Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad, Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums, Disclosing paradise where'er he treads? She quakes at his approach. Her hollow womb Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps And fiery caverns roars beneath his foot. The hills move lightly and the mountains smoke, For He has touch'd them. From the extremest Of elevation down into the abyss,
His wrath is busy and his frown is felt. The rocks fall headlong and the valleys rise; The rivers die into offensive pools,
And charged with putrid verdure, breathe a gross And mortal nuisance into all the air. What solid was, by transformation strange Grows fluid; and the fixt and rooted earth Tormented into billows heaves and swells, Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs And agonies of human and of brute Multitudes, fugitive on every side, And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene Migrates uplifted, and with all its soil Alighting in far distant fields, finds out A new possessor, and survives the change. Ocean has caught the frenzy, and upwrought To an enormous and o'erbearing height, Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge, Possess'd an inland scene. Where now the throng That press'd the beach, and hasty to depart Look'd to the sea for safety? They are gone, Gone with the refluent wave into the deep, A prince with half his people. Ancient towers, And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes Where beauty oft and letter'd worth consume Life in the unproductive shades of death, Fall prone: the pale inhabitants come forth, And happy in their unforeseen release From all the rigours of restraint, enjoy The terrors of the day that sets them free. Who then that has thee, would not hold thee fast, Freedom! whom they that lose thee, so regret, That even a judgment making way for thee, Seems, in their eyes, a mercy for thy sake.
Such evil sin hath wrought; and such a flame Kindled in heaven, that it burns down to earth, And in the furious inquest that it makes On God's behalf, lays waste his fairest works. The very elements, though each be meant The minister of man, to serve his wants, Conspire against him. With his breath, he draws A plague into his blood, and cannot use Life's necessary means, but he must die. Storms rise to o'erwhelm him: or if stormy winds Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise, And needing none assistance of the storm, Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there. The earth shall shake him out of all his holds, Or make his house his grave: nor so content, Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. What then, were they the wicked above all, And we the righteous, whose fast anchor'd isle Moved not, while theirs was rock'd like a light skiff, The sport of every wave? No: none are clear, And none than we more guilty. But where all
Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose his mark, May punish, if he please, the less, to warn The more malignant. If he spared not them, Tremble and be amazed at thine escape, Far guiltier England; lest he spare not thee. Happy the man who sees a God employ'd In all the good and ill that chequer life! Resolving all events, with their effects And manifold results, into the will And arbitration wise of the Supreme. Did not his eye rule all things, and intend The least of our concerns, (since from the least The greatest oft originate) could chance Find place in his dominion, or dispose One lawless particle to thwart his plan, Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen Contingence might alarm him, and disturb The smooth and equal course of his affairs. This truth, philosophy, though eagle-eyed In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks, And having found his instrument, forgets Or disregards, or more presumptuous still, Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims His hot displeasure against foolish men That live an atheist life; involves the heaven In tempests, quits his grasp upon the winds And gives them all their fury; bids a plague Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin,
And putrify the breath of blooming health. He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend Blows mildew from between his shrivel'd lips, And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines, And desolates a nation at a blast.
Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells Of homogeneal and discordant springs And principles; of causes, how they work By necessary laws their sure effects;
Of action and re-action. He has found The source of the disease that nature feels, And bids the world take heart and banish fear. Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause Suspend the effect or heal it? Has not God Still wrought by means since first he made the And did he not of old employ his means To drown it? What is his creation less Than a capacious reservoir of means Form'd for his use, and ready at his will? Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve, ask of him Or ask of whomsoever he has taught, And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. England, with all thy faults, I love thee still, My country! and while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy Be fickle, and thy year, most part, deform'd [clime With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies And fields without a flower, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves Of golden fruitage and her myrtle bowers. To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire Upon thy foes, was never meant my task; But I can feel thy fortunes and partake Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart As any thunderer there. And I can feel Thy follies too, and with a just disdain Frown at effeminates, whose very looks Reflect dishonour on the land I love.
How, in the name of soldiership and sense, Should England prosper, when such things, as And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er [smooth With odours, and as profligate as sweet, Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, And love when they should fight: when such as Presume to lay their hand upon the ark [these Of her magnificent and awful cause? Time was when it was praise and boast enough In every clime, and travel where we might, That we were born her children; praise enough To fill the ambition of a private man,
That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. Farewell those honours, and farewell with them The hope of such hereafter. They have fallen Each in his field of glory: one in arms, And one in council. Wolfe upon the lap Of smiling victory that moment won,
And Chatham, heart-sick of his country's shame. They made us many soldiers. Chatham still Consulting England's happiness at home, Secured it by an unforgiving frown
If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, Put so much of his heart into his act, That his example had a magnet's force, And all were swift to follow whom all loved. Those suns are set. Oh rise some other such! Or all that we have left is empty talk Of old achievements and despair of new.
Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, That no rude savour maritime invade The nose of nice nobility. Breathe soft Ye clarionets, and softer still ye flutes, That winds and waters lull'd by magic sounds May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore. True, we have lost an empire, let it pass. True, we may thank the perfidy of France That pick'd the jewel out of England's crown With all the cunning of an envious shrew. And let that pass,-'twas but a trick of state. A brave man knows no malice, but at once Forgets in peace the injuries of war, And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. And shamed as we have been, to the very beard Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved Too weak for those decisive blows, that once Insured us mastery there, we yet retain Some small pre-eminence; we justly boast At least superior jockeyship, and claim The honours of the turf as all our own. Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, And show the shame you might conceal at home, In foreign eyes!-be grooms, and win the plate, Where once your nobler fathers won a crown!- "Tis generous to communicate your skill To those that need it. Folly is soon learn'd; And under such preceptors who can fail?
There is a pleasure in poetic pains Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, The expedients and inventions multiform To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win,— To arrest the fleeting images that fill The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, And force them sit, till he has pencil'd off A faithful likeness of the forms he views; Then to dispose his copies with such art
That each may find its most propitious light, And shine by situation, hardly less Than by the labour and the skill it cost, Are occupations of the poet's mind
So pleasing, and that steal away the thought With such address, from themes of sad import, That lost in his own musings, happy man! He feels the 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 the 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 subdued? whose heart reclaim'd By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform? Alas! Leviathan is not so tamed: 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 satirist has at last, Strutting and vapouring in an empty school, Spent all his force, and made no proselyte ;) say the pulpit (in the sober use
Of its legitimate peculiar powers)
Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall The most important and effectual guard, [stand, 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 wanderer, 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! But hark, the Doctor's voice!-fast wedged between
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 theirs. He teaches those to read, whom schools dismiss'd, And colleges, untaught; sells accent, tone, And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer The 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 gallery 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 He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, [aid. 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 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 prepared by ignorance and sloth, By infidelity and love o' th' world,
To make God's work a sinecure; a slave To his own pleasures and his patron's pride ;- From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, Preserve the church! and lay not careless hands On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn.
Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own, Paul should himself direct me. I would trace His master-strokes, and draw from his design. I would express him simple, grave, sincere; In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste, And natural in gesture; much impress'd Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too; affectionate in look, And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guilty men. Behold the picture!-Is it like ?-Like whom? The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, And then skip down again; pronounce a text, Cry, hem! and reading what they never wrote, Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, And with a well-bred whisper close the scene. In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers And serves the altar, in my soul I loath All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn; Object of my implacable disgust.
What!will a man play tricks, will he indulge A silly fond conceit of his fair form And just proportion, fashionable mien And pretty face, in presence of his God? Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, As with the diamond on his lily hand, And play his brilliant parts before my eyes When I am hungry for the bread of life? He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames His noble office, and instead of truth Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock. Therefore avaunt! all attitude and stare And start theatric, practised at the glass. I seek divine simplicity in him
Who handles things divine: and all beside,
Though learn'd with labour, and though much
By curious eyes and judgments ill-inform'd, To me is odious as the nasal twang Heard at conventicle1, where worthy men Misled by custom, strain celestial themes Through the prest nostril, spectacle-bestrid. Some, decent in demeanour while they preach, That task perform'd, relapse into themselves, And having spoken wisely, at the close Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye, Whoe'er was edified, themselves were not. Forth comes the pocket mirror. First we stroke An eyebrow; next, compose a straggling lock; Then with an air, most gracefully perform'd, Fall back into our seat; extend an arm And lay it at its ease with gentle care, With handkerchief in hand, depending low. The better hand more busy, gives the nose Its bergamot, or aids the indebted eye With opera-glass to watch the moving scene, And recognise the slow-retiring fair. Now this is fulsome, and offends me more Than in a churchman slovenly neglect
And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind May be indifferent to her house of clay, And slight the hovel, as beneath her care; But how a body so fantastic, trim, And quaint in its deportment and attire, Can lodge a heavenly mind,-demands a doubt. He that negotiates between God and man, As God's ambassador, the grand concerns Of judgment and of mercy, should beware Of lightness in his speech. "Tis pitiful To court a grin, when you should woo a soul; To break a jest, when pity would inspire Pathetic exhortation; and to address The skittish fancy with facetious tales, When sent with God's commission to the heart. So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip Or merry turn in all he ever wrote, And I consent you take it for a text, Your only one, till sides and benches fail. No: he was serious in a serious cause, And understood too well the weighty terms That he had ta'en in charge. He would not stoop To conquer those by jocular exploits, Whom truth and soberness assail'd in vain.
