He feels th' anxieties of life, denied

Their wonted entertainment, all retire.

Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such,
Or seldom such, the hearers of his song.

Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps
Aware of nothing arduous in a task
They never undertook, they little note

His dangers or escapes, and haply find

There least amusement where he found the most.

But is amusement all? studious of

song,

And yet ambitious not to sing in vain,
I would not trifle merely, though the world
Be loudest in their praise who do no more.
Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay?

It

may correct a foible, may chastise

The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress,

Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch;

But where are its sublimer trophies found?

What vice has it subdu'd? whose heart reclaim'd By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform?

Alas! Leviathan is not so tam'd:

Laugh'd at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard,

Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales,

That fear no discipline of human hands.

The pulpit, therefore (and I name it fill'd With solemn awe, that bids me well beware With what intent I touch that holy thing)— The pulpit (when the sat'rist has at last, Strutting and vap'ring in an empty school, Spent all his force and made no proselyte)—

I

say

the pulpit (in the sober use

Of its legitimate, peculiar pow'rs)

Must stand acknowledg'd, while the world shall

stand,

The most important and effectual guard,

Support, and ornament, of virtue's cause.

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 heav'nly temper, furnishes with arms,
Bright as his own, and trains, by ev'ry rule
Of holy discipline, to glorious war,

The sacramental host of God's elect!

Are all such teachers?-would to heav'n all were!

But hark-the doctor's voice!-fast wedg'd be

tween

Two empirics he stands, and with swoln 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 their's!

He teaches those to read, whom schools dismiss'd,

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 zig-zig manuscript, and cheats the eyes
Of gall'ry critics by a thousand arts.

Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware?
Oh, 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!

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, at once rapacious and profuse;
Frequent in park with lady at his side,
Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes;
But rare at home, and never at his books,
Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card;
Constant at routs, familiar with a round

Of ladyships-a stranger to the poor;
Ambitious of preferment for its gold,

And well-prepar'd, by ignorance and sloth,
By infidelity and love of world,

To make God's work a sinecure; a slave

To his own pleasures and his patron's pride: From such apostles, oh, ye mitred heads, Preserve the church! and lay not careless hands On sculls that cannot teach, and will not learn.

Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul,