madness disdains all rules, and reconciles all contrarieties. His history supplies an example, not without its parallel, of a mind--like some weapon drawn from its sheath to fight a particular battle, and then suspended on the walls again--called forth to accomplish an important end, and then sent back again into obscurity. And it is no less an evidence, amongst a thousand other instances, that our heavenly Father "in judgment remembers mercy," and bestows this mitigation of the heaviest of all maladies, that those exposed to its deadliest influence and themselves denied all access to the bright sources of happiness, are sometimes privileged to pour the streams of consolation over the path of others. How truly may it be said of such persons, "_Sic vos, non vobis, mellificatis apes_."

But whilst we speak of certain peculiarities in the case of Cowper, as calculated to destroy all reasonable expectation of such poems as he has given to the public, we are not sure that these very peculiarities have not assisted to supply his poetry with some of its characteristic and most valuable features. Among the qualities, for example, by which his compositions are distinguished, are those of strong sense--moderation on all the subjects most apt to throw the mind off its balance--maturity in thought, reasoning and imagination--fulness without inflation--the "strength of the oak without its nodosities"--the "inspiration of the Sybil without her contortions"--the most profound and extensive views of human nature. But perhaps every one of these qualities is oftener the growth of age than of youth; and is rather the tardy fruit of patient experience than the sudden shoot of untrained and undisciplined genius.

In like manner, the poetry of Cowper is characterised by the most touching tenderness, by the deepest sympathy with the sufferings of others, by a penetrating insight into the dark recesses of a tempted and troubled heart. But where are qualities such as these so likely to be cultivated as in the shady places of a suffering mind, and in the school of that stern mistress who teaches us "from our own, to melt at others' woe," and to administer to others the medicines which have healed ourselves? A celebrated physician is said to have inoculated himself with the virus of the plague, in order to practise with more efficacy in the case of others. Such voluntary initiation in sorrow was needless in the case of Cowper;--another hand had opened the wound which was to familiarize him with the deepest trials of suffering humanity.

It is time, however, that we should proceed to consider some of the claims of Cowper to the character of a poet. Large multitudes have found an almost irresistible charm in his writings. In what peculiarities does this powerful influence mainly reside?

In order to reply to this question, we would first direct the attention of our readers to the constitution of his mind.

And here we may enter on our work by observing, that almost all critics have regarded an _ardent love of nature_ as a _sine quâ non_ in the constitution of a poet. And nature, surely, never had a more enthusiastic admirer than the author of the Task. How feelingly does he write on this subject!

"I have loved the rural walk through lanes Of grassy swarth, close cropp'd by nibbling sheep, And skirted thick with intertexture firm Of thorny bows; have loved the rural walk O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink, E'er since, a truant boy, I pass'd my bounds, T' enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames.

When Homer describes his shepherd as contemplating the heavens and earth by the light of the moon and stars, and says, with his accustomed simplicity and grace,--"The heart of the shepherd is glad;" our author might seem to have sat for the portrait. Although unacquainted with nature in her sublimest aspect, every point in creation appears to have a charm for him. To no lips would the strain of another poet be more appropriate.

"I care not, fortune, what you me deny; You cannot rob me of free nature's grace; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns by living stream at eve."

It is true, that every enthusiastic lover of nature is not a poet: but a man can scarcely rise to the dignity of that high office who has not a touch of this enthusiasm. Poetry is essentially an imitative art; and he who is no lover of nature loses all the finest subjects of imitation. On the contrary, this attachment, especially if it be of an ardent character, supplies subjects to the muse every where. Winter or summer, the wilderness and the garden, the cedar of Libanus, and the hyssop on the wall; all that is dull and ineloquent to another has a voice for him, and rouses him to think, to feel, to admire, and to speak. The following lines are said to have been introduced into "The Task," to gratify Mrs. Unwin, after the first draught of the poem was finished. But what language can exhibit a more genuine attachment to nature?

"And witness, dear companion of my walks, Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive Fast lock'd in mine.... Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, And that my raptures are not conjur'd up To serve occasion of poetic pomp, But genuine; and art partner of them all."

Nor was the delight which he derived from nature confined, in the case of our poet, to one sense. "All the _sounds_," he writes, "that nature utters are delightful, at least in this country. I should not perhaps find the roarings of lions in Africa, or of bears in Russia, very pleasing; but I know of no beast in England, whose voice I do not account musical, save and except only the braying of an ass. The notes of all our birds and fowls please me, without one exception. I should not indeed think of keeping a goose in a cage, that I might hang him up in the parlour for the sake of his melody, but the goose upon a common, or in a farm-yard, is no bad performer. Seriously, however, it strikes me as a very observable instance of providential kindness to man, that such an exact accord has been contrived between his ear and the sounds with which, at least in a rural situation, it is almost every moment visited. The fields, the woods, the gardens, have each their concerts; and the ear of man is for ever regaled by creatures who seem only to please themselves. Even the ears that are deaf to the Gospel are continually entertained, though without knowing it, by sounds for which they are solely indebted to its Author."[796]

[796] Letter to Mr. Newton.

It is interesting to compare with this the poetical expression of the same thought.

"Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds Exhilirate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature.... ........ Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, But animated nature sweeter still, To soothe or satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The live-long night. Nor those alone whose notes Nice finger'd art must emulate in vain; But cawing rooks, and kites, that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming loud; The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl, That hails the rising moon, have charms for me."

Another poetical quality in the mind of Cowper is his _ardent love of his species_--a love which led him to contemplate, with the most solicitous regard, their wants, tastes, passions; their diseases, and the appropriate remedies for them. It has been justly observed, that, if there are some who have little taste for the poetry which delineates only inanimate beings or objects, there is hardly any one who does not listen, with sympathy and delight, to that which exhibits the fortunes and feelings of man. The truth is, we suppose, that this last order of topics is most easily brought home to our own business and bosoms. Aristotle considers that the imitation or delineation of human action is one of the main objects of poetry. But if this be true, if the "proper study of mankind is man," and one of the highest offices of poetry be to exhibit, as upon the stage, the fortunes and passions of his fellow beings--few have attained such eminence in his art as Cowper. His hymns are the close transcripts of his own soul. His rhymed poems have more of a didactic character; but they are for the most part exhibitions of man in all his attitudes of thought and action. They are mirrors in which every man may contemplate his own mind. In the "Task," he passes every moment from the contemplation of nature to that of the being who inhabits this fair, though fallen, world. He lashes the vices, laughs at the follies, mourns over the guilt of his species; he spares no pains to conduct the guilty to the feet of their only true Friend, and to land the miserable amidst the green pastures and still waters of heavenly consolation.

Another property in the mind of Cowper, which has given birth to some of the noblest passages in his poems, is his intense love of freedom. The political state of this country was scarcely ever more degraded than at the period when he began to write; and every real patriot who could wield the pen, or lift the voice in the cause of legitimate and regulated freedom, had plenty to do at home. At the same period also the profligacy and tyranny of the privileged orders in France, and other of the old European dynasties, were such as to provoke the indignation of every lover of liberty. And lastly, at this time, that horrible traffic in human flesh, that capital crime, disgrace, and curse of the human species, the Slave Trade, prevailed in all its horrors. How splendid are many of the passages scattered so prodigally through his poems, in which the author rebukes the crimes of despotism and cruelty at home or abroad, and claims for mankind the high privileges with which God, by an everlasting charter, had endowed them.

What lines can breathe a deeper indignation, than those quoted with such admiration by Mr. Fox, in the House of Commons, on the Bastile?

"Ye horrid towers, th' abode of broken hearts, Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, That monarchs have supplied, from age to age, With music such as suits their sovereign ears, The sighs and groans of miserable men: There's not an English heart that would not leap To hear that ye were fallen at last."

And what passage in any uninspired writer is more noble and heart-stirring, than that on the decision in the case tried by the illustrious Granville Sharpe, to establish the liberty of all who touched the soil of England--a passage confessedly the foundation of the noblest effort of Curran, in his great speech on the liberty of the subject!

"I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation priz'd above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home--then why abroad? And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through ev'ry vein Of all your empire; that, where Britain's pow'r Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too."

But after all, perhaps, the peculiarity in the mind of Cowper, which gives the chief charm to his poetry, is the _depth and ardour of his piety_.

It is impossible not to be aware of the severance which critics have laboured to effect between religion and poetry,--between the character of the prophet and the poet: and that Johnson's decision is thought by some to be final on the subject. Cowper himself admits that the connexion has been rare between the two characters--as witness the following lines--

"Pity religion has so seldom found A skilful guide into poetic ground! For flow'rs would spring where'er she deigned to stray, And ev'ry muse attend her in her way. Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend, And many a compliment politely penn'd; But, unattir'd in that becoming vest Religion weaves for her, and half undrest, Stands in the desert, shiv'ring and forlorn, A wintry figure like a wither'd thorn."

But he does not despair of seeing some

"Bard all fire, Touch'd with a coal from heaven, 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.'"

Indeed no theory can have less foundation either in philosophy or in fact, than that poetry and religion have too little in common, for either to gain by an attempt to unite them. They seem to us born for each other. And, so important is this topic, that, although at the risk of repeating what has been said elsewhere, it may be well for a moment, to dwell upon it.

The theory which endeavours to secure a perpetual divorce between religion and poetry has not the authority of the great critics of antiquity. Longinus maintains, in one place, that "he who aims at the reputation of a sublime writer must spare no labour to educate his soul to grandeur, and to impregnate it with great and generous ideas." And he affirms, in another, that "the faculties of the soul will grow stupid, the spirit be lost, and good sense and genius lie in ruins, when the care and study of man is engaged about the mortal and worthless part of himself, and he has ceased to cultivate virtue, and polish up the nobler part, his soul." Quintilian has a whole chapter to prove that a great writer must be a good man. And the greatest modern critics hold the same language. But, perhaps, in no passage is the truth upon this subject more nobly expressed, and a difficulty connected with it more ably explained, than in the following verses of a poem now difficult of access:

"But, of our souls, the high-born loftier part, Th' ethereal energies that touch the heart; Conceptions ardent, labouring thought intense, Creative fancy's wild magnificence; And all the dread sublimities of song --These, Virtue, these to thee alone belong. Chill'd by the breath of Vice, their radiance dies, And brightest burns, when lighted at the skies; Like vestal lamps, to purest bosoms giv'n, And kindled only by a ray from heav'n."[797]

[797] Grant's (now Lord Glenelg) prize poem on "Restoration of Learning in the East."

Nor does this sentiment stand on the mere authority of critics; but appears to be founded on just views of the constitution of our nature. Lighter themes can be expected to awaken only light and transient feelings in the bosom. The profounder topics of religion sink deeper; touch all the hidden springs of thought and action; and awaken emotions, which have all the force and permanence of the great principles and interests in which they originate.

To us, no assertion would seem to have less warrant, than that _taste_ suffers by its alliance with religion. The proper objects of taste are beauty and sublimity; and if (as a modern critic seems to us to have incontrovertibly established) beauty and sublimity do not reside in the mere forms and colours of the objects we contemplate, but in the associations which they suggest to the mind, it cannot be questioned that the associations suggested to a man of piety, exceed both in beauty and sublimity those of every other class. God, as a Father, is the most lovely of all objects--God, as an avenger, is the most terrible; and it is to the religious man exclusively, that this at once most tender and most terrible Being is disclosed, in all the beauty and majesty of holiness, by every object which he contemplates--

"Præsentiorem conspicimus Deum Per invias rupes, fera per juga, Clivosque præruptos sonantes, Inter aquas, nemorumque noctem."

Or, as the same sentiment is expressed by Cowper,

"His are the mountains, and the valleys his, And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy With a propriety that none can feel, But who, with filial confidence inspired, Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say,--'My Father made them all!'"

It is striking to what an extent the greatest poets of all ages and countries have called in religion, under some form or other, to their assistance. How are the Iliad and Odyssey ennobled by their mythological machinery; by the scales of Fate, the frown of Jove, and the intercession of Minerva! How anxiously does Virgil labour to give a moral and religious character to his Georgics and Æneid! And how nobly do these kindred spirits, by a bold fiction bordering upon truth, display the eternal mansions of joy and of misery, of reward and of punishment; thus disclosing, not by the light of revelation, but by the blended flashes of genius and tradition, the strongest incentives to virtue, and the most terrific penalties of crime.

The same may be affirmed of many of our own most distinguished poets; of "the sage and serious Spenser," and the immortal author of "the Paradise Lost" himself. Nor can we hesitate to trace the deep interest continually excited by the poetry of Cowper, in great measure, to the same source. Though often careless in the structure of his verse; though sometimes lame, and lengthy, and prosaic in his manner; though frequently employed about unpopular topics; he is perhaps the most popular, with the exception of one, of all the English poets: and we believe that the main source of his general acceptance is the fact that he never fails to introduce the Creator into the scenes of his own universe; that, by the soarings of his own mind, he lifts us from earth to heaven, and "makes us familiar with a world unseen;" that he draws largely from the mine of Scripture, and thus exhibits the majesty and love of the Divine Being, in words and imagery which the great object of his wonder and love Himself provides.

It is wholly needless for us to refer to any particular parts of the works of our author, as illustrative of his deep and sanguine spirit of piety. That spirit breathes through every line, and letter. It is, if we may so speak, the animating soul of his verses. The mind of the Christian reader is refreshed, in every step of his progress, by the conviction that the songs thus sung on earth were taught from Heaven; and that, in resigning himself to the sweetest associate for this world, he is choosing the very best guide to another. Indeed, few have been disposed to deny to Cowper the highest of all poetical titles--that of The Poet of Christianity. In this field he has but one rival, the author of the "Paradise Lost." And happily the provinces which they have chosen for themselves within the sacred enclosure are, for the most part, so distinct, that it is scarcely necessary to bring them into comparison. The distinguishing qualities of Milton are a surpassing elevation of thought and energy of expression, which leave the mind scarcely able to breathe under the pressure of his majesty, courage, and sublimity. The main defect of his poetry, as has been justly stated by an anonymous critic, is "the absence of a charm neither to be named nor defined, which would render the whole as lovely as it is beautiful, and as captivating as it is sublime." "His poetry," it is added by the same critic, "will be ever praised by the many, and read by the few. The weakest capacity may be offended by its faults, but it requires a genius equal to his own to comprehend and enjoy all his merits.

"Cowper rarely equals Milton in sublimity, to which his subjects but seldom led; he excels him in easy expression, delicate pleasantry, and generous satire; and he resembles him in the temperate use of all his transcendent abilities. He never crushes his subject by falling upon it, nor permits his subject to crush him by falling beneath it. Invested with a sovereign command of diction, and enjoying unlimited freedom of thought, he is never prodigal of words, and he never riots amidst the exuberance of his conceptions; his economy displays his wealth, and his moderation is the proof of his power; his richest phrases seem the most obvious expression of his ideas, and his mightiest exertions are made apparently without toil. This, as we have already observed, is one of the grandest characteristics of Milton. It would be difficult to name a third poet of our country who could claim a similar distinction. Others, like Cowley, overwhelm their theme with their eloquence, or, like Young, sink exhausted beneath it, by aiming at magnificent, but unattainable, compression; a third class, like Pope, whenever they write well, write their best, and never win but at full speed, and with all their might; while a fourth, like Dryden and Churchill, are confident of their strength, yet so careless of their strokes, that when they conquer, it seems a matter of course, and when they fall, a matter of no consequence, for they can rise again as soon as they please. Milton and Cowper alone appear always to walk _within_ the limits of their genius, yet up to the height of their great argument. We are not pretending to exalt them above all other British poets; we have only compared them together on one point, wherein they accord with each other, and differ from the rest. But there is one feature of resemblance between them of a nobler kind. These good and faithful servants, who had received ten talents each, neither buried them in the earth, nor expended them for their own glory, nor lavished them in profligacy, but occupied them for their Master's service; and we trust have both entered into his joy. Their unfading labours, (not subject to change, from being formed according to the fashion of this world, but being of equal and eternal interest to man in all ages,) have disproved the idle and impious position which vain philosophy, hating all godliness, has endeavoured to establish,--that religion can neither be adorned by poetry, nor poetry ennobled by religion."[798]

[798] Eclectic Review. This criticism it has been ascertained is from the pen of Mr. James Montgomery; and the desire inseparably to connect what is so just and able with the works of Cowper has been the inducement, notwithstanding its length, to introduce it here.

Having thus noticed some of those grand peculiarities in the mind of Cowper, which appear to have mainly contributed to place him among the highest order of poets, we proceed to point out some subordinate qualifications, without which, those already referred to would have failed to raise him to his present elevation. Even the buoyant spirit of a poet has certain inferior members by which it is materially assisted in its upward flight.

In the first place, then, he was one of the most _simple_ and _natural_ of all writers. With the exception of the sacred volume, it would perhaps be impossible to name any compositions with so large a proportion of simple ideas and Saxon monosyllables. He began to be an author when Pope, with his admirable critic Johnson, had established a taste for all that was most ornate, pompous, and complicated in phraseology. But, with due respect for the genius and power of this class of writers, he may be said to have hewn out for himself a new path to glory. It has been justly said by an accomplished modern critic and poet, that, "between the school of Dryden and Pope, with their few remembered successors, not one of whom ranks now above a fourth-rate poet; for Young, Thomson, Goldsmith, Gray, and Collins, though flourishing in the interval, were not of their school, but all, in their respective ways, originals;--between the school of Dryden and Pope, and our undisciplined, independent contemporaries, Cowper stands as having closed the age of the former illustrious masters, and commenced that of the eccentric leaders of the modern fashions in song. We cannot stop to trace the affinity which he bears to either of these generations, so dissimilar from each other; but it would be easy to show how little he owed to his immediate forerunners, and how much his immediate followers have been indebted to him. All the cant phrases, all the technicalities, of the former school he utterly threw away, and by his rejection of them they became obsolete. He boldly adopted cadences of verse unattempted before, which though frequently uncouth, and sometimes scarcely reducible to rhythm, were not seldom ingeniously significant, and signally energetic. He feared not to employ colloquial, philosophical, judicial idioms, and forms of argument, and illustrations, which enlarged the vocabulary of poetical terms, less by recurring to obsolete ones, (which has been too prodigally done since,) than by hazardous, and generally happy innovations of more recent origin, which have become graceful and dignified by usage, though Pope and his imitators durst not have touched them. The eminent adventurous revivers of English poetry about thirty years ago, Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, in their blank verse, trod directly in the steps of Cowper, and, in their early productions at least, were each, in a measure, what he made them. Our author may be legitimately styled the father of this triumvirate, who are, in truth, the living fathers of the innumerable race of moderns, whom no human ingenuity could well classify into their respective schools."[799]

[799] Montgomery's Essay on Cowper's Poems.

The simplicity of Cowper as a thinker, examiner, and writer, is unquestionably one of his greatest charms. He constantly reminds us of a highly-gifted and intelligent child. In all that he says and does, there is a total absence of all plot and stratagem, of all pretensions to think profoundly, or write finely; though, without an effort, he does both. His manner is to invite you to walk abroad with him amidst the glories of nature; to fix at random on some point in the landscape; to display its beauties or its peculiarities--to touch on some feature which has, perhaps, altogether escaped your own eye--to pour out the simplest thoughts in the simplest language--and to make you feel that never man before had so sweet, so moral, so devout, so affectionate, so gifted, so musical a companion. The simplicity of his style is, we believe, considering its strength, without a parallel. No author, perhaps, has done more to recover the language of our country from the grasp and tyranny of a foreign idiom, and to teach English people to speak in English accents. In some instances, it may be granted, that he is somewhat more colloquial and homely than the dignity of his subject warrants. But for offences of this kind he makes the amplest compensation, by leading us to those "wells of undefiled English," at which he had drunk so deeply, and whence alone the pure streams of our national composition are to be drawn.

It is next to be noticed, as to the style of Cowper, that it is as _nervous_ as it is clear and unpretending. It is impossible to compare the works of Addison, and others of the simple class of writers, with Johnson, and those of the opposite class, without feeling that what they gain in simplicity they often lose in strength and power. But the language of Cowper is often to the full as vigorous and masculine as that of Shakspeare. Bring a tyrant or a slave-driver before him for judgment; and the axe of the one and the scourge of the other are not keener weapons than the words of the poet.

It would be difficult to find in any writer a more striking example of nervous phraseology than we have in the well-known lines:

"But hark--the doctor's voice!--fast wedged between Two empirics he stands, and with swoll'n cheeks Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far Than all invective, is his bold harangue, While through that public organ of report He hails the clergy; and defying shame, Announces to the world his own and theirs! He teaches those to read, whom schools dismissed And colleges, untaught; sells accent, tone, And emphasis in score, and gives to pray'r Th' _adagio_ and _andante_ it demands. He grinds divinity of other days Down into modern use; transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gall'ry critics by a thousand arts. Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware? O name it not in Gath!--It cannot be, That grave and learned clerks should need such aid. He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll; Assuming thus a rank unknown before-- Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the church!"

In the next place, it will not be questioned, we think, by any reader of the preceding letters, that Cowper was a _wit_ of the very highest order--and this quality is by no means confined to his prose, but enters largely into everything that he writes. No author surprises us more frequently with rapid turns and unexpected coincidences. The mock sublime is one of his favourite implements; and he employs it with almost unrivalled success. There is also a delicacy of touch in his witticisms which is more easily felt than described. And his wit has this noble singularity, that it is never derived from wrong sources, or directed to wrong ends. It never wounds a feeling heart, or deepens the blush upon a modest cheek. Other wits are apt to dip their vessels in any stream which presents itself; Cowper draws only from the purest fountains. It has been said of Sterne, that he hides his pearls in a ditch, and forces his readers to dive for them; but the witticisms of Cowper are as well calculated to instruct as to delight.

This last topic is intimately connected with another, which, in touching on the excellences of Cowper as a poet, cannot be passed over,--we mean, the astonishing _fertility of his imagination_. It was observed to the writer of these pages by the late Sir James Mackintosh, of the friend and ornament of his species, William Wilberforce, that "he was perhaps the finest of all orators of his own particular order--that the wealth of his imagination was such, that no idea seemed to present itself to his mind without its accompanying image or ghost, which he could produce at his pleasure, and which it was a matter of self-denial if he did not produce." And the latter part of this criticism might seem to be made for Cowper. His mind appears never to wait for an image, but to be overrun by them. In argument or description--in hurling the thunders of rebuke, or whispering the messages of mercy--he does but wave his wand, and a host of spiritual essences descend to darken or brighten the scenes at his bidding; to supply new weapons of rebuke, or new visions of love and joy. Some of his personifications are among the finest specimens in any language. What, for example, has more of the genuine spirit of poetry, than the personification of Famine, in the following lines?--

"He calls for Famine...... ......and the meagre fiend Blows mildew from between his shrivell'd lips And taints the golden ear."

What is more lively or forcible than his description of Time?--

"Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoiled and swift, and of a silken sound; But the world's Time is Time in masquerade! Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged With motley plumes; and where the peacock shows His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red With spots quadrangular of diamond form, Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, And spades, the emblems of untimely graves. What should be and what was an hour-glass once, Become a dice-box, and a billiard mace Well does the work of his destructive scythe."

What, again, is superior in this way to his address to Winter?--

"O Winter! ruler of the inverted year! Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, A lifeless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urged by storms along its slippery way."

But the examples of this species of personification are without number; and we are not afraid to bring many of them into comparison with the Discord of Homer, the Fame of Virgil, or the Famine of Ovid--passages of so powerful a cast as at once, and without any assistance, to establish the poetical authority of their inventors.

It may seem strange to some, that we should assign a place, among the poetical claims of Cowper, to his _strong sense_. He appears to us to be one of the most just, natural, and rational of all writers; and, however Poetry may seem to appropriate to herself rather the remote and visionary regions of fiction than that of dull reality, we are disposed to think, that, even in her wildest wanderings, she will maintain no real and permanent ascendency over the mind, if she widely deviates from nature and good sense. "Monstrous sights," says Beattie, and he might have added, monstrous conceptions, "please but for a moment, if they please at all; for they derive their charm merely from the beholders' amazement. I have read indeed of a man of rank in Sicily who chooses to adorn his villa with pictures and statues of the most unnatural deformity. But it is a singular instance; and one would not be much more surprised to hear of a man living without food, or growing fat upon poison. To say of anything that it is 'contrary to nature,' denotes censure and disgust on the part of the speaker; as the epithet 'natural' intimates an agreeable quality, and seems, for the most part, to imply that a thing is as it ought to be, suitable to our own taste, and congenial to our own disposition.... Think how we should relish a painting in which there was no regard to colours, proportions, or any of the physical laws of nature; where the eyes and ears of animals were placed in their shoulders; where the sky was green, and the grass crimson." Such distortions and anomalies would not be less offensive in poetry than in the sister art. And it is one of the main sources of delight in Cowper, that all is in its due proportion, and wears its right colours; that the "eyes and ears" are in "their proper places;" that his skies are blue, and his grass is green; and that every reflection of the poet has, what he himself calls the

"Stamp and clear impression of good sense."

The very passage in the sixth book of "The Task" from which this line is taken, and which furnishes perhaps the most perfect uninspired delineation of a true Christian, supplies, at the same time, an admirable example of the quality we mean; and shows, that even where his feelings were the most intensely interested, his passions were under the control of his reason; that, when he mounted the chariot of the sun, he took care not to approach too near the flaming luminary.

It would be impossible, in a sketch such as this, not to advert to the powers of the author as a _satirist_. And here, we think the most partial critic will be scarcely disposed to deny, that he sometimes handles his knife a little at random and with too much severity. He had early in life been intimate with Churchill; and, with scarcely a touch of the temper of that right English poet, had plainly caught something of his manner. There is this wide distinction between him and his master--that his irony and rebuke are never the weapons of party, or personality, but of truth, honour, and the public good. The strong, though homely, image applied by Churchill to another critic,--

"Like a butcher, doom'd for life In his mouth to wear his knife,"--

is too just a picture of its author, but is infinitely far from being that of Cowper. It was well said of his satire, that "it was the offspring of benevolence; and that, like the Pelian spear, it furnishes the only cure for the wound it inflicts. When he is obliged to blame, he pities; when he condemns, it is with regret. His censures display no triumphant superiority; but rather express a turn of feeling such as we might suppose angels to indulge in at the prospect of human frailty."

But, if his satirical powers were sometimes indulged to excess, it is impossible to deny that he was, generally and habitually, of all poets the most _sympathizing and tender_. Nothing in human composition can surpass the tenderness of the poem on receiving his mother's picture, or of those exquisite lines addressed to a lady in France suffering under deep calamity, of which last we shall quote a few for the ornament of our page:--

"The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown: No trav'ller ever reach'd that blest abode, Who found not thorns and briers in his road. The world may dance along the flowery plain, Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain, Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread With unshod feet they yet securely tread, Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend, Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. But He, who knew what human hearts would prove, How slow to learn the dictates of his love, That, hard by nature, and of stubborn will, A life of ease would make them harder still, In pity to the souls his grace design'd To rescue from the ruins of mankind, Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years, And said, 'Go, spend them in the vale of tears.' O balmy gales of soul-reviving air! O salutary streams that murmur there! These flowing from the fount of grace above, Those breathed from lips of everlasting love."

The Hymns are almost uniformly of the same character. Drawn from the deep recesses of a broken heart, they find a short and certain way to the bosom of others.

And this leads to the notice of another peculiarity in his writings. It is said to have been a favourite maxim with Lord Byron, "that every writer is interesting to others in proportion as he is able and willing to seize and to display to them the hidden workings of his own soul." The noble critic is himself a strong exemplification of the truth of his own rule. Not merely his heroes and his heroines, but his rocks, mountains, and rivers, are a sort of _fac simile_ of himself. The blue lake reposing among the mountains is the bard in a state of repose. The thunder leaping from rock to rock is the same mind under the strong excitement of passion. But perhaps of all writers Cowper is the most habitually what may be termed an experimentalist in poetry. He sought in "the man within," the secret machinery by which to touch and to control the world without. He felt deeply; and caught the feeling as it arose, and transferred it, warm from the heart to his own paper. Hence one great attraction of his writings. "As face answereth to face in water, so the heart of man to man." The sensations of other men are to a great degree our own; and the poetical exhibition of these sensations is the presenting to us a sort of illuminated mirror, in which we see ourselves, and are, according to the view, moved to sorrow or to joy. Preachers as well as poets will do well to remember this law of our nature, and will endeavour to analyze and to delineate their own feelings, if they mean to reach those of others. Unhappily, the noble author of this canon in philosophy and literature had no very profitable picture of this kind to display to his fellow men. He speaks, however, of "unmasking the hell that dwelt within." And he has taught no unimportant lesson to his species, if he has instructed us in the utter wretchedness of those who, gifted with the noblest powers, refuse to consecrate them to the glorious Giver. But, however unprofitable his own application of the rule, the rule itself is valuable; and, in the case of Cowper, we have the application of it, both on the largest scale and to the best possible purpose.

There is one other feature in the mind of Cowper on which, before quitting the subject of this examination, we must be permitted to say a few words. It has been the habit with many, while freely conceding to our poet most of the humbler claims to reputation for which we have contended, to assign him only a second or third place in the scale of poets, on the ground that he is, according to their estimate, altogether "incapable of the _true sublime_." Now it must be admitted that, if the only true sublimity in writing be to write like Milton, Cowper cannot be ranked in the same class as a poet. Of Milton it may be said, in the words of a poet as great as himself--

"He doth bestride the world Like a Colossus: and we petty men Walk under his huge legs."

Nothing can be more astonishing than the composure and dignity with which, like his own Satan, he climbs the "empyreal height"--sails between worlds and worlds--and moves among thrones and principalities, as if in his natural element. "The genius of Cowper," as it has been justly said, "did not lead him to emulate the songs of the seraphim:" but though, in one respect, he moves in a lower region than his great master, in what may be termed the "moral sublime," he is by no means inferior to him. Scarcely any poetry awakens in the mind more of those deep emotions of "pity and terror," which the great critic of antiquity describes as the main sources of the sublime; and by which poetry is said to "_purge_ the mind of her votaries." In this view of the sublime we know of few passages which surpass the description of "liberty of soul," in the conclusion of the 5th book of "The Task."

"Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul; and, by a flash from heav'n, Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not, Till Thou hast touch'd them; 'tis the voice of song, A loud hosanna sent from all thy works; Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, And adds his rapture to the gen'ral praise. In that blest moment, Nature, throwing wide Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile The Author of her beauties; who, retir'd Behind His own creation, works unseen By the impure, and hears his pow'r denied. Thou art the source and centre of all minds, Their only point of rest, eternal Word! From Thee departing, they are lost, and rove At random, without honour, hope, or peace. From Thee is all that soothes the life of man, His high endeavour, and his glad success, His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. But, O Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown! Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor; And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away!"

In like manner the Millennium of Cowper is at least not inferior to the Messiah of Pope. The corresponding passage in the latter writer is greatly inferior to that in which our poet says,--

"... No foe to man Lurks in the serpent now--the mother sees, And smiles to see, her infant's hand Stretch'd forth to dally with the crested worm, To stroke his azure neck, and to receive The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue."

And few passages in any poem have more of the true sublime than that which follows soon after the last extract:--

"One song employs all nations, and all cry 'Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us!' The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks Shout to each other, and the mountain tops From distant mountains catch the flying joy: Till, nation after nation taught the strain, Earth rolls the rapturous hosanna round."

Having offered these general observations "on the Genius and Poetry" of Cowper, and having so largely drawn from his sweet and instructive pages, it is not thought necessary to supply any more specific notice of his several poems. It is superfluous to enter upon a detailed proof that his poems in rhyme, though occasionally brightened by passages of extraordinary merit, are often prosaic in their character, and halting and feeble in the versification; that his shorter poems, whether of a gay or of a devotional cast, are, for pathos, wit, delicacy of conception, and felicity of expression, unequalled in our language; that his Homer is an evidence, not of his incapacity as a translator, but of the impossibility of transmuting into stiff unyielding English monosyllables the rich compounds of the Greek, without a sacrifice both of sound and sense; that "The Task" outruns in power, variety, depth of thought, fertility of imagination, vigour of expression, in short, in all which constitutes a poet of the highest order, every hope which his earlier poems had allowed his readers to indulge. The dawn gave little or no promise of such a day. The porch was in no sense commensurate to the temple afterwards to be erected.--On the whole, his "Poems" will always be considered as one of the richest legacies which genius and virtue have bequeathed to mankind; and will be welcomed wherever the English language is known, and English minds, tastes, and habits prevail; wherever the approbation of what is good and the abhorrence of what is evil are felt; wherever truth is honoured, and God and his creatures are loved.

With these observations, we bring our imperfect criticisms on the Poems of Cowper to a conclusion. The writer of them does not hesitate to say that he has been amply rewarded for his own critical labours, by the privilege of often escaping from his own page to that of his author. And the reader of them will be still more largely compensated if, when weary of the critic, he will turn aside to breathe an ardent supplication to the Giver of all that was good and great in Cowper, that he himself may drink deeply of the spirit, without participating in the sorrows of this most holy, most distinguished, most suffering, but now most triumphant, servant of the God and Saviour to whom he so nobly and habitually dedicated all his powers.

PREFACE TO THE POEMS.

When an author, by appearing in print, requests an audience of the public, and is upon the point of speaking for himself, whoever presumes to step before him with a preface, and to say, "Nay, but hear me first," should have something worthy of attention to offer, or he will be justly deemed officious and impertinent. The judicious reader has probably, upon other occasions, been beforehand with me in this reflection: and I am not very willing it should now be applied to me, however I may seem to expose myself to the danger of it. But the thought of having my own name perpetuated in connexion with the name in the title-page is so pleasing and flattering to the feelings of my heart, that I am content to risk something for the gratification.

This Preface is not designed to commend the Poems to which it is prefixed. My testimony would be insufficient for those who are not qualified to judge properly for themselves, and unnecessary to those who are. Besides, the reasons which render it improper and unseemly for a man to celebrate his own performances, or those of his nearest relatives, will have some influence in suppressing much of what he might otherwise wish to say in favour of a friend, when that friend is indeed an _alter idem_, and excites almost the same emotions of sensibility and affection as he feels for himself.

It is very probable these Poems may come into the hands of some persons, in whom the sight of the author's name will awaken a recollection of incidents and scenes, which through length of time they had almost forgotten. They will be reminded of one, who was once the companion of their chosen hours, and who set out with them in early life in the paths which lead to literary honours, to influence and affluence, with equal prospects of success. But he was suddenly and powerfully withdrawn from those pursuits, and he left them without regret; yet not till he had sufficient opportunity of counting the cost, and of knowing the value of what he gave up. If happiness could have been found in classical attainments, in an elegant taste, in the exertions of wit, fancy, and genius, and in the esteem and converse of such persons, as in these respects were most congenial with himself, he would have been happy. But he was not--he wondered (as thousands in a similar situation still do) that he should continue dissatisfied, with all the means apparently conducive to satisfaction within his reach--But in due time the cause of his disappointment was discovered to him--he had lived without God in the world. In a memorable hour, the wisdom which is from above visited his heart. Then he felt himself a wanderer, and then he found a guide. Upon this change of views, a change of plan and conduct followed of course. When he saw the busy and the gay world in its true light, he left it with as little reluctance as a prisoner, when called to liberty, leaves his dungeon. Not that he became a Cynic or an Ascetic--a heart filled with love to God will assuredly breathe benevolence to men. But the turn of his temper inclining him to rural life, he indulged it, and, the providence of God evidently preparing his way and marking out his retreat, he retired into the country. By these steps the good hand of God, unknown to me, was providing for me one of the principal blessings of my life; a friend and a counsellor, in whose company for almost seven years, though we were seldom seven successive waking hours separated, I always found new pleasure--a friend who was not only a comfort to myself, but a blessing to the affectionate poor people among whom I then lived.

Some time after inclination had thus removed him from the hurry and bustle of life, he was still more secluded by a long indisposition, and my pleasure was succeeded by a proportionable degree of anxiety and concern. But a hope, that the God whom he served would support him under his affliction, and at length vouchsafe him a happy deliverance, never forsook me. The desirable crisis, I trust, is now nearly approaching. The dawn, the presage of returning day, is already arrived. He is again enabled to resume his pen, and some of the first fruits of his recovery are here presented to the public. In his principal subjects, the same acumen, which distinguished him in the early period of life, is happily employed in illustrating and enforcing the truths of which he received such deep and unalterable impressions in his maturer years. His satire, if it may be called so, is benevolent, (like the operations of the skilful and humane surgeon, who wounds only to heal,) dictated by a just regard for the honour of God, an indignant grief excited by the profligacy of the age, and a tender compassion for the souls of men.

His favourite topics are least insisted on in the piece entitled Table Talk; which therefore, with some regard to the prevailing taste, and that those, who are governed by it, may not be discouraged at the very threshold from proceeding farther, is placed first. In most of the large poems which follow, his leading design is more explicitly avowed and pursued. He aims to communicate his own perceptions of the truth, beauty, and influence of the religion of the Bible--a religion, which, however discredited by the misconduct of many, who have not renounced the Christian name, proves itself, when rightly understood, and cordially embraced, to be the grand desideratum, which alone can relieve the mind of man from painful and unavoidable anxieties, inspire it with stable peace and solid hope, and furnish those motives and prospects which, in the present state of things, are absolutely necessary to produce a conduct worthy of a rational creature, distinguished by a vastness of capacity which no assemblage of earthly good can satisfy, and by a principle and pre-intimation of immortality.

At a time when hypothesis and conjecture in philosophy are so justly exploded, and little is considered as deserving the name of knowledge, which will not stand the test of experiment, the very use of the term experimental in religious concernments is by too many unhappily rejected with disgust. But we well know, that they, who affect to despise the inward feelings which religious persons speak of, and to treat them as enthusiasm and folly, have inward feelings of their own, which, though they would, they cannot, suppress. We have been too long in the secret ourselves, to account the proud, the ambitious, or the voluptuous, happy. We must lose the remembrance of what we once were, before we can believe that a man is satisfied with himself, merely because he endeavours to appear so. A smile upon the face is often but a mask worn occasionally and in company, to prevent, if possible, a suspicion of what at the same time is passing in the heart. We know that there are people who seldom smile when they are alone, who therefore are glad to hide themselves in a throng from the violence of their own reflections; and who, while by their looks and their language they wish to persuade us they are happy, would be glad to change their conditions with a dog. But in defiance of all their efforts they continue to think, forbode, and tremble. This we know, for it has been our own state, and therefore we know how to commiserate it in others.--From this state the Bible relieved us--when we were led to read it with attention, we found ourselves described. We learned the causes of our inquietude--we were directed to a method of relief--we tried, and we were not disappointed.

Deus nobis hæc otia fecit.

We are now certain that the gospel of Christ is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth. It has reconciled us to God, and to ourselves, to our duty and our situation. It is the balm and cordial of the present life, and a sovereign antidote against the fear of death.

Sed hactenus hæc. Some smaller pieces upon less important subjects close the volume. Not one of them, I believe, was written with a view to publication, but I was unwilling they should be omitted.

JOHN NEWTON.

Charles Square, Hoxton, February 18, 1782.

TABLE TALK.

Si te fortè meæ gravis uret sarcina chartæ, Abjicito.

HOR. LIB. I. EP. 13.

THE ARGUMENT.

True and false glory--Kings made for man--Attributes of royalty in England--Quevedo's satire on kings--Kings objects of pity--Inquiry concerning the cause of Englishmen's scorn of arbitrary rule--Character of the Englishman and the Frenchman--Charms of freedom--Freedom sometimes needs the restraint of discipline--Reference to the riots in London--Tribute to Lord Chatham--Political state of England--The vices that debase her portend her downfall--Political events the instruments of Providence--The poet disclaims prophetic inspiration--The choice of a mean subject denotes a weak mind--Reference to Homer, Virgil, and Milton--Progress of poesy--The poet laments that religion is not more frequently united with poetry.

_A._ 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 lightning spares; Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust, And eats into his bloody sword like rust.

_B._ 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 memory, dear to every 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 Heaven bestows. And, when recording History displays Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days, Tells of a few stout hearts, that fought and died, Where duty placed them, at their country's side; The man that is not moved with what he reads, That takes not fire at their heroic deeds, 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 nought but his ambition true, Who, for the sake of filling with one blast The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste. Think yourself stationed on a towering rock, To see a people scattered like a flock, Some royal mastiff panting at their heels, With all the savage thirst a tiger feels; Then view him self-proclaim'd in a gazette Chief monster that has plagued the nations yet. The globe and sceptre in such hands misplaced, Those ensigns of dominion, how disgraced! The glass, that bids man mark the fleeting hour, And Death's own scythe, would better speak his power; Then grace the bony phantom in their stead With the king's shoulder-knot and gay cockade; Clothe the twin brethren in each other's dress, The same their occupation and success.

_A._ 'Tis your belief the world was made for man; Kings do but reason on the self-same plan: Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn, Who think, or seem to think, man made for them.

_B._ Seldom, alas! the power of logic reigns With much sufficiency in royal brains; Such reasoning 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-ennobling thought, Could they, or would they, reason as they ought. The diadem, with mighty projects lined, To catch renown by ruining mankind, Is worth, with all its gold and glittering 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; 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 unbridled 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!

_A._ Guard what you say: the patriotic tribe Will sneer, and charge you with a bribe.--_B._ A bribe? The worth of his three kingdoms I defy, To lure me to the baseness of a lie; And, of all lies, (be that one poet's boast,) The lie that flatters I abhor the most. Those arts be theirs who hate his gentle reign, But he that loves him has no need to feign.

_A._ Your smooth eulogium, to one crown address'd, Seems to imply a censure on the rest.

_B._ 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 group is in full 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 the historic page.

_A._ Kings then at last have but the lot of all: By their own conduct they must stand or fall.

_B._ True. While they live, the courtly laureate pays His quitrent ode, his peppercorn 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, overawed 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 flatterer bows, And binds a wreath about their baby brows: Whom education stiffens into state, And death awakens from that dream too late. Oh! if 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; If smiling peeresses and simpering peers, Encompassing 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, Shouldering and standing as if stuck 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, E'en 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 the anxiety he feels, Hook disappointment on the public wheels; 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 the unwash'd artificer repairs, To 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 favourites may pretend, And in reality to find no friend; If he indulge a cultivated taste, His galleries with the works of art well graced, 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 confined the sphere, Happy the state that has not these to fear!

_A._ 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 theirs; 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 fix'd attention more than you.

_B._ 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 stockjobbers and Jews.

_A._ Vouchsafe, at least, to pitch the key of rhyme, 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; Generals, 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, I hear as mute as if a syren sung. Or tell me, if you can, what power 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.

_B._ The cause, though 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. Liberal 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 flowers; Unwelcome vapours quench autumnal beams, Ungenial blasts attending curl the streams: The peasants urge their harvest, ply the fork With double toil, and shiver at their work; Thus with a rigour, for his good design'd, She rears her favourite 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 lodged, and masculine of course. Hence Liberty, sweet Liberty inspires And keeps alive his fierce but noble fires. Patient of constitutional control, He bears it with meek manliness of soul; But, if authority grow wanton, woe To him that treads upon his free-born toe; One step beyond the boundary 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 ours, Not form'd like us, with such Herculean powers, 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 misery far away: He drinks his simple beverage with a gust; And, feasting on an onion and a crust, We never feel the alacrity and joy With which he shouts and carols, Vive le Roi! Filled with as much true merriment and glee As if he heard his king say--Slave, be free. Thus happiness depends, as Nature shows, Less on exterior things than most suppose. 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 slavery to a smile, And fill with discontent a British isle.

_A._ Freeman and slave then, if the case be such, Stand on a level; and you prove too much: If all men indiscriminately share His fostering power, and tutelary care, As well be yoked by Despotism's hand, As dwell at large in Britain's charter'd land.

_B._ 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, Opening and wider opening on her view, She ventures onward with a prosperous force, While no base fear impedes her in her course: Religion, richest favour of the skies, Stands most reveal'd before the freeman's eyes; No shades of superstition blot the day, Liberty chases 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 listening 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 firstborn 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. O Liberty! the prisoner's pleasing dream, The poet's muse, his passion, and his theme; Genius is thine, and thou art Fancy's nurse; Lost without thee the ennobling powers 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.

_A._ 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 ours Too apt to play the wanton with her powers, Grow freakish, and, o'erleaping every mound, Spread anarchy and terror all around?

_B._ Agreed. But would you sell or slay your horse For bounding and curveting in his course? Or if, when ridden with a careless rein, He break away, and seek the distant plain? No. His high mettle, under good control, 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 desperate task; Let active laws apply the needful curb, To guard the peace that riot would disturb; And Liberty, preserved 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 dared to look his master in the face; When the rude rabble's watchword 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. 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 when 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.

_A._ Patriots, alas! the few that have been found, Where most they flourish, upon English ground, The country's need have scantily supplied, And the last left the scene when Chatham died.

_B._ 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 clothed 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, He stood, as some inimitable hand Would strive to make a Paul or Tully stand. No sycophant or slave, that dared oppose Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose; And every venal stickler for the yoke Felt himself crushed at the first word he spoke. Such men are raised 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 power The crisis of a dark decisive hour. So Gideon earned a victory not his own; Subserviency his praise, and that alone. Poor England! thou art a devoted deer, Beset with every ill but that of fear. The nations hunt; all mark thee for a prey; They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st at bay: Undaunted still, though wearied and perplex'd, Once Chatham saved thee; but who saves thee next? 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 every virtue, every grace, Confess'd a God; they kneel'd before they fought, And praised him in the victories he wrought. Now from the dust of ancient days bring forth Their sober zeal, integrity, and worth; Courage, ungraced by these, affronts the skies, Is but the fire without the sacrifice. The stream that feeds the wellspring of the heart Not more invigorates life's noblest part, Than virtue quickens with a warmth divine The powers that sin has brought to a decline.

_A._ The 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 raised it, and it fell. He trod the very selfsame ground you tread, And victory refuted all he said.

_B._ And yet his judgment was not framed amiss; Its error, if it err'd, was merely this-- He thought the dying hour already come, And a complete recovery struck him dumb. But that effeminacy, folly, lust, Enervate and enfeeble, and needs must; And that a nation shamefully debased Will be despised and trampled on at last, Unless sweet penitence her powers 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 elapsed, the incurable revolt Is punish'd, and down comes the thunderbolt. If Mercy then put by the threatening blow, Must she perform the same kind office now? May she! and, if offended Heaven be still Accessible, and prayer prevail, she will. '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; Prayer 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 let or sold; When perjury, that Heaven-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 avarice starves (and never hides his face) Two or three millions of the human race, And not a tongue inquires 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, Bespeaks a land, once Christian, fallen 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 ancient Rome Speak to the present times and times to come; They cry aloud in every careless ear, Stop, while ye may; suspend your mad career; O learn, from our example and our fate, Learn wisdom and repentance ere too late! Not only Vice disposes and prepares The mind that slumbers sweetly in her snares, To stoop to tyranny's usurped 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, 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 a seal of wrath press'd down, Obduracy takes place; callous and tough, The reprobated race grows judgment-proof: Earth shakes beneath them, and Heaven 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 gulf from which is no return. They trust in navies, and their navies fail-- God's curse can cast away ten thousand sail! 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 despised, 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.

_A._ Such lofty strains embellish what you teach, Mean you to prophesy, or but to preach?

_B._ 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, Whatever 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 every feeling line. But if a deed not tamely to be borne Fire indignation and a sense of scorn, The strings are swept with such a power, so loud, The storm of music shakes the astonish'd crowd. So, when remote futurity is brought Before the keen inquiry of her thought, A terrible sagacity informs The poet's heart; he looks to distant storms; He hears the thunder ere the tempest lowers! And, arm'd with strength surpassing human powers, 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 shared, And every hallowed druid was a bard. But no prophetic fires to me belong; I play with syllables, and sport in song.

_A._ At Westminster, where little poets strive To set a distich upon six and five, Where Discipline helps opening buds of sense And makes his pupils proud with silver pence, I was a poet too: but modern taste Is so refined, 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 sacrificed to sound, And truth cut short to make a period round, I judged a man of sense could scarce do worse Than caper in the morris-dance of verse.

_B._ Thus reputation is a spur to wit, And some wits flag through fear of losing it, Give me the line that ploughs its stately course, Like a proud swan, conquering 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, Beating alternately, in measured time, The clockwork tintinnabulum of rhyme, 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 every effort ends in pushpin play 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 whipp'd cream. As if an eagle flew aloft, and then-- Stoop'd from its highest pitch to pounce a wren. As if the poet, purposing to wed, Should carve himself a wife in gingerbread. Ages elaps'd ere Homer's lamp appear'd, And ages ere 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 every region that he chose; He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose; And, tedious years of Gothic darkness pass'd, Emerged all splendour in our isle at last. Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main, Then show far off their shining plumes again.

_A._ Is genius only found in epic lays? Prove this, and forfeit all pretence to praise. Make their heroic powers your own at once, Or candidly confess yourself a dunce.

_B._ These were the chief; each interval of night Was graced 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 unnoticed, 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 paddock round. In Eden, ere yet innocence of heart Had faded, poetry was not an art; Language, above all teaching, or if taught, Only by gratitude and glowing thought, Elegant as simplicity, and warm As ecstacy, unmanacled by form, Not prompted, as in our degenerate 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 seduced the mind To joys less innocent, as less refined; Then Genius danced a bacchanal; he crown'd The brimming goblet, seized 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, profaned the sacred wires: Anacreon, Horace, play'd in Greece and Rome This bedlam part; and others nearer home. When Cromwell fought for power, and while he reign'd The proud protector of the power 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 Judged every 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 assumed the sway, And arts revived beneath a softer day, Then, like a bow long forced into a curve, The mind, released 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, 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 ceased till, ever anxious to redress The abuses of her sacred charge, the press, The Muse instructed a well nurtured 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 neither gave nor would endure offence, Whipp'd out of sight, with satire just and keen, The puppy pack that had defiled the scene. In front of these came Addison. In him Humour in holiday and sightly trim, Sublimity and Attic taste combined, To polish, furnish, and delight the mind. Then Pope, as harmony itself exact, In verse well disciplined, complete, compact, Gave virtue and morality a grace, That, quite eclipsing pleasure's painted face, Levied a tax of wonder and applause, E'en on the fools that trampled 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 every warbler has his tune by heart. Nature imparting her satiric gift, Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift, With droll sobriety they raised 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.

_A._ Are we then left?--_B._ 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, Perhaps some courser, who disdains the road, Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad. Contemporaries all surpass'd, see one; Short his career indeed, but ably run; Churchill, himself unconscious of his powers, In penury consumed his idle hours; And, like a scatter'd seed at random sown, Was left to spring by vigour 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, The laurel seem'd to wait on his command; He snatch'd it rudely from the muses' hand. Nature, exerting an unwearied power, Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower; 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 expense) 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, dipp'd in heaven, 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 dappled east, And marks, whatever clouds may interpose, Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close; An eye like his to catch the distant goal; Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll, Like his to shed illuminating rays On every scene and subject it surveys: Thus graced, the man asserts a poet's name, And the world cheerfully admits the claim. Pity Religion has so seldom found A skilful guide into poetic ground! The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to stray, And every muse attend her in her way. Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend, And many a compliment politely penn'd; But, unattired in that becoming vest Religion weaves for her, and half undress'd, Stands in the desert shivering and forlorn, A wintry figure, like a wither'd thorn. The shelves are full, all other themes are sped; Hackney'd and worn to the last flimsy thread, Satire has long since done his best; and curst And loathsome ribaldry has done his worst; Fancy has sported all her powers 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 heaven, 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 flowery style, The tedium 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, Debased 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 discovery, 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. _A._ Hail, Sternhold, then! and, Hopkins, hail!--_B._ Amen. If flattery, 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 theirs is worth them all.

_A._ 'Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe, To dash the pen through all that you proscribe

_B._ 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. iv. Od. 2.

THE ARGUMENT.

Origin of error--Man endowed with freedom of will--Motives for action--Attractions of music--The chase--Those amusements not suited to the Clergy--Case of Occiduus--Force of example--Due observance of the Sabbath--Cards and dancing--The drunkard and the coxcomb--Folly and innocence--Hurtful pleasures--Virtuous pleasures--Effects of the inordinate indulgence of pleasure--Dangerous tendency of many works of imagination--Apostrophe to Lord Chesterfield--Our earliest years the most important--Fashionable education--The grand tour--Accomplishments have taken the place of virtue--Qualities requisite in a critic of the Bible--Power of the press--Solicitude of enthusiasm to make proselytes--Fondness of authors for their literary progeny--The blunderer impatient of contradiction--Moral faults and errors of the understanding reciprocally produce one another--The cup of pleasure to be tasted with caution--Force of habit--The wanderer from the right path directed to the Cross.

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 flowery shades, That not a glimpse of genuine light pervades, The poisonous, black, insinuating worm Successfully conceals her loathsome form. 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 rhetoric they display Shines as it runs, but, grasp'd at, slips away. Placed for his trial on this bustling stage, From thoughtless youth to ruminating age, Free in his will to choose or to refuse, Man may improve the crisis, or abuse; Else, on the fatalist's unrighteous plan, Say, to what bar amenable were man? With nought in charge he could betray no trust: And, if he fell, would fall because he must; If 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. Heaven from above, and conscience from within, Cries in his startled ear--Abstain from sin! The world around solicits his desire, And kindles in his soul a treacherous 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: Those open on the spot their honeyed store; These 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-- Power, pomp, and splendour, and the thirst of praise; There beauty wooes him with expanded arms; E'en bacchanalian madness has its charms. Nor these alone, whose pleasures less refined Might well alarm the most unguarded mind, Seek to supplant his inexperienced youth, Or lead him devious from the path of truth; Hourly allurements on his passions press, Safe in themselves, but dangerous in the excess. Hark! how it floats upon the dewy air! O what a dying, dying close was there! 'Tis harmony, from yon sequester'd bower. Sweet harmony, that soothes the midnight hour! Long ere the charioteer of day had run His morning course the enchantment was begun; And he shall gild yon mountain's height again, Ere 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 adored employ, Enthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy, Love makes the music of the blest above, Heaven's harmony is universal love; And earthly sounds, though sweet and well combined, And lenient as soft opiates to the mind, Leave vice and folly unsubdued behind. Grey dawn appears; the sportsman and his train Speckle the bosom of the distant plain; 'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighbouring lairs; Save that his scent is less acute than theirs, For persevering chase, and headlong leaps, True beagle as the stanchest hound he keeps. Charged with the folly of his life's mad scene, He takes offence, and wonders what you mean; 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 every fence but one, there falls and dies; Like a slain deer, the tumbrel 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 ye forsake your sphere, Prodigies ominous and view'd with fear: The comet's baneful influence is a dream; Yours real, and pernicious in the extreme. What then! are appetites and lusts laid down With the same ease that man puts on his gown? Will avarice and concupiscence give place, Charm'd by the sounds--Your Reverence, 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. 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 waymark on the road to bliss? Himself a wanderer 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, Quavering and semiquavering care away. The full concerto swells upon your ear; All elbows shake. Look in, and you would swear The Babylonian tyrant with a nod Had summon'd them to serve his golden god. So well that thought the employment seems to suit, Psaltery and sackbut, dulcimer and flute. O fie! 'tis evangelical and pure: Observe each face, how sober and demure! Ecstacy sets her stamp on every mien; Chins fallen, and not an eyeball to be seen. Still I insist, though music heretofore Has charm'd me much (not e'en Occiduus more), Love, joy, and peace make harmony more meet For sabbath evenings, and perhaps as sweet. Will not the sickliest sheep of every 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? Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay! Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play. O Italy!--Thy sabbaths will be soon Our sabbaths, closed with mummery and buffoon. Preaching and pranks will share the motley scene, Ours parcelled 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 business, both it should exclude, And bar the door the moment they intrude; Nobly distinguished 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 observed aright, When the glad soul is made Heaven's welcome guest, Sits banqueting, and God provides the feast. But triflers are engaged and cannot come; Their answer to the call is--Not at home. O the dear pleasures of the velvet plain, The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again! 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 refined, 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, 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-featured, and of infant size, View'd from a distance, and with heedless eyes, Folly and innocence are so alike, The difference, though essential, fails to strike. Yet Folly ever has a vacant stare, A simpering countenance, 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; But, if he play the glutton and exceed, His benefactress blushes at the deed. For Nature, nice, as liberal to dispense, Made nothing but a brute the slave of sense. Daniel ate pulse by choice--example rare! Heaven bless'd the youth, and made him fresh and fair. Gorgonius sits, abdominous and wan, Like a fat squab upon a Chinese fan: He snuffs far off the anticipated joy; Turtle and venison 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 could. 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 the abuse, or by the excess. Is man then only for his torment placed The centre of delights he may not taste? 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 enjoins 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? 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 indifferent lord? Are sweet philosophy's enjoyments run Quite to the lees? And has religion none? Brutes capable would tell you 'tis a lie, And judge you from the kennel and the stye. 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 Heaven bestows Your pleasures, with no curses at the close. Pleasure admitted in undue degree Enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free. 'Tis not alone the grape's enticing juice Unnerves the moral powers, and mars their use; Ambition, avarice, and the lust of fame, And woman, lovely woman, does the same. The heart, surrender'd to the ruling power Of some ungovern'd passion every hour, Finds by degrees the truths that once bore sway, And all their deep impressions, wear away; So coin grows smooth, in traffic current pass'd, Till Cæsar's image is effaced at last. The breach, though small at first, soon opening 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 imposed on, and then are. 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 poniard 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 novelists, who mar what ye would mend, Snivelling and drivelling folly without end; 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, inexperienced yet and green, To scribble as you scribbled 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 power, 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 disguised the inflammatory tale, And cover'd with a fine-spun specious veil; Such writers, and such readers, owe the gust And relish of their pleasure all to lust. 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 every 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 cursed the priest. Thou polish'd and high-finish'd foe to truth, Graybeard corrupter of our listening youth, To purge and skim away the filth of vice, That so refined 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 canst, one letter from the shades, One, and one only, charged with deep regret, That thy worst part, thy principles, live yet; One sad 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 raised with tenderness are seldom strong; Man's coltish disposition asks the thong; And without discipline the favourite child, Like a neglected forester, 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, With reverend tutor, clad in habit lay, To tease for cash, and quarrel with all day; With memorandum book for every town, And every 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 wanderer into foreign lands. Surprised at all they meet, the gosling pair, With awkward gait, stretch'd neck, and silly stare, Discover huge cathedrals built with stone, And steeples towering high, much like our own; But show peculiar light by many a grin At popish practices observed within. Ere long some bowing, smirking, smart abbé Remarks two loiterers that have lost their way; And, being always primed with politesse For men of their appearance and address, With much compassion undertakes the task To tell them more than they have wit to ask; 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 Cæsar shows-- Defective only in his Roman nose; Exhibits elevations, drawings, plans, Models of Herculanum pots and pans; And sells them medals, which, if neither rare Nor ancient, will be so, preserved with care. Strange the recital! from whatever cause His great improvement and new lights he draws, The squire, once bashful, is shamefaced no more, But teems with powers he never felt before; Whether increased momentum, and the force With which from clime to clime he sped his course, (As axles sometimes kindle as they go,) Chafed him, and brought dull nature to a glow; Or whether clearer skies and softer air, That make Italian flowers so sweet and fair, Freshening 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 graced 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 refined; 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. Learning itself, received into a mind By nature weak, or viciously inclined, 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 its intent. The carriage bowls along, and all are pleased If Tom be sober, and the wheels well greased; But if the rogue be gone a cup too far, Left out his linchpin, 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 noonday. 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 intemperate zeal; But above all, (or let the wretch refrain, Nor touch the page he cannot but profane,) Free from the domineering power of lust; A lewd interpreter is never just. How shall I speak thee, or thy power 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 befell, Diffused, 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. 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, Discoverers of they know not what, confined 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, Poisoning the waters where their swarms abound. Scorn'd by the nobler tenants of the flood, Minnows and gudgeons gorge the unwholesome food. The propagated myriads spread so fast, E'en Leuwenhoeck himself would stand aghast, Employ'd to calculate the enormous sum, And own his crab-computing powers o'ercome. Is this hyperbole? The world well known, Your sober thoughts will hardly find it one. Fresh confidence the speculatist takes From every hair-brain'd proselyte he makes; And therefore prints: himself but half deceived, Till others have the soothing tale believed. 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 forced to bend; If languages and copies all cry, No-- Somebody proved 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, indifferent in your cause, I should deserve to forfeit all applause) 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 ventured far from shore, 'Tis valued for the danger's 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 Heaven to bless the dear deceit. So one, whose story serves at least to show Men loved their own productions long ago, Wooed an unfeeling statue for his wife, Nor rested till the gods had given it life. If some mere driveller suck the sugar'd fib, One that still needs his leading string and bib, 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 blunderer 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 flowery, 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 raised objections with new quibbles meets; 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 every wind. Thus men go wrong with an ingenious skill; Bend the straight 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 awkward 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. For though, ere yet the shaft is on the wing, Or when it first forsakes the elastic string, It err but little from the intended line, It falls at last far wide of his design; So he who 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 Circean cup; He that sips often, at last drinks it up. Habits are soon assumed; 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 power Almighty save you not. There hardening by degrees, till double steel'd, Take leave of nature's God, and God reveal'd; Then laugh at all you trembled at before; And, joining the freethinkers' 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," when address'd 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 wanderer his mistake discern, Judge his own ways, and sigh for a return, 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 power to save. There no delusive hope invites despair; No mockery 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 every vice; Else He that hung there suffer'd all his pain, Bled, groan'd, and agonized, and died, in vain.

TRUTH.

Pensantur trutinâ. HOR. lib. ii. Ep. 1.

THE ARGUMENT.

The pursuit of error leads to destruction--Grace leads the right way--Its direction despised--The self-sufficient Pharisee compared with the peacock--The pheasant compared with the Christian--Heaven abhors affected sanctity--The hermit and his penances--The self-torturing Bramin--Pride the ruling principle of both--Picture of a sanctimonious prude--Picture of a saint--Freedom of a Christian--Importance of motives, illustrated by the conduct of two servants--The traveller overtaken by a storm likened to the sinner dreading the vengeance of the Almighty--Dangerous state of those who are just in their own conceit--The last moments of the infidel--Content of the ignorant but believing cottager--The rich, the wise, and the great, neglect the means of winning heaven--Poverty the best soil for religion--What man really is, and what in his own esteem--Unbelief often terminates in suicide--Scripture the only cure of woe--Pride the passion most hostile to truth--Danger of slighting the mercy offered by the Gospel--Plea for the virtuous heathen--Commands given by God on Sinai--The judgment-day--Plea of the believer.

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 canvas, every sinew plies; Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies! Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes, His well-built systems, philosophic dreams; 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 choose the wrong, Take it and perish; but restrain your tongue; Charge not, with light sufficient and left free, Your wilful suicide on God's decree. Oh how unlike the complex works of man, Heav'n's easy, artless, unencumber'd plan! No meretricious graces to beguile, No clustering ornaments to clog the pile; From ostentation, as from weakness, free, It stands like the cerulian arch we see, Majestic in its own simplicity. Inscribed above the portal, from afar Conspicuous as the brightness of a star, Legible only by the light they give, Stand the soul-quickening words--BELIEVE, AND LIVE. Too many, shock'd at what should charm them most, Despise the plain direction, and are lost. Heaven 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 judged the Pharisee! What odious cause Exposed him to the vengeance of the laws? Had he seduced 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? Sit long and late at the carousing board? (Such were the sins with which he charged 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 sunbeams tempt him to unfold His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold: He treads as if, some solemn music near, His measured step were govern'd by his ear; And seems to say--Ye meaner fowl give place; I am all splendour, 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. The plea of works, as arrogant and vain, Heaven turns from with abhorrence and disdain; Not more affronted by avowed neglect, Than by the mere dissembler's feign'd respect. What is all righteousness that men devise? What--but a sordid bargain for the skies? But Christ as soon would abdicate his own, As stoop from heaven 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 canvas dress'd, Girt with a bell-rope that the pope has bless'd; Adust with stripes told out for every crime, And sore tormented, long before his time; His prayer preferr'd to saints that cannot aid, His praise postponed, and never to be paid; See the sage hermit, by mankind admired, With all that bigotry adopts inspired, Wearing out life in his religious whim, Till his religious whimsy wears out him. 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 purchased heaven, and proved 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 barbarous air to British song; No 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 sufferings scripture nowhere recommends, Devised by self, to answer selfish ends, Give saintship, then all Europe must agree Ten starveling hermits suffer less than he. The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear, And prejudice have left a passage clear) Pride has attained a most luxuriant growth, And poison'd every virtue in them both. Pride may be pamper'd while the flesh grows lean; Humility may clothe an English dean; That grace was Cowper's--his, confess'd by all-- Though placed 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. Yon ancient prude, whose wither'd features show She might be young some forty years ago, Her elbows pinioned close upon her hips, Her head erect, her fan upon her lips, Her eyebrows arched, her eyes both gone astray To watch yon amorous couple in their play, With bony and unkerchief'd neck defies The rude inclemency of wintry skies, And sails with lappet head and mincing airs Duly at clink of bell to morning prayers. To thrift and parsimony much inclined, She yet allows herself that boy behind; The shivering urchin, bending as he goes, With slipshod heels and dewdrop at his nose, His predecessor's coat advanced to wear, Which future pages yet are 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, 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 every day. Of temper as envenom'd as an asp, Censorious, and her every word a wasp; In faithful memory she records the crimes Or real, or fictitious, of the times; Laughs at the reputations she has torn, And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn. Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride, Of malice fed while flesh is mortified: Take, madam, the reward of all your prayers, Where hermits and where bramins meet with theirs; Your portion is with them.--Nay, never frown, But, if you please, some fathoms lower down. 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 cheerful 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 desert with a tenfold dearth? Is it that Adam's offspring may be saved From servile fear, or be the more enslaved? To 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. Shall he, for such deliverance freely wrought, Recompense ill? He trembles at the thought. His Master's interest and his own combined Prompt every 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 sharper's play; He likes your house, your housemaid, and your pay; Reduce his wages, or get rid of her, Tom quits you, with--Your most obedient, sir. The dinner served, 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 interest and your ease, Richly rewarded if he can but please; And, proud to make his firm attachment known, To save your life would nobly risk 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 Heaven approves as honest and sincere The work of generous love and filial fear; But with averted eyes the omniscient Judge Scorns the base hireling and the slavish drudge. Where dwell these matchless saints? old Curio cries. E'en at your side, sir, and before your eyes, The favour'd few--the enthusiasts you despise. And, pleased 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 smokes 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 lightnings dart away. Ere yet it came the traveller urged 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. 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 right of his offended Lord, And death, or restitution, is the word: The last impossible, he fears the first, And, having well deserved, expects the worst. Then welcome refuge and a peaceful home; Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come! Crush me, ye rocks; ye falling mountains, hide, Or bury me in ocean's 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 demeanour 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. For though the pope has lost his interest 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 heaven, no doubt, shall be their home at last. Come, then--a still, small whisper in your ear-- He has no hope who 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, Lived long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and died; The Scripture was his jest book, whence he drew _Bon-mots_ to gall the Christian and the Jew; 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 fumed with frankincense on every side, He begs their flattery with his latest breath, And, smother'd in't at last, is praised to death! Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, Pillow and bobbins all her little store; Content though mean, and cheerful 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; 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, hers the rich reward; He praised 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 heavenly 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 heaven without regret; Regret would rouse them, and give birth to prayer, Prayer 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. Not so--the silver trumpet's heavenly 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: 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 who 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 every 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, 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 scattered wide and no where to be found, As soon shall rise and re-ascend the throne, By native power 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 wandering comet in his sphere, Then boast (but wait for that unhoped for hour) The self-restoring arm of human power. But what is man in his own proud esteem? Hear him--himself the poet and the theme: A monarch clothed 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, 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 fix'd, Pleasure and wonder in his features mix'd, His passions tamed and all at his control, How perfect the composure of his soul! Complacency has breathed a gentle gale O'er all his thoughts, and swell'd his easy sail: His books well trimm'd, and in the gayest style, Like regimental 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. What shall the man deserve of human kind, Whose happy skill and industry combined 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 the 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. 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 Christian's thorny road! The soul, reposing on assured 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 flowery weeds, where'er they grow, That bind the sinner's Bacchanalian brow. Oh, that unwelcome voice of heavenly 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 embitters all his life; In vain he points his powers 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, Fallen 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 undeserved, yet surely not for all! Some beams of rectitude she yet displays, Some love of virtue, and some power to praise; Can lift herself above corporeal things, And, soaring on her own unborrow'd wings, 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, unmellowed 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 the affront against the crown of pride. Perish the virtue, as it ought, abhorr'd, And the fool with it, who insults his Lord. The atonement a Redeemer's love has wrought Is not for you--the righteous need it not. Seest thou yon harlot, wooing all she meets, The worn-out nuisance of the public streets, Herself from morn to night, from night to morn, Her own abhorrence, and as much your scorn? The gracious shower, unlimited and free, Shall fall on her, when Heaven 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 employ'd, may save; While he that scorns the noon-day beam, perverse, Shall find the blessing, unimproved, 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. But still in virtue of a Saviour's plea, Not blind by choice, but destined not to see. Their fortitude and wisdom were a flame Celestial, though they knew not whence it came, Derived 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 reverence and with awe, Led them, however faltering, 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 splendour of a noontide ray, Prefer the twilight of a darker time, And deem his base stupidity no crime; The wretch, who 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, From Sinai's top Jehovah gave the law-- Life for obedience--death for every flaw. When the great Sovereign 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 the injurious deed, the slanderous 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 enthroned: Rouse all your courage at your utmost need, Now summon every virtue, stand and plead. What! silent? Is your boasting heard no more? That self-renouncing wisdom, learn'd before, 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 hoped, but in thy righteousness divine: My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled, Were but the feeble efforts of a child; Howe'er performed, it was their brightest part, That they proceeded from a grateful heart: Cleansed 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.

THE ARGUMENT.

Expostulation with the Muse weeping for England--Her apparently prosperous condition--State of Israel when the prophet wept over it--The Babylonian Captivity--When nations decline, the evil commences in the Church--State of the Jews in the time of our Saviour--Evidences of their having been the most favoured of nations--Causes of their downfall--Lesson taught by it--Warning to Britain--The hand of Providence to be traced in adverse events--England's transgressions--Her vain-glory--Her conduct towards India--Abuse of the sacrament--Obduracy against repentance--Futility of fasts--Character of the Clergy--The poet adverts to the state of the ancient Britons--Beneficial influence of the Roman power--England under papal supremacy--Favours since bestowed on her by Providence--Reasons for gratitude to God and for seeking to secure his favour--With that she may defy a world in arms--The poet anticipates little effect from his warning.

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 clothed with a perpetual smile? Can Nature add a charm, or Art confer A new-found luxury, not seen in her? Where under heaven 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 fervour 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 every 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; All speak her happy: let the muse look round From East to West, no sorrow can be found; Or only what, in cottages confined, 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 slanderer's tongue; Oaths, used as playthings or convenient tools, As interest biass'd knaves, or fashion fools; Adultery, neighing at his neighbour's door; Oppression labouring hard to grind the poor; The partial balance and deceitful weight; The treacherous smile, a mask for secret hate; Hypocrisy, formality in prayer, And the dull service of the lip were there. Her women, insolent and self-caress'd, By Vanity's unwearied finger dress'd, Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart To modest cheeks, and borrow'd one from art; Were just such trifles, without worth or use, As silly pride and idleness produce; Curl'd, scented, furbelow'd, and flounced around, With feet too delicate to touch the ground, They stretch'd the neck, and roll'd the wanton eye, And sigh'd for every fool that flutter'd by. He saw his people slaves to every 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-leaved 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, 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 towers. Long time Assyria bound them in her chain, Till penitence had purged the public stain, And Cyrus, with relenting pity moved, Return'd them happy to the land they loved; 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 tiptoe step Vice silently succeeds. When he that ruled them with a shepherd's rod, In form a man, in dignity a God, Came, not expected in that humble guise, To sift and 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. 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 mockery 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, Pronounced by graybeards a pernicious dream: Then Ceremony leads her bigots forth, Prepared 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; 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 judged 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 others' sins, but none for theirs; Through all he spoke a noble plainness ran-- Rhetoric is artifice, the work of man; And tricks and turns, that fancy may devise, Are far too mean for Him that rules the skies. The astonish'd vulgar trembled while he tore The mask from faces never seen before; He stripp'd the impostors in the noonday sun, Show'd that they follow'd all they seem'd to shun; Their prayers made public, their excesses kept As private as the chambers where they slept; The temple and its holy rites profaned By mummeries He that dwelt in it disdain'd; Uplifted hands, that at convenient times Could act extortion and the worst of crimes, Wash'd with a neatness scrupulously nice, And free from every 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 restored, In answer to the fiat of his word; Confess'd the wonder, and with daring tongue Blasphemed the 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 every 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 interest in Almighty love? Where dwell they now, where dwelt in ancient 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 purchased 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 states 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 dissolved into a flood, The dews condensed 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; Their leader arm'd with meekness, zeal, and love, And graced with clear credentials from above; Themselves secured beneath the Almighty wing; Their God their captain,[800] lawgiver, and king; Crown'd with a thousand victories, 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 revered as far; Where will you find a race like theirs, endow'd With all that man e'er wish'd, or Heaven bestow'd? They, and they only, amongst all mankind, Received the transcript of the 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. Had they maintain'd allegiance firm and sure, And kept the faith immaculate and pure, Then the proud eagles of all-conquering 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 abused brings forth the foulest deeds, As richest soil the most luxuriant weeds. Cured of the golden calves, their fathers' sin, They set up self, that idol god within; View'd a Deliverer with disdain and hate, Who left them still a tributary state; Seized 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 flower 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 favour'd land, look where we may. Philosophy indeed on Grecian eyes Had pour'd the day, and clear'd the Roman skies; In other climes perhaps creative art, With power surpassing theirs, performed 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 the embroidery 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 breathed in faith their well-directed prayers, And the true God, the God of truth, was theirs. Their glory faded, and their race dispersed, 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 escaped not, if Heaven spared not us, Peel'd, scatter'd, and exterminated thus; If vice received 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 prized, Pleasure o'ervalued, and his grace despised, 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 displaced, thy sceptre gone; Thy temple, once thy glory, fallen and rased, And thou a worshipper e'en where thou mayst; Thy services, once holy without spot, Mere shadows now, their ancient pomp forgot; Thy Levites, once a consecrated host, No longer Levites, and their lineage lost, And thou thyself o'er every country sown, With none on earth that thou canst call thine own; 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, find'st thou none? Thou that hast set the persecuted free, None interposes now to succour thee. Countries indebted to thy power, that shine With light derived 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. 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 ashamed 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 burden on the reeling state, And peace does nothing to relieve the weight; Successive loads succeeding broils impose, And sighing millions prophesy 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 heavenly 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 power That balances the wings of every 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, E'en as his will and his decrees ordain; While honour, virtue, piety, bear sway, They flourish; and, as these decline, decay: In just resentment of his injured laws, He pours contempt on them and on their cause; Strikes the rough thread of error right athwart The web of every 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 prosperous wars? Proud of thy fleets and armies, stolen 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 believed 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 stammering tongue With doleful humour and sad presage hung, To quell the valour 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, The event and sure decision of the fight? Hast thou, though suckled at fair freedom's breast, Exported slavery to the conquer'd East? Pull'd down the tyrants India served with dread, And raised thyself, a greater, in their stead? Gone thither arm'd and hungry, return'd full, Fed from the richest veins of the Mogul, A despot big with power obtain'd by wealth, And that obtain'd by rapine and by stealth? With Asiatic vices stored 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 shoved from its design, The Saviour's feast, his own blest bread and wine, And made the symbols of atoning grace An office-key, a picklock 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 every slight pretence, Till perjuries are common as bad pence, While thousands, careless of the damning sin Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er look within? Hast thou, when Heaven has clothed thee with disgrace, And, long provoked, repaid thee to thy face, (For thou hast known eclipses, and endured Dimness and anguish, all thy beams obscured, 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 persevered, And, having chosen evil, scorn'd the voice That cried, Repent!--and gloried in thy choice? Thy fastings, when calamity at last Suggests the expedient of a yearly fast, What mean they? Canst thou dream there is a power In lighter diet at a later hour, To charm to sleep the threatening of the skies, And hide past folly from all-seeing eyes? The fast that wins deliverance, 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 pleasure, 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 heaven, 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 vouchsafed on earth, Burning and scorch'd into perpetual dearth, Or, in his words who damn'd the base desire, Suffering the vengeance of eternal fire: Then nature, injured, scandalized, defiled, Unveil'd her blushing cheek, look'd on, and smiled; Beheld with joy the lovely scene defac'd, And praised the wrath that laid her beauties waste. Far be the thought from any verse of mine, And farther still the form'd and fix'd 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 pierced 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-interest, and ambition clear, Their hope in heaven, servility their scorn, Prompt to persuade, expostulate, and warn, Their wisdom pure, and given them from above, Their usefulness ensured 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? 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 choose, 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 inquiry! they without remorse Are altogether gone a devious course; Where beckoning 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. This island, spot of unreclaim'd rude earth, The cradle that received thee at thy birth, Was rock'd by many a rough Norwegian blast, And Danish howlings scared 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 grovelling, puling chit, Thy bones not fashion'd, and thy joints not knit, The Roman taught thy stubborn knee to bow, Though twice a Cæsar 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 conqueror owes; Expressive, energetic, and refined, 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 clothe thy pink'd and painted hide, And grac'd thy figure with a soldier's pride; He sow'd the seeds of order where he went, Improv'd thee far beyond his own intent, And, while he ruled thee by the sword alone, Made thee at last a warrior like his own. Religion, if in heavenly truths attired, Needs only to be seen to be admired; But thine, as dark as witcheries of the night, Was form'd to harden hearts and shock the sight; Thy druids struck the well-hung harps they bore With fingers deeply dyed in human gore; And while the victim slowly bled to death, Upon the rolling chords rung out his dying breath. Who brought the lamp that with awaking beams Dispell'd thy gloom, and broke away thy dreams, Tradition, now decrepit and worn out, Babbler of ancient fables, leaves a doubt: But still light reach'd thee; and those gods of thine, Woden and Thor, each tottering in his shrine, Fell broken and defaced at their own door, As Dagon in Philistia long before. But Rome with sorceries and magic wand Soon raised a cloud that darken'd every 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 powers from hell, Though heavenly in pretension, fleeced thee well; And to this hour, to keep it fresh in mind, Some twigs of that old scourge are left behind.[801] Thy soldiery, the pope's well managed 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 proved 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; 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 power to press. Thy chiefs, the lords of many a petty fee, Provoked and harass'd, in return plagued 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 bickerings of their own. Thy parliaments adored, on bended knees, The sovereignty they were convened to please; Whate'er was ask'd, too timid to resist, Complied with, and were graciously dismiss'd; And if some Spartan soul a doubt express'd, And, blushing at the tameness of the rest, Dared to suppose the subject had a choice, He was a traitor by the general voice. Oh slave! with powers thou didst not dare exert, Verse cannot stoop so low as thy desert; 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 sheltering hand, Given thee his blessing on the clearest proof, Bid nations leagued against thee stand aloof, And charged hostility and hate to roar Where else they would, but not upon thy shore? His power secured thee, when presumptuous Spain Baptized her fleet invincible in vain; Her gloomy monarch, doubtful and resign'd To every 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, Pierced to the very centre of the realm, And hoped to seize his abdicated helm, 'Twas but to prove how quickly, with a frown, He that had raised 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 heaven surveys the troubled scene, And feels no change, unshaken and serene. Freedom, in other lands scarce known to shine, Pours out a flood of splendour upon thine; Thou hast as bright an interest 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 towers Stood trembling at the boldness of thy powers, That won a nymph on that immortal plain, Like her the fabled Phoebus wooed in vain: He found the laurel only--happier you The unfading laurel, and the virgin too![802] Now think, if pleasure have a thought to spare; If God himself be not beneath her care; If business, constant as the wheels of time, Can pause an hour to read a serious rhyme; 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 heavenly truth have swell'd the debt. When persecuting zeal made royal sport With tortured innocence in Mary's court, And Bonner, blithe as shepherd at a wake, Enjoyed the show, and danced about the stake, The sacred book, its value understood, Received the seal of martyrdom in blood. Those holy men, so full of truth and grace, Seem to reflection of a different 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, Or spare a life too short to reach the skies. From them to thee conveyed along the tide, Their streaming hearts pour'd freely when they died; Those truths, which neither use nor years impair, Invite thee, woo 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-eyed 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 power mere nullity obeys, Who found thee nothing, form'd thee for his praise. To praise him is to serve him, and fulfil, Doing and suffering, his unquestioned will; 'Tis to believe what men inspired of old, Faithful, and faithfully informed, 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 assigned 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, unimpeached, Directs thee to that eminence they reached, 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 every trifler's tongue, Or serves the champion in forensic war To flourish and parade with at the bar. Pleasure herself perhaps suggests a plea, If interest move thee, to persuade e'en thee; By every charm that smiles upon her face, By joys possess'd, and joys still held in chase, 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 temperance 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 resolved to risk them, and swim down The tide of pleasure, heedless of his frown, That blessings truly sacred, and when given Mark'd with the signature and stamp of Heaven, The word of prophecy, those truths divine, Which make that heaven, if thou desire it, thine, (Awful alternative! believed, beloved, Thy glory, and thy shame if unimproved,) Are never long vouchsafed, 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 enterprise 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 power Of nations, sworn to spoil thee and devour, Were all collected in thy single arm, And thou couldst laugh away the fear of harm, That strength would fail, opposed 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 charged on me? Their measure fill'd, they too shall pay the debt, Which God, though long forborne, 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 murmuring 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 scourged, yet tardy to repent. I know the warning song is sung in vain; That few will hear, and fewer heed the strain; But if a sweeter voice, and one design'd A blessing to my country and mankind, Reclaim the wandering 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.

[800] Vide Josh. v. 14.

[801] Which may be found at Doctor's Commons.

[802] Alluding to the grant of Magna Charta, which was extorted from King John by the barons at Runnymede near Windsor.

HOPE.

. . . . . doceas iter, et sacra ostia pandas.

VIRG. Æn. 6.

THE ARGUMENT.

Human Life--The charms of Nature remain the same though they appear different in youth and age--Frivolity of fashionable life--Value of life--The works of the Creator evidences of his attributes--Nature the handmaid to the purposes of grace--Character of Hope--Man naturally stubborn and intractable--His conduct in different stations--Death's honours--Each man's belief right in his own eyes--Simile of Ethelred's hospitality--Mankind quarrel with the Giver of eternal life, on account of the terms on which it is offered--Opinions on this subject--Spread of the Gospel--The Greenland Missions--Contrast of the unconverted and converted heathen--Character of Leuconomus--The man of pleasure the blindest of bigots--Any hope preferred to that required by the Scripture--Human nature opposed to Truth--Apostrophe to Truth--Picture of one conscience-smitten--The pardoned sinner--Conclusion.

Ask what is human life--the sage replies, With disappointment lowering in his eyes, A painful passage o'er a restless flood, A vain pursuit of fugitive false good, A scene of fancied bliss and heartfelt care, Closing at last in darkness and despair. The poor, inured 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 Heaven rules the mix'd affairs of man; Vicissitude wheels round the motley crowd, The rich grow poor, the poor become purse-proud; Business 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. Dangling his cane about, and taking snuff, Lothario cries, What philosophic stuff-- O 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 disheartening waste; Would age in thee resign his wint'ry reign, And youth invigorate that frame again, Renew'd desire would grace with other speech Joys always prized, when placed 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 clothed with flowers, groves fill'd with sprightly sounds, The yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, rising grounds, Streams, edged with osiers, fattening every 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 indifferent 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-eyed 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 awkward 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 Heaven's intentions are not what they seem, That only shadows are dispensed below, And earth has no reality but woe. Thus things terrestrial wear a different hue, As youth or age persuades; and neither true. So, Flora's wreath through colour'd crystal seen, The rose or lily appears blue or green, But still the 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 gray, To spend two hours in dressing for the day; To make the sun a bauble without use, Save for the fruits his heavenly 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; Is such a life, so tediously the same, So void of all utility or aim, That poor Jonquil, with almost every breath, Sighs for his exit, vulgarly called 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 ere 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, 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 The inquirer's aim, that remedy is Hope. Life is his gift, from whom whate'er life needs, With every good and perfect gift, proceeds; Bestow'd on man, like all that we partake, Royally, freely, for his bounty's sake; Transient indeed, as is the fleeting hour, And yet the seed of an immortal flower; 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. 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, power, and love, On all that blooms below, or shines above; To catch the wandering 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 reasoning pride, And captious cavil and complaint subside. Nature, employ'd in her allotted place, Is handmaid to the purposes of grace; By good vouchsafed makes known superior good, And bliss not seen by blessings understood: That bliss, reveal'd in scripture, with a glow Bright as the covenant-ensuring 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 wondrous 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 chemic 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 wings sails through the immense abyss, Plucks amaranthine joys from bowers of bliss, And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here, With wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear. 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 centre, what delights, in thee. Had he the gems, the spices, and the land, That boasts the treasure, all at his command; The fragrant grove, the inestimable mine, Were light, when weigh'd against one smile of thine. Though clasp'd and cradled in his nurse's arms, He shines 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 watery 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. 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, Dare 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 launch'd 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, gathering fees, Punctually paid for lengthening out disease; No COTTON, whose humanity sheds rays, That make superior skill his second praise. 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, interest, 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 power, 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 despised, at least not kept; Shows with a pointing finger, but no noise, A pale procession of past sinful joys, All witnesses of blessings foully scorn'd, And life abused, and not to be suborn'd. Mark these, she says; these, summon'd from afar, Begin their march to meet thee at the bar; 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 e'en while they live; Born capable indeed of heavenly truth; But down to latest age, from earliest youth, Their mind a wilderness through want of care, The plough of wisdom never entering 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 unenlighten'd swains Revere the laws they dream that Heaven ordains; Resort on Sundays to the house of prayer, And ask, and fancy they find, blessings there. Themselves, perhaps, when weary they retreat To enjoy cool nature in a country seat, To exchange the centre of a thousand trades, For clumps, and lawns, and temples, and cascades, 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, proposed to reasoners wise as they, Is a pearl cast--completely cast away, They die.--Death lends them, pleased, 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; The coronet, placed idly at their head, Adds nothing now to the degraded dead, And e'en 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 beguiled In vain opinion's waste and dangerous wild; Ten thousand rove the brakes and thorns among, Some eastward, and some westward, and all wrong. But here, alas! the fatal difference 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, Of all that deck the lanes, the fields, the bowers, What parts the kindred tribes of weeds and flowers? Sweet scent, or lovely form, or both combined, Distinguish every 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 hallow'd 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 centre 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 the appointed One; And they might enter at his open door, E'en till his spacious hall would hold no more. He sent a servant forth by every road, To sound his horn and publish it abroad, That all might mark--knight, menial, high, and low-- An ordinance it concern'd them much to know. If, after all, some headstrong hardy lout 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 sovereign power 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 ensures, Accept it only, and the boon is yours. And sure it is as kind to smile and give, As with a frown to say, Do this, and live. Love is not pedlar's trumpery, bought and sold; He will give freely, or he will withhold; 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 generous 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 bickering, and debate, The tidings of unpurchased heaven 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 every thing profound, Die of disdain, or whistle off the sound. Such is the clamour of rooks, daws, and kites, The explosion of the levell'd tube excites, Where mouldering abbey walls o'erhang the glade, And oaks coeval spread a mournful shade, The screaming nations, hovering 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, Vinosa cries, ere 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 Heaven will weigh man's virtues and his crimes With nice attention in a righteous scale, And save or damn as these or those prevail. 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 the 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 heaven in view, And,--pardon me, the bottle stands with you. I never will believe, the Colonel 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. If sentence of eternal pain belong To every sudden slip and transient wrong, Then Heaven enjoins the fallible and frail A 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 every man's performance here Is to discharge the duties of his sphere. A lawyer's dealings should be just and fair, Honesty shines with great advantage there. Fasting and prayer 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; A hand as liberal as the light of day. The soldier thus endow'd, who never shrinks, Nor closets up his thoughts, whate'er he thinks, Who scorns to do an injury by stealth, Must go to heaven--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 woo 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; The writer well remarks, a heart that knows To take with gratitude what Heaven 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's sake. Spoke like an oracle, they all exclaim, And add Right Reverend to Smug's honour'd name. And yet our lot is given 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 inquiry, 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! 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 gulfs of her Cornubian mines. And still it spreads. See Germany send forth Her sons[803] to pour it on the farthest north: Fired with a zeal peculiar, they defy The rage and rigour of a polar sky, And plant successfully sweet Sharon's rose On icy plains, and in eternal snows. O blest within the inclosure of your rocks, Not herds have ye to boast, nor bleating flocks; Nor fertilizing streams your fields divide, That show, reversed, the villas on their side; 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 evening where ye dwell; But Winter, arm'd with terrors here unknown, Sits absolute on his unshaken throne; Piles up his stores amidst 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 splendour of the true, A false religion, is unknown to you. Nature indeed vouchsafes for our delight The sweet vicissitudes of day and night; Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer Field, fruit, and flower, and every creature here; But brighter beams than his who fires the skies Have risen at length on your admiring eyes, That shoot into your darkest caves the day, From which our nicer optics turn away. Here see the encouragement grace gives to vice, The dire effect of mercy without price! What were they? what some fools are made by art, They were by nature, atheists, head and heart. The gross idolatry blind heathens teach Was too refined for them, beyond their reach. Not e'en 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 e'en the sun, desirable as rare, Could bend one knee, engage one votary there; They were, what base credulity believes True Christians are, dissemblers, drunkards, thieves. The full gorged savage, at his nauseous feast, Spent half the darkness, and snored out the rest, Was one, whom justice, on an equal plan, Denouncing death upon the sins of man, Might almost have indulged with an escape, Chargeable only with a human shape. What are they now?--Morality may spare Her grave concern, her kind suspicions there; The wretch, who once sang wildly, danced, and laugh'd, And suck'd in dizzy madness with his draught, Has wept a silent flood, reversed 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 desert 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, If self-exalting claims be turn'd adrift, And grace be grace indeed, and life a gift; The poor reclaim'd inhabitant, his eyes Glistening at once with pity and surprise, Amazed 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 heavenly skill with having plann'd A plaything 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 numerous 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? 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 every dart that malice ever shot. The man that mention'd 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. Now, Truth, perform thine office; waft aside The curtain drawn by prejudice and pride, Reveal (the man is dead) to wondering eyes This more than monster in his proper guise. He loved the world that hated him: the tear That dropp'd 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 unbribed, Were copied close in him, and well transcribed. He followed Paul; his zeal a kindred flame, His apostolic charity the same. Like him, cross'd cheerfully tempestuous seas, Forsaking country, kindred, friends, and ease; Like him he labour'd, and like him content To bear it, suffered shame where'er he went. Blush, calumny! and write upon his tomb, If honest eulogy can spare thee room, Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies, Which, aim'd at him, have pierced the offended skies; And say, Blot out my sin, confess'd, deplored, Against thine image, in thy saint, O Lord! No blinder bigot, I maintain it still, Than he who 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 this his Maker has seen fit to give; Supple and flexible as Indian cane, To take the bend his appetites ordain; Contrived 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. By this he forms, as pleased he sports along, His well-poised 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 unblamed, perhaps admired, If not that hope the scripture has required. 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 the 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; 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 every breast, That folly ends where genuine hope begins, And he that finds his heaven 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 indifference frowns and smiles; 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, Powers 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 power is such, Thy means so feeble, and despised 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! That, while I trembling trace a work divine, Fancy may stand aloof from the design, And light and shade, and every stroke, be thine. If ever thou hast felt another's pain, If ever when he sighed hast sighed again, If ever on thy eyelid stood the tear That pity had engender'd, drop one here. This man was happy--had the world's good word, And with it every joy it can afford; Friendship and love seem'd tenderly at strife, Which most should sweeten his untroubled 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 shared, Ensured him mute attention and regard. Alas, how changed! Expressive of his mind, His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head reclined; Those awful syllables, hell, death, and sin, Though whisper'd, plainly tell what works within; 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 power 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 power belongs to God. 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 misspent years; If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne, A tempest usher in the dreaded morn, Upon his dungeon walls the lightning 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 lingering, 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. 'Tis heaven, all heaven, descending on the wings Of the glad legions of the King of kings; 'Tis more--'tis God diffused through every part, 'Tis God himself triumphant in his heart. O welcome now the sun's once hated light, His noonday beams were never half so bright. Not kindred minds alone are call'd to employ Their hours, their days, in listening 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 illiberal 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 who share That hope which can alone exclude despair, 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 monitor's and poet's 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 honourable 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, The abundant harvest, recompense divine, Repays their work--the gleaning only mine.

[803] The Moravian missionaries in Greenland.--See Krantz.

CHARITY.

Qua nihil majus meliusve terris Fata donavêre, bonique divi; Nec dabunt, quamvis redeant in aurum Tempora priscum.

HOR. lib. iv. Ode 2.

THE ARGUMENT.

Invocation to Charity--Social ties--Tribute to the humanity of Captain Cook--His character contrasted with that of Cortez, the conquer of Mexico--Degradation of Spain--Purpose of commerce--Gifts of art--The slave-trade and slavery--Slavery unnatural and unchristian--The duty of abating the woes of that state, and of enlightening the mind of the slave, enforced--Apostrophe to Liberty--Charity of Howard--Pursuits of philosophy--Reason learns nothing aright without the lamp of Revelation--True charity the offspring of divine truth--Supposed case of a blind nation and an optician--Portrait of Charity--Beauty of the Apostle's definition of it--Alms as the means of lulling conscience--Pride and ostentation motives of charity--Character of satire--True charity inculcated--Christian charity should be universal--Happy effects that would result from universal charity.

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 powerful plea) A task I venture on, impell'd by thee: Oh never seen but in thy blest effects, Or felt but in the soul that Heaven selects; 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 disgraced 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 unconfined, One man the common father of the kind; That every tribe, though placed as he sees best, Where seas or deserts part them from the rest, Differing 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; He soothed 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 control His freeborn 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 nunneries found, Or building hospitals on English ground? No.--Mammon makes the world his legatee Through fear, not love; and Heaven abhors the fee. Wherever found, (and all men need thy care,) Nor age nor infancy could find thee there. The hand that slew 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 Heaven's mysterious purposes and ways! God stood not, though he seem'd to stand, aloof; And at this hour the conqueror 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 ancient Incas rise again, How would they take up Israel's taunting strain! Art thou too fallen, Iberia? Do we see The robber and the murderer weak as we? 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 the 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 powers, 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 designed To 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: Each climate needs what other climes produce, And offers something to the general 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 a universal shade, Calls nature from her ivy-mantled den, And softens human rock-work 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 painter's pencil, and the poet's lyre; From her the canvas borrows light and shade, And verse, more lasting, hues that never fade. 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 every soul A union with the vast terraqueous whole. Heaven speed the canvas, gallantly unfurl'd To furnish and accommodate a world, To give the pole the produce of the sun, And knit the unsocial climates into one. Soft airs and gentle heavings of the wave Impel the fleet, whose errand is to save, To succour wasted regions, and replace The smile of opulence in sorrow's face. Let nothing adverse, nothing unforeseen, Impede the bark that ploughs the deep serene, Charged with a freight transcending in its worth The gems of India, Nature's rarest birth, That flies, like Gabriel on his Lord's commands, A herald of God's love to pagan lands! But ah! what wish can prosper, or what prayer, For merchants rich in cargoes of despair, Who drive a loathsome traffic, gauge, 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; Deprived 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 generous 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 medicine, and bestow'd To improve the fortitude that bears the load; To teach the wanderer, as his woes increase, The path of wisdom, all whose paths are peace; But slavery!--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. Nature imprints upon whate'er we see, That has a heart and life in it, Be free! The beasts are charter'd--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; Nor 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 bedside; Not he, but his emergence forced the door, He found it inconvenient to be poor. Has God then given 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, avarice 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 soothe the sorrows of so sad a state. A Briton knows, or if he knows it not, The scripture placed 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 hand alone all power proceeds, Ranks its abuse among the foulest deeds, Considers all injustice with a frown; But marks the man that treads his fellow down. 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, Heaven 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, Murmuring and weary of our daily toil, Forget to enjoy the palm-tree's offer'd shade, Or taste the fountain in the neighbouring glade: Else who would lose, that had the power to improve The 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 heavenly day Would heal his heart, and melt his chains away. "Beauty for ashes" is a gift indeed, And slaves, by truth enlarged, are doubly freed. Then would he say, submissive at thy feet, While gratitude and love made service sweet, My dear deliverer out of hopeless night, Whose bounty bought me but to give me light, I was a bondman on my native plain, Sin forged, 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 loved, 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 liberal and heroic deeds; The swell of pity, not to be confined Within the scanty limits of the mind, Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sands, A rich deposit, on the bordering lands: These have an ear for his paternal call, Who makes some rich for the supply of all; 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 has seen, or fancy can devise, Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand, Built by no mercenary vulgar hand, With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair As ever dress'd a bank, or scented summer air. Duly, 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. We feel thy force still active, at this hour Enjoy immunity from priestly power, While conscience, happier than in ancient 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 slippery 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; 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 clamour and debate, That pleads for peace till it disturbs the state, Were hush'd in favour of thy generous plea, The poor thy clients, and Heaven's smile thy fee! Philosophy, that does not dream or stray, Walks arm in arm with nature all his way; Compasses earth, dives into it, ascends Whatever steep inquiry recommends, Sees planetary wonders smoothly roll Round other systems under her control, 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 Heaven 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 power, and draws Man to the centre 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 powers must needs refine. He reads the skies, and, watching every change, Provides the faculties an ampler range; And wins mankind, as his attempts prevail, A prouder station on the general 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 power 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; 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 centre of enlightening grace. Here stay thy foot; how copious, and how clear, The 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; Philosophy, without his heavenly guide, May blow up self-conceit, and nourish pride; But, while his province is the reasoning 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 possessed 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 wondering crowd; He talks of light and the prismatic hues, As men of depth in erudition use; But all he gains for his harangue is--Well,---- What monstrous lies some travellers will tell! The soul, whose sight all-quickening grace renews, Takes the resemblance of the good she views, As diamonds, stripp'd 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. 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 teased, And, if perhaps made angry, soon appeased; She rather waives than will dispute her right; And, injured, makes forgiveness her delight. Such was the portrait an apostle drew, The bright original was one he knew; Heaven held his hand, the likeness must be true. When one, that holds communion with the skies, Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis e'en 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 dropp'd her anchor, and her canvas furl'd, In some safe haven of our western world, 'Twere vain inquiry to what port she went, The gale informs us, laden with the scent. Some seek, when queasy conscience has its qualms, To lull the painful malady with alms; But charity not feign'd intends alone Another's good--theirs centres 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 her sister's fame: 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 mantel-tree. How many deeds, with which the world has rung, From pride, in league with ignorance, have sprung! But God o'errules 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 avarice shall subscribe, While fame and self-complacence are the bribe. The brief proclaim'd, it visits every pew, But first the squire's, a compliment but due: With slow deliberation he unties His glittering purse, that envy of all eyes! And, while the clerk just puzzles out the psalm, Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm; 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 style, A teacher should be sparing of his smile. Unless a love of virtue light the flame, Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame: He hides behind a magisterial air His own offences, and strips others bare; Affects indeed a most humane concern, That men, if gently tutor'd, will not learn; That mulish folly, not to be reclaim'd By softer methods, must be made ashamed; But (I might instance in St. Patrick's dean) Too often rails to gratify his spleen. Most satirists 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, Prepared to poniard whomsoe'er they meet. No skill in swordmanship, 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, 'Tis call'd a satire, and the world appears Gathering 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 dangerous to be plain. Strange! how the frequent interjected dash Quickens a market, and helps off the trash; The 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: A bold remark; but which, if well applied, Would humble many a towering 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 every 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 ancient power, Named with emphatic dignity, the Tower, 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; But, though we praise the 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 nursed, Fed by the love from which it rose at first, Thrives against hope, and, in the rudest scene, Storms but enliven its unfading green; Exuberant 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, To uphold the boundless scenes of his command; To recollect that, in a form like ours, He bruised beneath his feet the infernal powers, Captivity led captive, rose to claim The wreath he won so dearly in our name; That, throned above all height, he condescends To call the few that trust in him his friends; That, in the heaven of heavens, that space he deems Too scanty for the 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. Like him the soul, thus kindled from above, Spreads wide her arms of universal love; And, still enlarged 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 accomplishment, 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 power, or cease; And e'en the dipp'd 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 fill'd, yet always poor, Might swing at ease behind his study door, No longer prey upon our annual rents, Or 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 deceived, 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 flowery spray, In hopes to gain, what else I must have lost, The attention pleasure has so much engross'd. But if unhappily deceived I dream, And prove too weak for so divine a theme, Let Charity forgive me a mistake, That zeal, not vanity, has chanced to make, And spare the poet for his subject's sake.

CONVERSATION.

Nam neque me tantum venientis sibilus austri, Nec percussa juvant fluctu tam litora, nec quæ Saxosas inter decurrunt flumina valles.

VIRG. Ecl. 5.

THE ARGUMENT.

In conversation much depends on culture--Its results frequently insignificant--Indecent language and oaths reprobated--The author's dislike of the clash of arguments--The noisy wrangler--Dubius an example of indecision--The positive pronounce without hesitation--The point of honour condemned--Duelling with fists instead of weapons proposed--Effect of long tales--The retailer of prodigies and lies--Qualities of a judicious tale--Smoking condemned--The emphatic speaker--The perfumed beau--The grave coxcomb--Sickness made a topic of conversation--Picture of a fretful temper--The bashful speaker--An English company--The sportsman--Influence of fashion on conversation--Converse of the two disciples going to Emmaus--Delights of religious conversation--Age mellows the speech--True piety often branded as fanatic frenzy--Pleasure of communion with the good--Conversation should be unconstrained--Persons who make the Bible their companion, charged with hypocrisy by the world--The charge repelled--The poet sarcastically surmises that his censure of the world may proceed from ignorance of its reformed manners--An apology for digression--Religion purifies and enriches conversation.

Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense To every man his modicum of sense, And Conversation in its better part May be esteem'd 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; 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 call'd his A B C; 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 the 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 every wrong, Who dare dishonour or defile the tongue; Who prostitute it in the cause of vice, Or sell their glory at a market-price; 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 lawgivers of ancient days, Names almost worthy of a Christian's praise, Would drive them forth from the resort of men, And shut up every 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 power Taints in its rudiments the promised flower; Its odour perish'd and its charming hue, Thenceforth 'tis hateful, for it smells of you. Not e'en the vigorous and headlong rage Of adolescence, or a firmer age, Affords a plea allowable or just For making speech the pamperer of lust; But when the breath of age commits the fault 'Tis nauseous as the vapour 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 every 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 blustering in your face Makes contradiction such a hopeless case: In every 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 e'en 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, Hearing a lawyer, grave in his address, With adjurations every word impress, Supposed the man a bishop, or at least, God's name so much upon his lips, a priest; Bow'd at the close with all his graceful airs, And begg'd an interest in his frequent prayers. Go, quit the rank to which ye stood preferr'd, 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 powers 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, Divert the champions prodigal of breath, And put the peaceably disposed to death. O thwart me not, Sir Soph, at every turn, Nor carp at every 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; Adopt his own, 'tis equally in vain, Your thread of argument is snapp'd again; The wrangler, rather than accord with you, Will judge himself deceived, 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 call'd 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. 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, Centring at last in having none at all. Yet, though he tease and balk your listening 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. 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-idolised in every case, Hate their own likeness in a brother's face. The cause is plain, and not to be denied, The proud are always most provoked by pride. Few competitions but engender spite; And those the most, where neither has a right. The point of honour has been deem'd of use, To teach good manners, and to curb abuse: Admit it true, the consequence is clear, Our polish'd manners are a mask we wear, And at the bottom barbarous still and rude; We are restrain'd indeed, but not subdued. 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 a 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 compell'd 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 fix'd eternal state Out of the very flames of rage and hate, Or send another shivering to the bar With all the guilt of such unnatural war, 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 empower'd 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 skull, 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. 'Tis the most asinine employ on earth, To hear them tell of parentage and birth, And echo conversations dull and dry, Embellish'd with--He said,--and, So said I. At every 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 ambitious man may entertain, The worst that can invade a sickly brain, Is that which angles hourly for surprise, 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, 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, the incidents well linked; Tell not as new what everybody 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 nor 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. Such often, like the tube they so admire, Important triflers! 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 gardener 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 given indecent language birth, And forced the floodgates of licentious mirth; For seaborn 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. The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose, In contact inconvenient, nose to nose, As if the gnomon on his neighbour's phiz, Touch'd with the 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 walk'd abroad, o'ertaken in the rain, Call'd on a friend, drank tea, stepp'd 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 head into a raree-show? His odoriferous attempts to please Perhaps might prosper with a swarm of bees; But we that make no honey, though we sting, Poets, are sometimes apt to maul the thing. 'Tis wrong to bring into a mixed resort, What makes some sick, and others _à-la-mort_, An argument of cogence, we may say, Why such a 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, 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 touch'd, much less forgot, Nose, ears and eyes, seem present on the spot. Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill, Victorious seemed, and now the doctor's skill; And now--alas for unforeseen mishaps! They put on a damp nightcap and relapse; They thought they must have died, they were so bad: Their peevish hearers almost wish they had. Some fretful tempers wince at every touch, You always do too little or too much: You speak with life, in hopes to entertain, Your elevated voice goes through the brain; 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 'tis night. He shakes with cold--you stir the fire and strive To make a blaze--that's roasting him alive. Serve him with venison, and he wishes fish; With sole--that's just the sort he would not wish. He takes what he at first professed to loathe, 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 every plan, Himself should work that wonder if he can-- Alas! his efforts double his distress, He likes yours little, and his own still less. Thus always teasing others, always teased, His only pleasure is to be displeased. I pity bashful men, who feel the pain Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain, 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 tried, 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 complain'd; 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 inquiry may descry, Self-searching with an introverted eye, Conceal'd 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; In other eyes our talents rarely shown, Become at length so splendid in our own, We dare not risk 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 to appear: Humility the parent of the first, The last by vanity produced and nursed. The circle form'd, we sit in silent state, Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate; Yes, ma'am, and No, ma'am, utter'd softly, show Every five minutes how the minutes go; Each individual, suffering a constraint Poetry may, but colours cannot, paint; And, if in close committee on the sky, Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry; And finds a changing clime a happy source Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse. We next inquire, but softly and by stealth, Like conservators of the public health, Of epidemic throats, if such there are, And coughs, and rheums, and phthisic, and catarrh. That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues, Fill'd up at last with interesting news, Who danc'd with whom, and who are like to wed, And who is hang'd, 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 ecstacy we come, As from a seven years' transportation, home, And there resume an unembarrass'd brow, Recovering what we lost, we know not how, The faculties that seem'd reduced to nought, Expression and the privilege of thought. The reeking, roaring hero of the chase, I give him over as a desperate case. Physicians write in hopes to work a cure, Never, if honest ones, when death is sure; And though the fox he follows may be tamed, A mere fox-follower never is reclaim'd. 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 e'en 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 seal'd, Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field, Had not his Maker's all-bestowing hand Given him a soul, and bade him understand; The reasoning power vouchsafed, of course inferr'd The power to clothe that reason with his word; For all is perfect that God works on earth, And he that gives conception aids the birth. If this be plain, 'tis plainly understood, What uses of his boon the Giver would. The mind despatch'd upon her busy toil, Should range where Providence has bless'd the soil; Visiting every flower 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 power that bids it flow. Will the sweet warbler of the livelong night, That fills the listening lover with delight, Forget his harmony, with rapture heard, To learn the twittering of a meaner bird? Or make the parrot's mimicry his choice, That odious libel on a 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 delivered in our ears, In the last scene of her six thousand years. Yet Fashion, leader of a chattering train, Whom man, for his own hurt, permits to reign, Who shifts and changes all things but his shape, And would degrade her votary to an ape, The fruitful parent of abuse and wrong, Holds a 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 accomplish'd in her wayward school, Calls gentleman whom she has made a fool. 'Tis an unalterable fix'd decree, That none could frame or ratify but she, That heaven 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 esteem'd 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 excused 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 veil your daring crest that braves the skies; That air of insolence affronts your God, You need his pardon, and provoke his rod: Now, in a posture that becomes you more Than that heroic strut assumed before, Know, your arrears with every 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 proved them truths too big to be express'd. Go seek on revelation's hallow'd ground, Sure to succeed, the remedy they found; Touched by that power 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 happen'd on a solemn eventide, Soon after He that was our surety died, Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined, The scene of all those sorrows left behind, 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 incurr'd 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; To exalt a people, and to place them high Above all else, and wonder'd he should die. Ere yet they brought their journey to an end, A stranger join'd them, courteous as a friend, And ask'd them, with a kind engaging air, What their affliction was, and begg'd a share. Inform'd, he gather'd up the broken thread, And, truth and wisdom gracing all he said, Explain'd, illustrated, and search'd so well The tender theme on which they chose to dwell, 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 bless'd the bread, but vanish'd at the word, And left them both exclaiming, 'Twas the Lord! Did not our hearts feel all he deign'd 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 aim'd 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 Match'd against truths, as lasting as sublime? 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 memory, pass away; The works of man inherit, as is just, Their author's frailty, and return to dust: But truth divine for ever stands secure, Its head is guarded as its base is sure; Fix'd in the rolling flood of endless years, The pillar of the 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, and all its quickening power; 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 the ablution of our woes. O days of heaven, and nights of equal praise, Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days, When souls drawn upwards 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 heavenly 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 prayers, Who makes no bustle with his soul's affairs, Whose wit can brighten up a wint'ry day, And chase the splenetic dull hours away; Content on earth in earthly things to shine, Who waits for heaven ere he becomes divine, Leaves saints to enjoy those altitudes they teach, And plucks the fruit placed more within his reach. Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame, Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name. Is sparkling wit the world's exclusive right? The fix'd fee-simple of the vain and light? Can hopes of heaven, bright prospects of an hour, That come to waft us out of sorrow's power, 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 rigorous 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; Vigorous in age as in the flush of youth; 'Tis always active on the side of truth; Temperance and peace ensure its healthful state, And make it brightest at its latest date. Oh I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain, Ere life go down, to see such sights again) A veteran warrior in the Christian field, Who never saw the sword he could not wield; Grave without dulness, learned without pride, Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-eyed; A man that would have foil'd 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 loved 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. Though time will wear us, and we must grow old, Such men are not forgot as soon as cold, Their fragrant memory will outlast their tomb, Embalm'd for ever in its own perfume. And to say truth, though in its early prime, And when unstain'd 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 inform'd, Well read, well temper'd, with religion warm'd, That fire abated which impels 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 reverence in its shortening 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; And, like the stores autumnal suns mature, Through wintry rigours unimpair'd endure. What is fanatic frenzy, scorn'd so much, And dreaded more than a contagious touch? I grant it dangerous, 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 power) 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, allow'd a casting voice, And free from bias, must approve the choice, Convicts a man fanatic in the extreme, And wild as madness in the world's esteem. But that disease, when soberly defined, Is the false fire of an o'erheated mind; 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 unrelinquish'd lies, Presumes itself chief favourite 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 confederacy 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; Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt, Deeply resolved to shut a Saviour out; Call legions up from hell to back the deed; And, cursed with conquest, finally succeed. But souls, that carry on a blest exchange Of joys they meet with in their heavenly range, And with a fearless confidence make known The sorrows sympathy esteems its own, Daily derive increasing 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 interest, and design, Gird up each other to the race divine. But Conversation, choose what theme we may, And chiefly when religion leads the way, Should flow, like waters after summer showers, Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers. The Christian, in whose soul, though now distress'd, Lives the dear thought of joys he once possess'd, 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 ethereal 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 interest in the good she seeks, 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. And yet, God knows, look human nature through, (And in due time the world shall know it too) That since the flowers of Eden felt the blast, That after man's defection laid all waste, Sincerity towards the heart-searching God Has made the new-born creature her abode, Nor shall be found in unregenerate 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; 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 sick she trembles, knowing she must die, Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie; That while she dotes and dreams that she believes, She mocks her Maker, and herself deceives, Her utmost reach, historical assent, The doctrines warp'd to what they never meant; That truth itself is in her head as dull And useless as a candle in a skull, And all her love of God a groundless claim, A trick upon the canvas, 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 forced to feel; That in her heart the Christian she reveres, And, while she seems to scorn him, only fears. A poet does not work by square or line, As smiths and joiners perfect a design; At least we moderns, our attention less, Beyond the 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 owed a trifle, and have paid the debt; She did me wrong, I recompensed the deed, And, having struck the balance, now proceed. Perhaps, however, as some years have pass'd Since she and I conversed together last, And I have lived 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; 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 fables old, that seem'd for ever mute, Revived, are hastening into fresh repute, And gods and goddesses, discarded long, Like useless lumber or a stroller's song, 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; 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 such 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 palæstra 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, however, if the case stands thus, For us plain folks, and all who side with us, To build our altar, confident and bold, And say, as stern Elijah said of old, The strife now stands upon a fair award, If Israel'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 every parish but their own their home. Though such continual zigzags in a book, Such drunken reelings have an awkward 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 dispersed, And touch the subject I design'd at first, 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 clothe in sable 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 misspent, 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 scatter'd rocks and opening shades, And, while it shows the land the soul desires, The language of the land she seeks inspires. Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a sacred cure Of all that was absurd, profane, impure; 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 every 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 Heaven form'd the faculty divine. So, should an idiot, while at large he strays, Find the sweet lyre on which an artist plays, With rash and awkward 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 complain'd Of the rude injuries it late sustain'd, Till, tuned at length to some immortal song, It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours his praise along.