Oh, 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 thy 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? Praise from the rivel'd lips of toothless, bald Decrepitude; and in the looks of lean And craving poverty; and in the bow Respectful of the smutch'd artificer Is oft too welcome, and may much disturb The bias of the purpose. How much more Pour'd forth by beauty splendid and polite, In language soft as adoration breathes? 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. All truth is from the sempiternal source Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome
Drew from the stream below. More favour'd we Drink, when we chuse it, at the fountain head. To them it flow'd much mingled and defiled With hurtful error, prejudice and dreams Illusive of philosophy so call'd,
But falsely. Sages after sages strove In vain, to filter off a crystal draught
Pure from the lees, which often more enhanced The thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bred Intoxication and delirium wild.
In vain they push'd enquiry to the birth And spring-time of the world, asked, whence is man?
Why form'd at all? And wherefore as he is? Where must he find his Maker? With what rites Adore him? Will He hear, accept, and bless! Or does He sit regardless of his works? Has man within him an immortal seed? Or does the tomb take all? If he survive His ashes, where? and in what weal or woe? Knots worthy of solution, which alone A Deity could solve. Their answers vague And all at random, fabulous and dark,
Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life Defective and unsanction'd, proved too weak
To bind the roving appetite, and lead Blind nature to a God not yet reveal'd. 'Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts, Explains all mysteries except her own, And so illuminates the path of life That fools discover it, and stray no more. Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir, My man of morals, nurtured in the shades Of Academus, is this false or true?
Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools? If Christ, then why resort at every turn To Athens or to Rome for wisdom short Of man's occasions, when in Him reside Grace, knowledge, comfort, an unfathom'd store? How oft when Paul has served us with a text, Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully preach'd! Men that, if now alive, would sit content And humble learners of a Saviour's worth, Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth,
Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too. And thus it is. The pastor, either vain By nature, or by flattery made so, taught To gaze at his own splendour, and to exalt Absurdly, not his office, but himself; Or unenlighten'd, and too proud to learn, Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach, Perverting often by the stress of lewd And loose example, whom he should instruct, Exposes and holds up to broad disgrace The noblest function, and discredits much The brightest truths that man has ever seen. For ghostly counsel, if it either fall Below the exigence, or be not back'd With show of love, at least with hopeful proof Of some sincerity on the giver's part; Or be dishonour'd in the exterior form And mode of its conveyance, by such tricks As move derision, or by foppish airs And histrionic mummery, that let down The pulpit to the level of the stage, Drops from the lips a disregarded thing.
The weak perhaps are moved, but are not taught, While prejudice in men of stronger minds Takes deeper root, confirm'd by what they see.
A relaxation of religion's hold
Upon the roving and untutor'd heart
Soon follows, and the curb of conscience snapt, The laity run wild.-But do they now? Note their extravagance, and be convinced.
As nations ignorant of God, contrive A wooden one, so we, no longer taught By monitors that mother church supplies, Now make our own. Posterity will ask (If e'er posterity see verse of mine) Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence, What was a monitor in George's days? My very gentle reader, yet unborn, Of whom I needs must augur better things, Since Heaven would sure grow weary of a world Productive only of a race like us,
A monitor is wood. Plank shaven thin. We wear it at our backs. There closely braced And neatly fitted, it compresses hard
The prominent and most unsightly bones, And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use Sovereign and most effectual to secure
A form not now gymnastic as of yore, From rickets and distortion, else our lot. But thus admonish'd we can walk erect,
One proof at least of manhood; while the friend Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge. Our habits costlier than Lucullus wore, And by caprice as multiplied as his, Just please us while the fashion is at full, But change with every moon. The sycophant That waits to dress us, arbitrates their date, Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye; Finds one ill made, another obsolete, This fits not nicely, that is ill conceived, And making prize of all that he condemns, With our expenditure defrays his own. Variety's the very spice of life,
That gives it all its flavour. We have run Through every change that fancy at the loom Exhausted, has had genius to supply, And studious of mutation still, discard A real elegance a little used
For monstrous novelty and strange disguise. We sacrifice to dress, till household joys And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires, And introduces hunger, frost, and woe, Where peace and hospitality might reign. What man that lives and that knows how to live, Would fail to exhibit at the public shows A form as splendid as the proudest there, Though appetite raise outcries at the cost? A man of the town dines late, but soon enough With reasonable forecast and dispatch, To insure a side-box station at half price. You think perhaps, so delicate his dress, His daily fare as delicate. Alas! He picks clean teeth, and busy as he seems With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet. The rout is folly's circle which she draws With magic wand. So potent is the spell, That none decoy'd into that fatal ring, Unless by heaven's peculiar grace, escape. There we grow early grey, but never wise; There form connexions, and acquire no friend; Solicit pleasure hopeless of success; Waste youth in occupations only fit For second childhood, and devote old age To sports which only childhood could excuse.
