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 Cur coacuir c y r/ice/iA 
 
 Ulrich Middeldorf 
 
 1 - 897 * 
 
 ESHER PLACE 
 
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TABLE TALK. 
 
 Si te forte me* gravis uret sarcina chart*, 
 
 Abjicito Hor. Lib. 1. Epist. 13. 
 
 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 mem’ry, dear to ev’ry muse, 
 
 Who, with a courage of unshaken root, 
 
 In Honour’s field advancing his firm foot, 
 
 Plants it upon the line that Justice draws, 
 
 And will prevail or perish in her cause. 
 
 r> 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 ’Tis to the virtues of such men, man owes 
 His portion in the good, that Heav’n bestows. 
 
 And when recording History displays 
 Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days, 
 Tells of a few stout hearts, that fought and died, 
 Where duty plac’d them, at their country’s side ; 
 The man, that is not mov’d with what he reads, 
 That takes not lire 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 station’d on a tow’ring rock, 
 
 To see a people scatter’d like a flock, 
 
 Some royal mastiff panting at their heels, 
 
 With all the savage thirst a tiger feels ; 
 
 Then view him self-proclaim’d in a gazette 
 Chief monster, that has plagu’d the nations yet: 
 The globe and sceptre in such hands misplac’d, 
 Those ensigns of dominion, how disgrac’d ! 
 
 The glass, that bids man mark the fleeting hour, 
 And Death’s own scythe would better speak his pow’r 
 Then grace the bony phantom in their stead 
 With the king’s shoulder-knot and gay cockade ; 
 Clothe the twin brethren in each others 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 : 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn, 
 Who think, or seem to think, man made for them. 
 
 B. Seldom, alas ! the pow’r of logic reigns ' 
 With much sufficiency in royal brains ; 
 
 Such reas’ning falls like an inverted cone, 
 Wanting its proper base to stand upon. 
 
 Man made for kings ! those optics are but dim, 
 That tell you so— say, rather, they for him. 
 
 That were indeed a king-ennobling thought, 
 
 Could they, or would they, reason as they ought. • 
 The diadem, with mighty projects lin’d 
 To catch renown by ruining mankind, 
 
 Is worth, with all its gold and glitt’ring store, 
 
 Just what the toy will sell for, and no more. 
 
 Oh ! bright occasions of dispensing good, 
 
 How seldom us’d, 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 ev’ry 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 ; 
 
4 
 
 TABLE TALK. 
 
 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 full in view. 
 Indeed? — replied the don — there are but few. 
 
 His black interpreter the charge disdain’d — 
 
 Few, fellow? — there are all that ever reign’d. 
 
 Wit, undistinguishing, is apt to strike 
 The guilty and not guilty both alike. 
 
 I grant the sarcasm is too severe, 
 
 And we can readily refute it here ; 
 
 While Alfred’s name, the father of his age, 
 
 And the Sixth Edward’s grace th’ historic page. 
 
 A. Kings then at last have but the lot of all: 
 
 By their own conduct they must stand or fall. 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 5 
 
 B. True. While they live the courtly laureat pays 
 His quit-rent 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, overaw’d by fear, 
 
 And prais’d for virtues that they scorn to wear, 
 
 The fleeting forms of majesty engage 
 Respect, while stalking o’er life’s narrow stage ; 
 Then leave their crimes for History to scan, 
 
 And ask with busy scorn, Was this the man? 
 
 I pity kings, whom Worship waits upon 
 Obsequious from the cradle to the throne; 
 
 Before whose infant eyes the flatt’rer bows, 
 
 And binds a wreath about their baby brows ; 
 
 Whom Education stiffens into state, 
 
 And Death awakens from that dream too late. 
 
 Oh ! if Servility with supple knees, 
 
 W'hose 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 simp’ring 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, 
 Should’ring and standing as if stuck to stone, 
 
 While condescending majesty looks on ; 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 6 
 
 If monarchy consist in such base things, 
 
 Sighing, I say again, I pity kings ! 
 
 To be suspected, thwarted, and withstood, 
 
 Ev’n when he labours for his country’s good, 
 
 To see a band, call’d patriot for no cause, 
 
 But that they catch at popular applause, 
 
 Careless of all th’ anxiety he feels, 
 
 Hook disappointment on the public wheels ; 
 
 With all their flippant fluency of tongue, 
 
 Most confident, when palpably most wrong ; 
 
 If this be kingly, then farewell for me 
 All kingship; and may I be poor and free ! 
 
 To be the Table Talk of clubs up stairs, 
 
 To which th’ unwash’d artificer repairs, 
 
 T’ indulge his genius after long fatigue, 
 
 By diving into cabinet intrigue ; 
 
 (For what kings deem a toil, as well they may, 
 
 To him is relaxation and mere play) 
 
 To win no praise when well-wrought plans prevail, 
 But to be rudely censur’d when they fail ; 
 
 To doubt the love his fav’rites may pretend, 
 
 And in reality to find no friend ; 
 
 If he indulge a cultivated taste, 
 
 His gall’ries with the works of art well grac’d, : 
 To hear it call’d extravagance and waste; 
 
 If these attendants, and if such as these, 
 
 Must follow royalty, then welcome ease ; 
 
 However humbled and confin’d the sphere, 
 
 Happy the state that has not these to fear. 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 7 
 
 A. Thus men, whose thoughts contemplative have 
 
 On situations, that they never felt, [dwelt 
 
 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 tinkie 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 ; 
 
 Gen’rals, who will not conquer when they may, 
 
 Firm friends to peace, to pleasure, and good pay ; 
 When Freedom, wounded almost to despair, 
 Though discontent alone can find out where ; 
 
8 
 
 TABLE TALK. 
 
 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 pow’r maintains 
 A Briton’s scorn of arbitrary chains ; 
 
 That were a theme might animate the dead, 
 
 And move the lips of poets cast in lead. 
 
 B. The cause, though worth the search, may yet 
 Conjecture and remark, however shrewd. [elude 
 They take perhaps a well-directed aim, 
 
 Who seek it in his climate and his frame. 
 
 Lib’ral in all things else, yet Nature here 
 With stern severity deals out the year. 
 
 Winter invades the spring, and often pours 
 A chilling flood on summer’s drooping flow’rs ; 
 Unwelcome 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 fav’rite man of all mankind. 
 
 His form robust and of elastic tone, 
 
 Proportion’d well, half muscle and half bone, 
 Supplies with warm activity and force 
 A mind well-lodg’d, and masculine of course. 
 
 Hence Liberty, sweet Liberty inspires, 
 
 And keeps alive his fierce but noble fires. 
 
 Patient of constitutional control, 
 
 lie bears it with meek manliness of soul ; 
 
 But, if Authority grow wanton, woe 
 To him, that treads upon his freeborn toe ; 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 9 
 
 One step beyond the bound’ry of the laws 
 Fires him at once in Freedom’s glorious cause. 
 Thus proud Prerogative, not much rever’d, 
 
 Is seldom felt, though sometimes seen and heard, 
 And in his cage, like parrot fine and gay, 
 
 Is kept to strut, look big, and talk away. 
 
 Born in a climate softer far than ours, 
 
 Not form’d like us, with such Herculean pow’rs, 
 The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, 
 
 Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, 
 
 Is always happy, reign whoever may, 
 
 And laughs the sense of mis’ry far away ; 
 
 He drinks his simple bev’rage with a gust ; 
 
 And, feasting on an onion and a crust, 
 
 We never feel th’ alacrity and joy, 
 
 With which he shouts and carols Vive le Roi ! 
 Fill’d 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 lie has made, 
 
 Kind Providence attends with gracious aid ; 
 
 Bids equity throughout his works prevail, 
 
 And weighs the nations in an even scale ; 
 
 He can encourage Slav’ry to a smile, 
 
 And fill with discontent a British isle. 
 
 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 fost’ring pow’r, and tutelary care, 
 
 B 3 
 
10 
 
 TABLE TALK. 
 
 As well be yok’d 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, 
 
 Op’ning and wider op’ning on her view, 
 
 She ventures onward with a prosp’rous force, 
 
 While no base fear impedes her in her course. 
 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 list’ning minds 
 Communicates with joy the good she finds; 
 
 Courage in arms, and ever prompt to show 
 His manly forehead to the fiercest foe; 
 
 Glorious in war, but for the sake of peace. 
 
 His spirits rising as his toils increase, 
 
 Guards well what arts and industry have won, 
 
 And Freedom claims him for her first-born son. 
 Slaves fight for what were better cast away — 
 
 The chain that binds them and a tyrant’s sway; 
 
 But they, that fight for freedom, undertake 
 The noblest cause mankind can have at stake : 
 Religion, virtue, truth, whate’er we call 
 A blessing— freedom is the pledge of all. 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 11 
 
 O Liberty ! the pris’ner’s pleasing dream, 
 
 The poet’s muse, his passion, and his theme ; 
 
 Genius is thine, and thou art Fancy’s nurse; 
 
 Lost without thee th’ ennobling pow’rs of verse ; 
 Heroic song from thy free touch acquires 
 Its clearest tone, the rapture it inspires. 
 
 Place me where Winter breathes his keenest air, 
 And I will sing, if Liberty be there ; 
 
 And I will sing at Liberty’s dear feet, 
 
 In Afric’s torrid clime, or India’s fiercest heat. 
 
 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 pow’rs, 
 
 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 curvetting 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 desp’rate task ; 
 
 Let active Laws apply the needful curb, 
 
 To guard the Peace, that Riot would disturb ; 
 
 And Liberty, preserv’d from wild excess, 
 
 Shall raise no feuds for armies to suppress. 
 
12 
 
 TABLE TALK 
 
 When Tumult lately burst his prison door, 
 
 And set plebeian thousands in a roar, 
 
 When he usurp’d Authority’s just place, 
 
 And dar’d to look his master in the face; 
 
 When the rude 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 
 May no foes ravish thee, and no false friend [sold; 
 Befray 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 cloth’d him with authority and awe, 
 
 Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave law. 
 