RETIREMENT.

...... studiis florens ignobilis otî.

VIRG. Georg. lib. iv.

THE ARGUMENT.

The busy universally desirous of retirement--Important purpose for which this desire was given to man--Musing on the works of the creation, a happy employment--The service of God not incompatible, however, with a life of business--Human life; its pursuits--Various motives for seeking retirement--The poet's delight in the study of nature--The lover's fondness for retirement--The hypochondriac--Melancholy, a malady that claims most compassion, receives the least--Sufferings of the melancholy man--The statesman's retirement--His new mode of life and company--Soon weary of retirement, he returns to his former pursuits--Citizens' villas--Fashion of frequenting watering-places--The ocean--The spendthrift in forced retirement--The sportsman ostler--The management of leisure a difficult task--Man will be summoned to account for the employment of life--Books and friends requisite for the man of leisure; and divine communion to fill the remaining void--Religion not adverse to innocent pleasures--The poet concludes with reference to his own pursuit.

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, 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 lived 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 form'd 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, Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove, Remind him of his Maker's power 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 ere the curtain fall. Souls, that have long despised their heavenly birth, Their wishes all impregnated with earth, For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless care In catching smoke and feeding upon air, Conversant only with the ways of men, Rarely redeem the short remaining ten. Inveterate habits choke the unfruitful heart, Their fibres penetrate its tenderest part, And, draining its nutritious powers to feed Their noxious growth, starve every better seed. Happy, if full of days--but happier far, If, ere we yet discern life's evening star, Sick of the service of a world, that feeds Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds, We can escape from custom's idiot sway, To serve the sovereign we were born to 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 power 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, The 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; With helmet-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 pour'd at his command, From urns that never fail, through every land; These like a deluge with impetuous force, Those winding modestly a silent course; The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales; Seas, on which every 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! Thine, and upheld by thy paternal care, This universal frame, thus wondrous fair; Thy power divine, and bounty beyond thought, Adored and praised 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 heavenly 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. O 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. Compared with this sublimest life below, Ye kings and rulers, what have courts to show? Thus studied, used, and consecrated thus, On earth what is, seems form'd indeed for us; Not as the plaything of a froward child, Fretful unless diverted and beguiled, 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 to approve, or would enforce, 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 amidst 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 powers, 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; 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 favourite sin, And search the themes, important above all, Ourselves, and our recovery from our fall. But leisure, silence, and a mind released From anxious thoughts how wealth may be increased, How to secure, in some propitious hour, The point of interest 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. Opening the map of God's extensive plan, We find a little isle, this life of man; Eternity's unknown expanse appears Circling around and limiting his years. The busy race examine and explore Each creek and cavern of the dangerous shore, With care collect what in their eyes excels, 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 every hour sweeps 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 Heaven, 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. Nor these alone prefer a life recluse, Who seek retirement for its proper use; The love of change, that lives in every breast, Genius, and temper, and desire of rest, Discordant motives in one centre meet, And each inclines its votary to retreat. Some minds by nature are averse to noise, And hate the tumult half the world enjoys, The lure of avarice, or the pompous prize That courts display before ambitious eyes; The fruits that hang on pleasure's flowery 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 favourites share. With eager step, and carelessly array'd, For such a cause the poet seeks the shade, From all he sees he catches new delight, Pleased 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 rhyme his glory and reward. O Nature! whose Elysian scenes disclose His bright perfections at whose word they rose, Next to that power 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 every line Bears proof of an intelligence divine, May feel a 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, Glittering 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 idolater of absent charms. Saints offer nothing in their warmest prayers 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. As woodbine weds the plant 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, Straightening its growth by such a strict embrace; So love, that clings around the noblest minds Forbids the 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 excel, Her smile his aim, all higher aims farewell! Thyrsis, Alexis, or whatever name May least offend against so pure a flame, 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) Risk an intrusion on thy pensive mood, And woo 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, Soothe thee to make thee but a surer prey, And feed the fire that wastes thy powers 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. Woman indeed, a gift he would bestow When he design'd a Paradise below, The richest earthly boon his hands afford, Deserves to be beloved, but not adored. Post away swiftly to more actives scenes, Collect the scatter'd truth that study gleans, Mix with the world, but with its wiser part, No longer give an image all thine heart; Its empire is not hers, nor is it thine, 'Tis God's just claim, prerogative divine. Virtuous and faithful HEBERDEN, whose skill Attempts no task it cannot well fulfil, Gives melancholy up to nature's care, And sends the patient into purer air. Look were he comes--in this embower'd alcove Stand close conceal'd, and see a statue move: Lips busy, and eyes fix'd, foot falling slow, Arms hanging idly down, hands clasp'd below, Interpret to the marking eye distress, Such as its symptoms can alone express. That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue Could argue once, could jest, or join 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 barb'd 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, 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 sovereign nostrum is a clumsy joke On pangs enforced 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 his expense, is slender praise; He that has not usurp'd the name of man Does all, and deems too little all, he can, To assuage the throbbings of the fester'd part, And staunch the bleedings of a broken heart. 'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes; Man is a harp, whose chords elude the sight, Each yielding harmony disposed aright; The screws reversed (a task which if he please God in a moment executes with ease), Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose, Lost, till he tune them, all their power 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 interspersed with flowery 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 sufferer under nameless ill That yields not to the touch of human skill, Improve the kind occasion, understand A Father's frown, and kiss his chastening hand. To thee the day-spring, and the blaze of noon, The purple evening and resplendent moon, The stars that, sprinkled o'er the vault of night, Seem drops descending in a shower 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 heaven, 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 ere 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 grey possessor hide, 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 ancient song, Catching its ardour as I mused along; Nor seldom, as propitious Heaven 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 versed 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: 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 business and debate The disencumber'd Atlas of the state. Ask not the boy, who, when the breeze of morn First shakes the glittering drops from every 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 the 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, Escaped from office and its constant cares, 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 stammerer 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 every 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 balks and furrow'd lands, the stream that spreads Its cooling vapour o'er the dewy meads, Downs, that almost escape the inquiring eye, That melt and fade into the distant sky, Beauties he lately slighted as he pass'd, Seem all created since he travell'd last. Master of all the enjoyments he design'd, No rough annoyance rankling in his mind, 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 chooses 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 neighbouring 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; Some plain mechanic, who, without pretence To birth or wit, nor gives nor takes offence; On whom he rests well pleased his weary powers, 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; No happiness is felt, except the true, That does not charm thee more for being new. This observation, as it chanced, not made, Or, if the thought occurr'd, not duly weigh'd, He sighs--for after all by slow degrees The spot he loved has lost the power to please; To cross his ambling pony day by day Seems at the best but dreaming life away; 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, received with grace, Kneels, kisses hands, and shines again in place. Suburban villas, highway-side retreats, That dread the 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. O sweet retirement, who would balk the thought That could afford retirement, or could not? 'Tis such an easy walk, so smooth and straight, The second milestone fronts the garden gate; A step if fair, and, if a shower 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 business and his friends compress'd Forget their labours, and yet find no rest; But still 'tis rural--trees are to be seen From every 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 contemplation of a turnpike-road, Is occupied as well, employs his hours As wisely, and as much improves his powers, As he that slumbers in pavilions graced With all the charms of an accomplish'd taste. Yet hence, alas! insolvencies; and hence The unpitied victim of ill-judged expense, From all his wearisome engagements freed, Shakes hands with business, and retires indeed. Your prudent grandmammas, ye modern belles, Content with Bristol, Bath, and Tunbridge Wells, When health required 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 power and majesty of God. He swathes about the swelling of the deep, That shines and rests, as infants smile and sleep; Vast as it is, it answers as it flows The breathings of the lightest air that blows; Curling and whitening over all the waste, The rising waves obey the 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, Votaries of pleasure still, where'er she dwells, Near barren rocks, in palaces, or cells, O 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, 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, the o'er-arching vault, Earth's millions daily fed, a world employ'd In gathering plenty yet to be enjoy'd, Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise Of God, beneficent in all his ways; Graced 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 loathed obscurity, removed From pleasures left, but never more beloved, He just endures, and with a sickly spleen Sighs o'er the beauties of the charming scene. Nature indeed looks prettily, in rhyme; Streams tinkle sweetly in poetic chime: The warblings of the blackbird, 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, Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse. The estate, his sires had own'd in ancient years, Was quickly distanced, 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 supposed 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 hoped in that disguise He might escape the most observing eyes, And whistling, as if unconcern'd and gay, Curried his nag and looked another way; Convinced 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, Influence and power, were all at his command: Peers are not always generous as well bred, But Granby was, meant truly what he said. Jack bow'd, and was obliged--confess'd 'twas strange, That so retired 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 disinclined; Some sway'd by fashion, some by deep disgust; Some self-impoverish'd, and because they must; But few, that court Retirement, are aware Of half the toils they must encounter there. Lucrative offices are seldom lost For want of powers proportion'd to the post: Give e'en a dunce the 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 enterprise 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 veteran 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, 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. Is duty a mere sport, or an employ? Life an entrusted 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 the 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 labours, 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, Pushing her bold inquiry to the date And outline of the present transient state, And, after poising her adventurous 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 unnerved, or indisposed 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, 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, the associate of sound sense, And such as, in the zeal of good design, Strong judgment labouring in the 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 general cry, Tickle and entertain us, or we die. 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 every month's review) Belie their name, and offer nothing new. The mind, relaxing into needful sport, Should turn to writers of an abler sort, Whose wit well managed, and whose classic style, 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 the generous breast Will stand advanced a step above the rest; Flowers by that name promiscuously we call, But one, the rose, the regent of them all,)-- Friends, not adopted with a schoolboy's haste, But chosen with a nice discerning taste, Well born, well disciplined, who, placed apart From vulgar minds, have honour much at heart, And, though the world may think the ingredients odd, The love of virtue, and the fear of God! Such friends prevent what else would soon succeed, A temper rustic as the life we lead, And keep the polish of the manners clean, As theirs 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,[804] his remark was shrewd, 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 dulness of still life away; Divine communion, carefully enjoy'd, Or sought with energy, must fill the void. 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, Flowers of rank odour 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 the obedient beasts of prey. See Judah's promised king, bereft of all, Driven out an exile from the face of Saul, To distant caves the lonely wanderer 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, Suffering 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 a lion's roar, Ring with ecstatic sounds unheard before: 'Tis love like his that can alone defeat The foes of man, or make a desert 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; To cherish virtue in an humble state, And share the joys your bounty may create; To mark the matchless workings of the power That shuts within its seed the future flower, Bids these in elegance of form excel, 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 canvas 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.

[804] Bruyère.

THE TASK. BOOK I.

THE SOFA.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The history of the following production is briefly this: A lady, fond of blank verse, demanded a poem of that kind from the author, and gave him the Sofa for a subject. He obeyed; and having much leisure, connected another subject with it; and, pursuing the train of thought to which his situation and turn of mind led him, brought forth at length, instead of the trifle which he at first intended, a serious affair--a volume.

In the poem on the subject of Education he would be very sorry to stand suspected of having aimed his censure at any particular school. His objections are such as naturally apply themselves to schools in general. If there were not, as for the most part there is, wilful neglect in those who manage them, and an omission even of such discipline as they are susceptible of, the objects are yet too numerous for minute attention; and the aching hearts of ten thousand parents, mourning under the bitterest of all disappointments, attest the truth of the allegation. His quarrel therefore is with the mischief at large, and not with any particular instance of it.

THE ARGUMENT.

Historical deduction of seats, from the stool to the sofa--A schoolboy's ramble--A walk in the country--The scene described--Rural sounds as well as sights delightful--Another walk--Mistake concerning the charms of solitude corrected--Colonnades commended--Alcove, and the view from it--The wilderness--The Grove--The Thresher--The necessity and the benefits of exercise--The works of nature superior to, and in some instances inimitable by, art--The wearisomeness of what is commonly called a life of pleasure--Change of scene sometimes expedient--A common described, and the character of crazy Kate introduced--Gipsies--The blessings of civilized life--That state most favourable to virtue--The South Sea islanders compassionated, but chiefly Omai--His present state of mind supposed--Civilized life friendly to virtue, but not great cities--Great cities, and London in particular, allowed their due praise, but censured--Fête champêtre--The book concludes with a reflection on the effects of dissipation and effeminacy upon our public measures.