There they are happiest who dissemble best Their weariness; and they the most polite Who squander time and treasure with a smile, Though at their own destruction. She that asks Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, And hates their coming. They, what can they less? Make just reprisals, and with cringe, and shrug And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her. All catch the frenzy, downward from her Grace, Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies And gild our chamber ceilings as they pass, To her who, frugal only that her thrift May feed excesses she can ill afford, Is hackney'd home unlackey'd,-who in haste Alighting, turns the key in her own door, And at the watchman's lantern borrowing light, Finds a cold bed her only comfort left. Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their On Fortune's velvet altar offering up [wives, Their last poor pittance ;-Fortune most severe Of goddesses yet known, and costlier far Than all that held their routs in heathen heaven.- So fare we in this prison-house the world: And 'tis a fearful spectacle to see So many maniacs dancing in their chains. They gaze upon the links that hold them fast With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot, Then shake them in despair, and dance again. Now basket up the family of plagues That waste our vitals. Peculation, sale Of honour, perjury, corruption, frauds By forgery, by subterfuge of law,
By tricks and lies as numerous and as keen As the necessities their authors feel; Then cast them closely bundled, every brat At the right door. Profusion is its sire. Profusion unrestrain'd, with all that's base In character has litter'd all the land, And bred within the memory of no few, A priesthood such as Baal's was of old, A people such as never was till now. It is a hungry vice-it eats up all That gives society its beauty, strength, Convenience, and security, and use; Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapp'd And gibbeted as fast as catchpole claws Can seize the slippery prey: unties the knot Of union, and converts the sacred band That holds mankind together, to a scourge. Profusion, deluging a state with lusts Of grossest nature and of worse effects, Prepares it for its ruin ; hardens, blinds, And warps the consciences of public men Till they can laugh at virtue, mock the fools That trust them, and in the end disclose a face That would have shock'd credulity herself Unmask'd, vouchsafing this their sole excuse, Since all alike are selfish-why not they? This does Profusion, and the accursed cause Of such deep mischief, has itself a cause.
In colleges and halls, in ancient days, When learning, virtue, piety and truth Were precious, and inculcated with care, There dwelt a sage call'd Discipline. His head Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er, Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, But strong for service still, and unimpair'd. His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile Play'd on his lips, and in his speech was heard Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love.
Close to his side that pleased him. Learning grew Beneath his care, a thriving vigorous plant;
The mind was well inform'd, the passions held Subordinate, and diligence was choice.
If e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must, That one among so many overleap'd The limits of control, his gentle eye Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke; His frown was full of terror, and his voice Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe As left him not, till penitence had won Lost favour back again, and closed the breach. But Discipline, a faithful servant long, Declined at length into the vale of years; A palsy struck his arm, his sparkling eye Was quench'd in rheums of age, his voice unstrung Grew tremulous, and moved derision more Than reverence, in perverse rebellious youth. So colleges and halls neglected much Their good old friend, and Discipline at length O'erlook'd and unemploy'd, fell sick and died. Then study languish'd, emulation slept,
And virtue fled. The schools became a scene Of solemn farce, where ignorance in stilts, His cap well lined with logic not his own, With parrot tongue perform'd the scholar's part, Proceeding soon a graduated dunce.
Then compromise had place, and scrutiny Became stone-blind, precedence went in truck, And he was competent whose purse was so. A dissolution of all bonds ensued,
The curbs invented for the muleish mouth Of headstrong youth were broken; bars and bolts Grew rusty by disuse, and massy gates Forgot their office, opening with a touch:
Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade; The tassel'd cap and the spruce band a jest, A mockery of the world. What need of these For gamesters, jockeys, brothelers impure, Spendthrifts and booted sportsmen, oftener seen With belted waist and pointers at their heels, Than in the bounds of duty? What was learn'd, If aught was learn'd in childhood, is forgot, And such expense as pinches parents blue, And mortifies the liberal hand of love, Is squander'd in pursuit of idle sports And vicious pleasures; buys the boy a name, That sits a stigma on his father's house, And cleaves through life inseparably close To him that wears it. What can after-games Of riper joys and commerce with the world, The lewd vain world that must receive him soon, Add to such erudition thus acquired Where science and where virtue are profess'd? They may confirm his habits, rivet fast His folly, but to spoil him is a task That bids defiance to the united powers Of fashion, dissipation, taverns, stews. Now, blame we most the nurslings or the nurse? The children crook'd and twisted and deform'd Through want of care, or her whose winking eye And slumbering oscitancy mars the brood? The nurse no doubt. Regardless of her charge, She needs herself correction; needs to learn That it is dangerous sporting with the world,
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