 His speech, his form, his action, full of grace, 
 
 And all his country beaming in his face, 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 13 
 
 He stood, as some inimitable hand 
 Would strive to make a Paul or Tully stand. 
 
 No sycophant or slave, that dar’d oppose 
 Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose ; 
 
 And ev’ry venal stickler for the yoke 
 
 Felt himself crush’d at the first word he spoke. 
 
 Such men are rais’d to station and command, 
 When Providence means mercy to a land. 
 
 He speaks, and they appear; to him they owe 
 Skill to direct, and strength to strike the blow ; 
 
 To manage with address, to seize with pow’r 
 The crisis of a dark decisive hour. 
 
 So Gideon earn’d a vict’ry not his own ; 
 Subserviency his praise, and that alone. 
 
 Poor England ! thou art a devoted deer, 
 
 Beset with ev’ry ill but that of fear. 
 
 Thee 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 sav’d 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 ev’ry virtue, ev’ry grace, 
 
 Confess’d a God ; they kneel’d before they fought, 
 And. prais’d him in the victories he wrought. 
 
 Now from the dust of ancient days bring forth 
 Their sober zeal, integrity, and worth ; 
 
14 
 
 TABLE TALK. 
 
 Courage, ungrac’d by these, affronts the skies, 
 
 Is but the fire without the sacrifice. 
 
 The stream, that feeds the well-spring of the heart, 
 Not more invigorates life’s noblest part, 
 
 Than Virtue quickens with a warmth divine 
 The pow’rs, that Sin has brought to a decline. 
 
 A. Th’ inestimable Estimate of Brown 
 Rose like a paper kite, and charm’d the town ; 
 
 But measures, plann’d and executed well, 
 
 Shifted the wind that rais’d it, and it fell. 
 
 He trod the very self-same ground you tread, 
 
 And Victory refuted all he said. 
 
 B. And yet his judgment was not fram’d amiss ; 
 Its error, if it err’d, was merely this — 
 
 He thought the dying hour already come, 
 
 And a complete recov’ry struck him dumb. 
 
 But that effeminacy, folly, lust, 
 
 Enervate and enfeeble, and needs must; 
 
 And that a nation shamefully debas’d, 
 
 Will be despis’d and trampled on at last, 
 
 Unless sweet Penitence her pow’rs renew, 
 
 Is truth, if history itself be true. 
 
 There is a time, and Justice marks the date, 
 
 For long-forbearing Clemency to wait ; 
 
 That hour elaps’d, th’ incurable revolt 
 Is punish’d, and down comes the thunderbolt. 
 
 If Mercy then put by the threat’ning blow, 
 
 Must she perform the same kind office now?. 
 
 May she ! and, if offended Heav’n be still 
 Accessible, and pray’r prevail, she will* 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 15 
 
 ’Tis not, however, insolence and noise, 
 
 The tempest of tumultuary joys, 
 
 Nor is it yet despondence and dismay 
 Will win her visits or engage her stay ; 
 
 Pray’r only, and the penitential tear, 
 
 Can call her smiling down, and fix her here. 
 
 But when a country (one that I could name) 
 
 In prostitution sinks the sense of shame; 
 
 When infamous Venality, grown bold, 
 
 Writes on his bosom, to be let or sold; 
 
 When Perjury, that Heav’n-defying vice, 
 
 Sells oaths by tale, and at the lowest price, 
 
 Stamps God’s own name upon a lie just made, 
 
 To turn a penny in the way of trade ; 
 
 When Av’rice starves (and never hides his face) 
 Two or three millions of the human race, 
 
 And not a tongue 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, fall’n, and lost, 
 
 In all, that wars against that title most, 
 
 What follows next let cities of great name, 
 
 And regions long since desolate proclaim. 
 
 Nineveh, Babylon, and ancient Rome, 
 
 Speak to the present times, and times to come ; 
 They cry aloud in ev’ry careless ear, 
 
 Stop, while you may ; suspend your mad career ; 
 
 O learn from our example and our fate, 
 
 Learn wisdom and repentance ere too late. 
 
1 G 
 
 TABLE TALK. 
 
 Not only Vice disposes and prepares 
 The mind, that slumbers sweetly in her snares, 
 
 To stoop to Tyranny’s usurp’d command, 
 
 And bend her polish’d neck beneath his hand, 
 
 (A dire effect, by one of Nature’s laws 
 Unchangeably connected with its cause;) 
 
 But Providence himself will intervene, 
 
 To throw his dark displeasure o’er the scene. 
 
 All are his instruments; each form of war, 
 
 What burns at home, or threatens from afar, 
 
 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 Heav’n roars above; 
 But nothing scares them from the course they love : 
 To the lascivious pipe and wanton song, 
 
 That charm down fear, they frolic it along, 
 
 With mad rapidity and unconcern, 
 
 Down to the gulf, from which is no return. 
 