I Sing the Sofa. I who lately sang Truth, Hope, and Charity,[805] and touch'd with awe The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand, Escaped with pain from that adventurous flight, Now seek repose upon an humbler theme; The theme though humble, yet august and proud The occasion--for the Fair commands the song. Time was, when clothing sumptuous or for use, Save their own painted skins, our sires had none. As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth, Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile: The hardy chief upon the rugged rock, Wash'd by the sea, or on the gravelly bank Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud, Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength. Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next The birthday of Invention; weak at first, Dull in design, and clumsy to perform. Joint-stools were then created; on three legs Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding firm A massy slab, in fashion square or round. On such a stool immortal Alfred sat, And sway'd the sceptre of his infant realms: And such in ancient halls and mansions drear May still be seen; but perforated sore, And drill'd in holes, the solid oak is found, By worms voracious eating through and through. At length a generation more refined Improv'd the simple plan; made three legs four, Gave them a twisted form vermicular, And o'er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuff'd, Induced a splendid cover, green and blue, Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought And woven close, or needlework sublime. There might ye see the piony spread wide, The full blown rose, the shepherd and his lass, Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes, And parrots with twin cherries in their beak. Now came the cane from India, smooth and bright With Nature's varnish, sever'd into stripes That interlaced each other, these supplied Of texture firm a lattice work, that braced The new machine, and it became a chair. But restless was the chair; the back erect Distress'd the weary loins, that felt no ease; The slippery seat betray'd the sliding part That press'd it, and the feet hung dangling down, Anxious in vain to find the distant floor. These for the rich; the rest, whom Fate had placed In modest mediocrity, content With base materials, sat on well tann'd hides, Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth, With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn, Or scarlet crewel, in the cushion fix'd, If cushion might be call'd, what harder seem'd Than the firm oak of which the frame was form'd. No want of timber then was felt or fear'd In Albion's happy isle. The lumber stood Ponderous and fix'd by its own massy weight. But elbows still were wanting; these, some say, An alderman of Cripplegate contrived; And some inscribe the invention to a priest, Burly and big, and studious of his ease. But, rude at first, and not with easy slope Receding wide, they pressed against the ribs, And bruised the side; and, elevated high, Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears. Long time elapsed or e'er our rugged sires Complain'd, though incommodiously pent in, And ill at ease behind. The ladies first 'Gan murmur, as became the softer sex. Ingenious Fancy, never better pleased Than when employed to accommodate the fair, Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised The soft settee; one elbow at each end, And in the midst an elbow it received, United yet divided, twain at once. So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne; And so two citizens, who take the air, Close pack'd, and smiling, in a chaise and one. But relaxation of the languid frame, By soft recumbency of outstretch'd limbs, Was bliss reserved for happier days. So slow The growth of what is excellent; so hard To attain perfection in this nether world. Thus first Necessity invented stools, Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, And Luxury the accomplish'd SOFA last. The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour, To sleep within the carriage more secure, His legs depending at the open door. Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk, The tedious rector drawling o'er his head; And sweet the clerk below. But neither sleep Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead, Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour, To slumber in the carriage more secure, Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk, Nor yet the dozings of the clerk, are sweet, Compared with the repose the Sofa yields. Oh may I live exempted (while I live Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene) From pangs arthritic, that infest the toe Of libertine Excess! The Sofa suits The gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb, Though on a Sofa, may I never feel: For I have loved the rural walk through lanes Of grassy swarth, close cropp'd by nibbling sheep, And skirted thick with intertexture firm Of thorny boughs; have loved the rural walk O'er hills, through valleys, and by rivers' brink, E'er since a truant boy I pass'd my bounds To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames; And still remember, nor without regret Of hours that sorrow since has much endear'd, How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed, Still hungering, pennyless, and far from home, I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws, Or blushing crabs, or berries, that emboss The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere. Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite Disdains not; nor the palate, undepraved By culinary arts, unsavoury deems. No Sofa then awaited my return; Nor Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil Incurring short fatigue; and though our years, As life declines, speed rapidly away, And not a year but pilfers as he goes Some youthful grace, that age would gladly keep; A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees Their length and colour from the locks they spare; The elastic spring of an unwearied foot, That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence, That play of lungs, inhaling and again Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me, Mine have not pilfer'd yet; nor yet impair'd My relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothed Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find Still soothing, and of power to charm me still. And witness, dear companion of my walks, Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love, Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth, And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire-- Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, And that my raptures are not conjured up To serve occasions of poetic pomp, But genuine, and art partner of them all. How oft upon yon eminence our pace Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, While Admiration, feeding at the eye, And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd The distant plough slow moving, and beside His labouring team, that swerv'd not from the track, The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy! Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain Of spacious meads, with cattle sprinkled o'er, Conducts the eye along his sinuous course Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, Stand, never overlook'd, our favourite elms, That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; While far beyond, and overthwart the stream, That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, The sloping land recedes into the clouds; Displaying on its varied side the grace Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells Just undulates upon the listening ear, Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. Scenes must be beautiful which, daily view'd, Please daily, and whose novelty survives Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years-- Praise justly due to those that I describe. Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds, That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood Of ancient growth, make music not unlike The dash of Ocean on his winding shore, And lull the spirit while they fill the mind; Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast, And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once. Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods, or on the softer voice Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length In matted grass, that with a livelier green Betrays the secret of their silent course. Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, But animated nature sweeter still, To soothe and satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The livelong night: nor these alone, whose notes Nice-finger'd Art must emulate in vain, But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still-repeated circles, screaming loud, The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl, That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, And only there, please highly for their sake. Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought Devised the weather-house, that useful toy! Fearless of humid air and gathering rains, Forth steps the man--an emblem of myself! More delicate his timorous mate retires. When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet, Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, Or ford the rivulets, are best at home, The task of new discoveries falls on me. At such a season, and with such a charge, Once went I forth; and found, till then unknown, A cottage, whither oft we since repair: 'Tis perched upon the green hill top, but close Environ'd with a ring of branching elms, That overhang the thatch, itself unseen Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset With foliage of such dark redundant growth, I call'd the low-roof'd lodge the _peasant's nest_. And, hidden as it is, and far remote From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear In village or in town, the bay of curs Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, And infants clamorous whether pleased or pain'd, Oft have I wish'd the peaceful covert mine. Here, I have said, at least I should possess The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat Dearly obtains the refuge it affords. Its elevated site forbids the wretch To drink sweet waters of the crystal well; He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch, And, heavy laden, brings his beverage home, Far fetch'd and little worth; nor seldom waits, Dependent on the baker's punctual call, To hear his creaking panniers at the door, Angry and sad, and his last crust consumed. So farewell envy of the peasant's nest! If solitude make scant the means of life, Society for me!--thou seeming sweet, Be still a pleasing object in my view; My visit still, but never mine abode. Not distant far, a length of colonnade Invites us. Monument of ancient taste, Now scorn'd, but worthy of a better fate. Our fathers knew the value of a screen From sultry suns; and, in their shaded walks And long protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon The gloom and coolness of declining day. We bear our shades about us; self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree. Thanks to Benevolus,[806] he spares me yet These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines; And, though himself so polished, still reprieves The obsolete prolixity of shade. Descending now,--but cautious, lest too fast,-- A sudden steep upon a rustic bridge, We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. Hence, ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme, We mount again, and feel at every step Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil. He, not unlike the great ones of mankind, Disfigures earth: and, plotting in the dark, Toils much to earn a monumental pile, That may record the mischiefs he has done. The summit gain'd, behold the proud alcove That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures The grand retreat from injuries impress'd By rural carvers, who with knives deface The panels, leaving an obscure, rude name, In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. So strong the zeal to immortalize himself Beats in the breast of man, that e'en a few, Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorr'd Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, And even to a clown. Now roves the eye; And, posted on this speculative height, Exults in its command. The sheepfold here Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. At first, progressive as a stream, they seek The middle field; but, scatter'd by degrees, Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. There from the sun-burnt hay-field homeward creeps The loaded wain; while, lighten'd of its charge, The wain that meets it passes swiftly by; The boorish driver leaning o'er his team Vociferous and impatient of delay. Nor less attractive is the woodland scene, Diversified with trees of every growth, Alike, yet various. Here the grey smooth trunks Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine, Within the twilight of their distant shades; There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood Seems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs. No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar; paler some, And of a wannish grey; the willow such, And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf, And ash far stretching his umbrageous arm; Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still, Lord of the woods, the long surviving oak. Some glossy-leaved, and shining in the sun, The maple, and the beech of oily nuts Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve Diffusing odours: nor unnoted pass The sycamore, capricious in attire, Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright. O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map Of hill and valley interposed between), The Ouse, dividing the well water'd land, Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, As bashful, yet impatient to be seen. Hence the declivity is sharp and short, And such the re-ascent; between them weeps A little naiad her impoverish'd urn All summer long, which winter fills again. The folded gates would bar my progress now, But that the lord[806] enclosed demesne, Communicative of the good he owns, Admits me to a share: the guiltless eye Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun? By short transition we have lost his glare, And stepp'd at once into a cooler clime. Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice That yet a remnant of your race survives. How airy and how light the graceful arch, Yet awful as the consecrated roof Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath The chequer'd earth seems restless as a flood Brush'd by the wind. So sportive is the light Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves Play wanton, every moment, every spot. And now, with nerves new braced and spirits cheer'd, We tread the wilderness, whose well roll'd walks, With curvature of slow and easy sweep-- Deception innocent--give ample space To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next; Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms We may discern the thresher at his task. Thump after thump resounds the constant flail, That seems to swing uncertain, and yet falls Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff; The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam. Come hither, ye that press your beds of down And sleep not; see him sweating o'er his bread Before he eats it.--'Tis the primal curse, But soften'd into mercy; made the pledge Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan. By ceaseless action all that is subsists. Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel That Nature rides upon maintains her health, Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves. Its own revolvency upholds the world. Winds from all quarters agitate the air, And fit the limpid element for use, Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams, All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed By restless undulation: e'en the oak Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm: He seems indeed indignant, and to feel The impression of the blast with proud disdain, Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm He held the thunder: but the monarch owes His firm stability to what he scorns-- More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above. The law, by which all creatures else are bound, Binds man, the lord of all. Himself derives No mean advantage from a kindred cause, From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. The sedentary stretch their lazy length When custom bids, but no refreshment find, For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, And wither'd muscle, and the vapid soul, Reproach their owner with that love of rest To which he forfeits e'en the rest he loves. Not such the alert and active. Measure life By its true worth, the comforts it affords, And theirs alone seems worthy of the name. Good health, and, its associate in the most, Good temper: spirits prompt to undertake, And not soon spent, though in an arduous task; The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs; E'en age itself seems privileged in them, With clear exemption from its own defects. A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front The veteran shows, and, gracing a grey beard With youthful smiles, descends toward the grave Sprightly, and old almost without decay. Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most, Farthest retires--an idol, at whose shrine Who oftenest sacrifice are favour'd least. The love of Nature and the scenes she draws Is Nature's dictate. Strange! there should be found, Who, self-imprison'd in their proud saloons, Renounce the odours of the open field For the unscented fictions of the loom; Who, satisfied with only pencil'd scenes, Prefer to the performance of a God The inferior wonders of an artist's hand! Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art; But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire, None more admires, the painter's magic skill, Who shows me that which I shall never see, Conveys a distant country into mine, And throws Italian light on English walls. But imitative strokes can do no more Than please the eye--sweet Nature every sense. The air salubrious of her lofty hills, The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, And music of her woods--no works of man May rival these; these all bespeak a power Peculiar, and exclusively her own. Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast; 'Tis free to all--'tis every day renew'd; Who scorns it starves deservedly at home. He does not scorn it, who, imprison'd long In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey To sallow sickness, which the vapours, dank And clammy, of his dark abode have bred, Escapes at last to liberty and light: His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue; His eye relumines its extinguish'd fires; He walks, he leaps, he runs--is wing'd with joy, And riots in the sweets of every breeze. He does not scorn it, who has long endured A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs. Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed With acrid salts; his very heart athirst To gaze at Nature in her green array, Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd With visions prompted by intense desire: Fair fields appear below, such as he left Far distant, such as he would die to find-- He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns; The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown, And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort, And mar the face of beauty, when no cause For such immeasurable woe appears, These Flora banishes, and gives the fair Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own. It is the constant revolution, stale And tasteless, of the same repeated joys, That palls and satiates, and makes languid life A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down. Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heart Recoils from its own choice--at the full feast Is famish'd--finds no music in the song, No smartness in the jest; and wonders why. Yet thousands still desire to journey on, Though halt, and weary of the path they tread. The paralytic, who can hold her cards, But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort Her mingled suits and sequences; and sits, Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad And silent cipher, while her proxy plays. Others are dragg'd into the crowded room Between supporters; and, once seated, sits, Through downright inability to rise, Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again. These speak a loud memento. Yet e'en these Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he That overhangs a torrent to a twig. They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die, Yet scorn the purposes for which they live. Then wherefore not renounce them? No--the dread, The slavish dread of solitude, that breeds Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame, And their inveterate habits, all forbid. Whom call we gay? That honour has been long The boast of mere pretenders to the name. The innocent are gay--the lark is gay, That dries his feathers, saturate with dew, Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams Of dayspring overshoot his humble nest. The peasant too, a witness of his song, Himself a songster, is as gay as he. But save me from the gaiety of those Whose headaches nail them to a noon-day bed; And save me too from theirs whose haggard eyes Flash desperation, and betray their pangs For property stripp'd off by cruel chance; From gaiety, that fills the bones with pain, The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe. The earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleased with novelty, might be indulged. Prospects, however lovely, may be seen Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight, Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes. Then snug enclosures in the shelter'd vale, Where frequent hedges intercept the eye, Delight us; happy to renounce awhile, Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, That such short absence may endear it more. Then forests, or the savage rock, may please, That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts Above the reach of man. His hoary head, Conspicuous many a league, the mariner, Bound homeward, and in hope already there, Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist A girdle of half-wither'd shrubs he shows, And at his feet the baffled billows die. The common, overgrown with fern, and rough With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd, And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom, And decks itself with ornaments of gold, Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense With luxury of unexpected sweets. There often wanders one, whom better days Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound. A serving maid was she, and fell in love With one who left her, went to sea, and died. Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves To distant shores; and she would sit and weep At what a sailor suffers; fancy too, Delusive most where warmest wishes are, Would oft anticipate his glad return, And dream of transports she was not to know. She heard the doleful tidings of his death-- And never smiled again! and now she roams The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day, And there, unless when charity forbids, The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides, Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown More tatter'd still; and both but ill conceal A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs. She begs an idle pin of all she meets, And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes, Though pinch'd with cold, asks never.--Kate is crazed! I see a column of slow-rising smoke O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung Between two poles upon a stick transverse, Receives the morsel--flesh obscene of dog, Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'd From his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race! They pick their fuel out of every hedge, Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'd The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin, The vellum of the pedigree they claim. Great skill have they in palmistry, and more To conjure clean away the gold they touch, Conveying worthless dross into its place; Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal. Strange! that a creature rational, and cast In human mould, should brutalize by choice His nature; and, though capable of arts, By which the world might profit, and himself, Self-banish'd from society, prefer Such squalid sloth to honourable toil! Yet even these, though, feigning sickness oft, They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb, And vex their flesh with artificial sores, Can change their whine into a mirthful note When safe occasion offers; and with dance, And music of the bladder and the bag, Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy The houseless rovers of the sylvan world; And, breathing wholesome air, and wandering much, Need other physic none to heal the effects Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. Blest he, though undistinguish'd from the crowd By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure, Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn, The manners and the arts of civil life. His wants indeed are many; but supply Is obvious, placed within the easy reach Of temperate wishes and industrious hands. Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil; Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns, And terrible to sight, as when she springs (If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remote And barbarous climes, where violence prevails, And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind, By culture tamed, by liberty refresh'd, And all her fruits by radiant truth matured. War and the chase engross the savage whole, War follow'd for revenge, or to supplant The envied tenants of some happier spot: The chase for sustenance, precarious trust! His hard condition with severe constraint Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth Of wisdom, proves a school, in which he learns Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate, Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside. Thus fare the shivering natives of the north, And thus the rangers of the western world, Where it advances far into the deep, Towards the antarctic. E'en the favour'd isles, So lately found, although the constant sun Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile, Can boast but little virtue; and, inert Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain In manners--victims of luxurious ease. These therefore I can pity, placed remote From all that science traces, art invents, Or inspiration teaches; and enclosed In boundless oceans, never to be pass'd By navigators uninform'd as they, Or plough'd perhaps by British bark again: But, far beyond the rest, and with most cause, Thee, gentle savage![807] whom no love of thee Or thine, but curiosity, perhaps, Or else vain-glory, prompted us to draw Forth from thy native bowers, to show thee here With what superior skill we can abuse The gifts of Providence, and squander life. The dream is past; and thou hast found again Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams, And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But hast thou found Their former charms? And, having seen our state, Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp Of equipage, our gardens and our sports, And heard our music; are thy simple friends, Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys Lost nothing by comparison with ours? Rude as thou art (for we return'd thee rude And ignorant, except of outward show), I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart And spiritless as never to regret Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known. Methinks I see thee straying on the beach, And asking of the surge that bathes thy foot, If ever it has wash'd our distant shore. I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears, A patriot's for his country: thou art sad At thought of her forlorn and abject state, From which no power of thine can raise her up. Thus fancy paints thee, and though apt to err, Perhaps errs little when she paints thee thus. She tells me, too, that duly every morn Thou climb'st the mountain top, with eager eye Exploring far and wide the watery waste For sight of ship from England. Every speck Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale With conflict of contending hopes and fears. But comes at last the dull and dusky eve, And sends thee to thy cabin, well prepared To dream all night of what the day denied. Alas! expect it not. We found no bait To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, Disinterested good, is not our trade. We travel far, 'tis true, but not for nought; And must be bribed to compass earth again By other hopes and richer fruits than yours. But though true worth and virtue in the mild And genial soil of cultivated life Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, Yet not in cities oft: in proud, and gay, And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow, As to a common and most noisome sewer, The dregs and feculence of every land. In cities foul example on most minds Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds, In gross and pamper'd cities, sloth, and lust, And wantonness, and gluttonous excess. In cities vice is hidden with most ease, Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there Beyond the achievement of successful flight. I do confess them nurseries of the arts, In which they flourish most; where, in the beams Of warm encouragement, and in the eye Of public note, they reach their perfect size. Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd The fairest capital of all the world: By riot and incontinence the worst. There touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees All her reflected features. Bacon there Gives more than female beauty to a stone, And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. Nor does the chisel occupy alone The powers of sculpture, but the style as much; Each province of her art her equal care. With nice incision of her guided steel She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil So sterile with what charms soe'er she will, The richest scenery and the loveliest forms. Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye, With which she gazes at yon burning disk Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots? In London: where her implements exact, With which she calculates, computes, and scans All distance, motion, magnitude, and now Measures an atom, and now girds a world? In London. Where has commerce such a mart, So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied, As London--opulent, enlarged, and still Increasing London? Babylon of old Not more the glory of the earth than she, A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now. She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, That so much beauty would do well to purge; And show this queen of cities, that so fair May yet be foul; so witty, yet not wise. It is not seemly, nor of good report, That she is slack in discipline; more prompt To avenge than to prevent the breach of law: That she is rigid in denouncing death On petty robbers, and indulges life And liberty, and ofttimes honour too, To peculators of the public gold: That thieves at home must hang; but he, that puts Into his over-gorged and bloated purse The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, That, through profane and infidel contempt Of holy writ, she has presumed to annul And abrogate, as roundly as she may, The total ordinance and will of God; Advancing Fashion to the post of Truth, And centring all authority in modes And customs of her own, till sabbath rites Have dwindled into unrespected forms, And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorced. God made the country, and man made the town, What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts That can alone make sweet the bitter draught That life holds out to all, should most abound And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves? Possess ye, therefore, ye who, borne about In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue But that of idleness, and taste no scenes But such as art contrives, possess ye still Your element; there only can ye shine; There only minds like yours can do no harm. Our groves were planted to console at noon The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve The moonbeam, sliding softly in between The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, Birds warbling all the music. We can spare The splendour of your lamps; they but eclipse Our softer satellite. Your songs confound Our more harmonious notes; the thrush departs Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute. There is a public mischief in your mirth; It plagues your country. Folly such as yours, Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan, Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done, Our arch of empire, stedfast but for you, A mutilated structure, soon to fall.

[805] See Poems.

[806] John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq. of Weston Underwood.

[807] Omai.