 They trust in navies, and their navies fail — 
 
 God’s curse can cast away ten thouand sail! 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 17 
 
 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 prophecy, 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, 
 
 Whate’er the theme, that others never feel. 
 
 If human woes her soft attention claim, 
 
 A tender sympathy pervades the frame, 
 
 She pours a sensibility divine 
 Along the nerve of ev’ry feeling line. 
 
 But if a deed not tamely to be borne 
 
 Fire indignation and a sense of scorn, . 
 
 The strings are swept with such a pow’r, so loud, 
 The storm of music shakes th’ astonish’d crowd. 
 
 So, when remote futurity is brought 
 Before the keen inquiry of her thought, 
 
 A terrible sagacity informs 
 
 The poet’s heart ; he looks to distant storms ; 
 
 He hears the thunder ere the tempest lovv’rs ; 
 
 And, arm’d with strength surpassing human pow’rs, 
 
18 
 
 TABLE TALK. 
 
 Seizes events as yet unknown to man, 
 
 And darts his soul into the dawning plan. 
 
 Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name 
 Ot prophet and of poet was the same ; 
 
 Hence British poets too the priesthood shar’d, 
 
 And ev’ry hallow’d druid was a bard. 
 
 But no prophetic fires to me belong ; 
 
 I play with syllables, and sport in song. 
 
 ^4. At Westminster, where little poets strive. 
 
 To set a distich upon six and five, 
 
 Where Discipline helps th’ op’ning buds of sense, 
 And makes his pupils proud with silver pence, 
 
 1 was a poet too : but modern taste 
 Is so refin’d, and delicate, and chaste, 
 
 That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms, 
 
 Without a creamy smoothness has no charms. 
 Thus, all success depending on an ear, 
 
 And thinking I might purchase it too dear, 
 
 If sentiment were sacrific’d to sound, 
 
 And truth cut short to make a period round, 
 
 J u dg d a man ot 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 plouglrs its stately course 
 Like a proud swan, conqu’ring the stream by forec ; 
 That, like some cottage beauty, strikes the heart, 
 Quite unindebted to the tricks of art. 
 
 When Labour and when Dulness, club in hand, 
 Like the two figures at St. Dunstan’s stand, 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 19 
 
 Beating alternately, in measur’d time, 
 
 The clockwork tintinabulum 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 ev’ry 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 : • 
 
20 
 
 TABLE TALK. 
 
 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 dayspring into distant climes, 
 Ennobling ev’ry region that he chose ; 
 
 He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose ; 
 
 And, tedious years of gothic darkness pass’d, 
 Emerg’d all 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 pow’rs your own at once, 
 
 O candidly confess yourself a dunce. 
 
 B. These were the chief ; each interval of night 
 Was grac’d with many an undulating light. 
 
 In less illustrious bards his beauty shone 
 A meteor, or a star ; in these, the sun. 
 
 The nightingale may claim the topmost bough, 
 While the poor grasshopper must chirp below. 
 Like him unnotic’d, I, and such as I, 
 
 Spread little w ings, 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, 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 21 
 
 Elegant as simplicity, and warm 
 As ecstasy, unmanacled by form, 
 
 Not prompted as in our degen’rate days, 
 
 By low ambition and the thirst of praise, 
 
 Was natural as is the flowing stream, 
 
 And yet magnificent — A God the theme ! 
 
 That theme on Earth exhausted, though above 
 ’Tis found as everlasting as his love, 
 
 Man lavish’d all his thoughts on human things — 
 The feats of heroes, and the wrath of kings : 
 
 But still, while Virtue kindled his delight, 
 
 The song was moral, and so far was right. 
 
 ’Twas thus till Luxury seduc’d the mind 
 To joys less innocent, as less refin’d ; 
 
 Then Genius danc’d a bacchanal ; he crown’d 
 The brimming goblet, seiz’d the thyrsus, bound 
 His brows with ivy, rush’d into the field 
 Of wild imagination, and there reel’d, 
 
 The victim of his own lascivious fires, 
 
 And dizzy with delight, profan’d the sacred wires. 
 Anacreon, Horace, play’d in Greece and Rome 
 This bedlam part; and others nearer home. 
 
 When Cromwell fought for pow’r, and while he reign’d, 
 The proud protector of the pow’r he gain’d, 
 
 Religion harsh, intolerant, austere, 
 
 Parent of manners like herself severe, 
 
 Drew a rough copy of the Christian face, 
 
 Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace ; 
 
 The dark and sullen humour of the time 
 Judg’d ev’ry effort of the muse a crime; 
 
22 
 
 TA1SLE TALK. 
 
 Verse, in the finest mould of fancy cast. 
 
 Was lumber in an age so void of taste ; 
 
 But, when the second Charles assum’d the sway. 
 And arts reviv’d beneath a softer day. 
 
 Then, like a bow long forc’d into a curve, 
 
 The mind, releas’d from too constrain’d a nerve, 
 Flew to its first position with a spring, 
 
 That made the vaulted roofs of Pleasure ring. 
 
 His court, the dissolute and hateful school 
 Of Wantonness, where vice was taught by rule, 
 Swarm’d with a scribbling herd, as deep inlaid 
 With brutal lust as ever Circe made. 
 
 From these a long succession, in the rage 
 Of rank obscenity, debauch’d their age ; 
 
 Nor ceas’d, till, ever anxious to redress 
 Th’ abuses of her sacred charge, the press, 
 
 The muse instructed a well nurtur’d train 
 Of abler votaries to cleanse the stain, 
 
 And claim the palm for purity of song, 
 
 That Lewdness had usurp’d and worn so long. 
 Then decent pleasantry, and sterling sense, 
 
 That neither gave nor would endure offence, 
 Whipp’d out of sight, with satire just and keen, 
 The puppy pack, that had defil’d the scene. 
 
 In front of these came Addison. In him 
 Humour in holiday and sightly trim, 
 
 Sublimity, and attic taste, combin’d, 
 
 To polish, furnish, and delight the mind. 
 
 Then Pope, as harmony itself exact, 
 
 In verse well disciplin’d, complete, compact, 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 23 
 
 Cave Virtue and Morality a grace, 
 
 That, quite eclipsing Pleasure’s painted face, 
 
 Levied a tax of wonder and applause, 
 
 Ev’n on the fools that 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 ev’ry warbler has his tune by heart. 
 
 Nature imparting her satiric gift, 
 
 Her serious mirth, to Arbutlmot and Swift, 
 
 With droll sobriety they rais’d a smile 
 At Folly’s cost, themselves unmov’d the while. 
 
 That constellation set, the World in vain 
 Must hope to look upon their like again. 
 
 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 pow’rs, 
 
 In penury consum’d 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, 
 
24 
 
 TABLE TALK. 
 
 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 pow’r, 
 
 Forms, opens, and gives scent to ev’ry flow’r; 
 Spreads the fresh verdure of the fields, 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) 
 
 Vauchsafes 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 Heav’n, that never die; 
 
 A soul, exalted above Earth, a mind 
 Skill’d in the characters that form mankind ; 
 
 And, as the Sun in rising beauty dress’d, 
 
 Looks to the westward from the dappled east, 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 26 
 
 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 ev’ry scene and subject it surveys: 
 
 Thus grac’d, 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 ! 
 
 Theflow’rs would spring where’er she deign’d 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 undress’d. 
 
 Stands in the desert, shiv’ring and forlorn, 
 
 A wint’ry figure, like a wither’d thorn. 
 
 The shelves are full, all other themes are sped ; 
 Hackney’d and worn to the last flimsy thread, 
 
 Satire has long since done his best; and curst 
 And loathsome Ribaldry has done his worst; 
 
 Fancy has sported all her pow’rs away 
 In tales, in trifles, and in children’s play ; 
 
 And ’tis the sad complaint, and almost true, 
 Whate’er we write, we bring forth nothing new. 
 ’Twere new indeed, to see a bard all fire, 
 
 Touch’d, with a coal from Heav’n, assume the lyre, 
 And tell the World, still kindling as he sung, 
 
 With more than mortal music on his tongue, 
 c 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 * 2(5 
 
 That He, who died below, and reigns above, 
 
 Inspires the song, and that his name is Love. 
 
 For, after all, if merely to beguile, 
 
 By flowing numbers and a flow’ry style, 
 
 The taedium that the lazy rich endure. 
 
 Which now and then sweet poetry may cure ; 
 
 Or, if to see the name of idle 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, 
 
 Debas’d to servile purposes of pride, 
 
 How are the pow’rs of Genius misapplied ! 
 
 The gift, whose office is the Giver’s praise, 
 
 To trace him in his word, his works, his ways ; 
 
 Then spread the rich discov’ry, and invite 
 Mankind, to share in the divine delight; 
 
 Distorted from its use and just design, 
 
 To make the pitiful possessor shine, 
 
 To purchase, at the fool-frequented fair 
 Of Vanity, a wreath for self to wear, 
 
 Is profanation of the basest kind — 
 
 Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind. 
 
 A. Hail, Sternhold, then; and, Hopkins, hail! B. 
 If flatt’ry, folly, lust, employ the pen ; [Amen. 
 
 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. 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 27 
 
 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 w ere not ; 
 And should, no doubt, if they were all forgot. 
 
THE 
 
 PROGRESS OF ERROR 
 
 Si quid loquar audiendum. Hor. Lib. 4, Od. 2. 
 
 Sing, muse (if such a theme, so dark, so long, 
 May find a muse to grace it with a song), 
 
 By what unseen and unsuspected arts 
 The serpent Error twines round human hearts ; 
 Tell where she lurks, beneath what flow’ry shades, 
 That not a glimpse of genuine light pervades, 
 
 The pois’nous, 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. 
 
30 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 The clear harangue, and cold as it is clear, 
 
 Falls soporific on the listless ear; 
 
 Like quicksilver, the rhet’ric they display 
 Shines as it runs, but grasp’d at slips away. 
 
 Plac’d for his trial, on this bustling stage, 
 
 From thoughtless youth to ruminating age, 
 
 Free in his will to choose or to refuse, 
 
 Man may improve the crisis or abuse ; 
 
 Filse, 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 recompense is both unjust alike. 
 
 Divine authority within his breast 
 Brings ev’ry thought, word, action, to the test; 
 Warns him or prompts, approves him or restrains, 
 As reason, or as passion, takes the reins. 
 
 Heav’n from above, and Conscience from within, 
 Cries in his startled ear — Abstain from sin ! 
 
 The world around solicits his desire, 
 
 And kindles in his soul a treach’rous fire; 
 
 While, all his purposes and steps to guard, 
 
 Peace follows virtue as its sure reward ; 
 
 And Pleasure brings as surely in her train 
 Remorse, and Sorrow, and Vindictive Pain. 
 
 Man, thus endued with an elective voice, 
 
 Must be supplied with objects of his choice; 
 Where’er he turns, enjoyment and delight, 
 
 Or present, or in prospect, meet his sight ; 
 
THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 3L 
 
 Those open on the spot their honey’d 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 — 
 
 Pow’r, pomp, and splendour, and the thirst of praise ; 
 There Beauty wooes him with expanded arms ; 
 
 Ev’n bacchanalian madness has its charms. 
 
 Nor these alone, whose pleasures less refin’d 
 Might well alarm the most unguarded mind, 
 
 Seek to supplant his inexperienc’d youth, 
 
 Or lead him devious from the path of truth ; 
 
 Hourly allurements on his passions press, 
 
 Safe in themselves, but dang’rous 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 bow’r, 
 
 Sweet harmony, that sooths the midnight hour 1 . 
 Long ere the charioteer of day had run 
 His morning course, th’ 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 ador’d employ, 
 
 Enthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy, 
 
 Love makes the music of the blest above, 
 
 Heav’n’s harmony is universal love ; 
 
32 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 And earthly sounds, though sweet and well com- ) 
 And lenient as soft opiates to the mind, [bin’d, > 
 Leave vice and folly unsubdu’d behind. J 
 
 Grey dawn appears ; the sportsman and his train 
 Speckle the bosom of the distant plain; 
 
 Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighb’ring lairs ; 
 
 Save that his scent is less acute than theirs, 
 
 For persevering chase, and headlong leaps, 
 
 True beagle as the staunchest hound he keeps. 
 Charg’d with the folly of his life’s mad scene, 
 
 He takes offence, and wonders what you mean ; 
 
 The joy the danger and the toil o’erpays— 
 
 ’Tis exercise, and health, and length of days. 
 
 Again impetuous to the field he flies ; 
 
 Leaps ev’ry fence but one, there falls and dies; 
 
 Like a slain deer, the tumbril brings him home, 
 Unmiss’d but by his dogs and by his groom. 
 
 Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place, 
 
 Lights of the World and stars of human race; 
 
 But, if eccentric ye forsake your sphere, 
 
 Prodigies ominous, and view’d with fear; 
 
 The comet’s baneful influence is a dream ; 
 
 Yours real and pernicious in th’ extreme. 
 
 What then!— are appetites and lusts laid down 
 With the same ease, that man puts on his gown ? 
 Will av’rice and concupiscence give place, 
 
 Charm’d by the sounds — Your Rev’rence, or Your 
 Grace ? 
 
 No, but his own engagement binds him fast ; 
 
 Or, if it does not, brands him to the last 
 
THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 33 
 
 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 hack. 
 
 Is this the path of sanctity ? Is this 
 
 To stand a way mark in the road to bliss? 
 
 Himself a wand’rer from the narrow way, 
 
 His silly sheep, what wonder if they stray ? 
 
 Go, cast your orders at your bishop’s feet, 
 
 Send your dishonour’d gown to Monmouth street! 
 The sacred function in your hands is made — 
 
 Sad sacrilege ! no function, but a trade ! 
 
 Occiduus is a pastor of renown, 
 
 When he has pray’d and preach’d the sabbath down, 
 With wire and catgut he concludes the day, 
 Quav’ring and semiquav’ring care away. 
 
 The full concerto swells upon your ear ; 
 
 All elbows shake. Look in, and you would swear 
 
 The Babylonian tyrant with a nod 
 
 Had summon’d them to serve his golden god. 
 
 So well that thought th’ employment seems to suit, 
 Psalt’ry and sackbut, dulcimer and flute. 
 
 O fie ! ’tis evangelical and pure : 
 
 Observe each face, how sober and demure ! 
 
 Ecstasy sets her stamp on ev’ry mien ; 
 
 Chins fall’ri, and not an eye-ball to be seen. 
 
 c 3 
 
34 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 Still I insist, though music heretofore 
 Has charm’d me much (not ev’n Occiduus more), 
 Love, joy, and peace make harmony more meet 
 For sabbath ev’nings, and perhaps as sweet. 
 
 Will not the sickliest sheep of ev’ry flock 
 Resort to this example as a rock ; 
 
 There stand, and justify the foul abuse 
 Of sabbath hours with plausible excuse; 
 
 If apostolic gravity be free, 
 
 To play the fool on Sundays, why not we ? 
 
 If he the tinkling harpsichord regards 
 As inoffensive, what offence in cards? 
 
 Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay, 
 
 Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play. 
 
 Oh Italy !— thy sabbaths will be soon 
 Our sabbaths, clos’d with mumm’ry and buffoon. 
 Preaching and pranks will share the motley scene, 1 
 Ours parcell’d out, as thine have ever been, > 
 God’s worship and the mountebank between. 3 
 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 distinguish’d above all the six 
 By deeds in which the World must never mix. 
 
 Hear him again. He calls it a delight, 
 
 A day of luxury, observ’d aright, 
 
 When the glad soul is made Heav’n’s welcome guest, 
 Sits banquetting, and God provides the feast. 
 
 But triflers are engag’d, and cannot come, 
 
 Their answer to the call is — Not at home. 
 
THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 35 
 
 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 refin’d, 
 
 The balm of care, Elysium of the mind. 
 
 Innocent ! Oh if venerable Time 
 Slain at the foot of Pleasure be no crime, 
 
 Then, with his silver beard and magic wand, 
 
 Let Comus rise archbishop of the land ; 
 
 Let him your rubric and your feasts prescribe, 
 Grand metropolitan of all the tribe. 
 
 Of manners rough, and course athletic cast. 
 
 The rank debauch suits Olodio’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; 
 
3G THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 But know, the law, that bids the drunkard die, 
 
 Is far too just, to pass the trifler by. 
 
 Both baby-featur’d, and of infant size, 
 
 View’d from a distance, and with heedless eyes, 
 Folly and Innocence are so alike, 
 
 The diff’rence, though essential, fails to strike. 
 
 Yet folly ever has a vacant stare, 
 
 A simp’ring count’nance, and a trifling air ; 
 
 But Innocence, sedate, serene, erect, 
 
 Delights us, by engaging our respect. 
 
 Man, Nature’s guest by invitation sweet, 
 
 Receives from her both appetite and treat ; 
 
 But, if he play the glutton, and exceed, 
 
 His benefactress blushes at the deed ; 
 
 For Nature, nice, as lib’ral to dispense, 
 
 Made nothing but a brute the slave of sense. 
 
 Daniel ate pulse by choice— example rare ! 
 
 Heav’n bless’d the youth, and made him fresh and fair. 
 Gorgonius sits, abdominous and wan, 
 
 Like a fat squab upon a Chinese fan : 
 
 He snuffs far off th’ anticipated joy ; 
 
 Turtle and ven’son all his thoughts employ ; 
 Prepares for meals as jockies take a sweat, 
 
 Oh, nauseous!— an emetic for a whet! 
 
 Will Providence o’erloolc 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 th’ abuse, or by th’ excess. 
 
THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 37 
 
 Is man then only for his torment plac’d 
 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 curs’d 
 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 ev’ry 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 
 All these belong to virtue, and all prove, [fame ? 
 That virtue has a title to your love. 
 
 Have you no touch of pity, that the poor 
 Stand starv’d 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 indiff’rent lord ? 
 
38 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 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 sty. 
 Delights like these, ye sensual and profane, 
 
 Ye are bid, begg’d, besought to entertain; 
 
 Call’d to these crystal streams, do ye turn off 
 Obscene to swill and swallow at a trough ? 
 
 Envy the beast then, on whom Heav’n bestows 
 Your pleasures, with no curses in the close. 
 
 Pleasure admitted in undue degree 
 Enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free. 
 ’Tis not alone the grape’s enticing juice 
 Unnerves the moral pow’rs, and mars their use; 
 Ambition, av’rice, and the lust of fame, 
 
 And woman, lovely woman, does the same. 
 
 The heart, surrender’d to the ruling pow’r 
 Of some ungovern’d passion ev’ry hour, 
 
 Finds by degrees the truths, that once bore sway, 
 And all their deep impressions, wear away ; 
 
 So coin grows smooth, in traffic current pass’d, 
 
 Till Caesar’s image is effac’d at last. 
 
 The breach, though small at first, soon op’ning rvide, 
 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. 
 
THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 39 
 
 Mortals, whose pleasures are their only care, 
 First wish to be impos’d 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 w r ould mend, 
 Sniveling and driv’lling 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, unexperienc’d yet and green, 
 
 To scribble as you scribbled at fifteen ; 
 
40 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 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. 
 
 O that a verse had pow’r, and could command 
 Far, far away, these flesh-flies of the land, 
 
 Who fasten without mercy on the fair, 
 
 And suck, and leave a craving maggot there ! 
 Howe’er disguis’d th’ inflammatory tale, 
 
 And 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 ev’ry tear shall scald thy memory : 
 
 The graces too, while Virtue at their shrine 
 Lay bleeding under that soft hand of thine, 
 
 Felt each a mortal stab in her own breast, 
 Abhorr’d the sacrifice, and curs’d the priest. 
 Thou polish’d and high-fiuish’d foe to truth, 
 Grey-beard corrupter of our list’ning youth, 
 
 To purge and skim away the filth of vice, 
 
 That so refin’d it might the more entice, 
 
 Then pour it on the morals of thy son ; 
 
 To taint his heart, was worthy of thine own! 
 
 Now, while the poison all high life pervades, 
 
 W rite, if thou canst, one letter from the shades ; 
 
THE PROGRESS OP ERROR. 41 
 
 One, and one only, charg’d with deep regret, 
 
 That thy worst part, tliy principles, ll've 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 clew, 
 That Education gives her, false or true. 
 
 Plants rais’d with tenderness are seldom strong ; 
 Man’s coltish disposition asks the thong ; 
 
 And, without discipline, the fav’rite child, 
 
 Like a neglected forester, runs wild. 
 
 But we, as if good qualities would grow 
 Spontaneous, take but little pains to sow; 
 
 We give some Latin, and a smateh 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 rev’rend tutor clad in habit lay, 
 
 To tease for cash, and quarrel with all day; 
 
 With memorandum-book for ev’ry town, 
 
 And ev’ry post, and where the chaise broke down ; 
 His stock a few French phrases got by heart, 
 
 With much to learn, but nothing to impart; 
 
 The youth, obedient to his sire’s commands. 
 
 Sets off a wand’rer into foreign lands. 
 
42 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 Surpris’d at all they meet, the gosling pair, 
 
 With awkward gait, stretch’d neck, and silly stare, 
 Discover huge cathedrals built with stone, 
 
 And steeples tow’ring high much like our own ; 
 
 But show peculiar light by many a grin 
 At popish practices observ’d within. 
 
 Ere Jong some bowing, smirking, smart ah be 
 Remarks two loit’rers that have lost their M ay ; 
 And, being always prim’d 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 Caesar, shows — 
 Defective only in his Roman nose ; 
 
 Exhibits elevations, drawings, plans, 
 
 Models of Herculanean pots and pans ; 
 
 And sells them medals, which, if neither rare 
 Nor ancient, will be so, preserv’d with care. 
 
 Strange the recital ! from whatever cause 
 His great improvement and new light he draws, 
 The squire, once bashful, is shamefac’d no more. 
 But teems with pow’rs he never felt before; 
 Whether increas’d momentum, and the force, 
 
 With which from clime to clime he sped his course 
 (As axles sometimes kindle as they go) 
 
 Chaf’d him, and brought dull nature to a glow; 
 
THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 43 
 
 Or whether clearer skies and softer air, 
 
 That make Italian flow’rs so sweet and fair, 
 Fresh’ning his lazy spirits as he ran, 
 
 Unfolded genially and spread the man ; 
 
 Returning he proclaims by many a grace, 
 
 By shrugs and strange contortions of his face, 
 How much a dunce, that has been sent to roam, 
 Excels a dunce, that has been kept at home. 
 
 Accomplishments have taken virtue’s place, 
 And wisdom falls before exterior grace ; 
 
 We slight the precious kernel of the stone, 
 
 And toil to polish its rough coat alone. 
 
 A just deportment, manners grac’d with ease, 
 Elegant phrase, and figure form’d to please, 
 
 Are qualities that seem to comprehend 
 Whatever parents, guardians, schools intend : 
 Hence an unfurnish’d and a listless mind, 
 Though busy, trifling ; empty, though refin’d ; 
 Hence all that interferes, and dares to clash 
 With indolence and luxury, is trash : 
 
 While learning, once the man’s exclusive pride, 
 Seems verging fast towards the female side. 
 Learning itself, receiv’d into a mind 
 By nature weak, or viciously inclin’d, 
 
 Serves but to lead philosophers astray, 
 
 Where children would with ease discern the way. 
 And of all arts sagacious dupes invent, 
 
 To cheat themselves and gain the World’s assent, 
 The worst is — Scripture warp’d from its intent. 
 
44 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 The carriage bowls along, and all are pleas’d 
 If Tom be sober, and the wheels well greas’d; 
 But if the rogue have gone a cup too far, 
 
 Left out his linchpin, or forgot his tar, 
 
 It sulfers 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 brib’d 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 intemp’rate zeal: 
 
 But above all (or let the wretch refrain, 
 
 Nor touch the page he cannot but profane), 
 
 Free from the domineering pow’r of lust; 
 
 A lewd interpreter is never just. 
 
 How shall I speak thee, or thy pow’r address, 
 Thou god of our idolatry, the press ? 
 
 Bydhee, religion, liberty, and laws, 
 
 Exert their influence, and advance their cause ; 
 By thee worse plagues than Pharaoh’s land betel. 
 Diffus’d, make Earth the vestibule of Hell ; 
 
 Thou fountain, at which drink the good and wise; 
 Thou ever-bubbling spring of endless lies ; 
 
THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 43 
 
 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, 
 Discov’rers of they know not what, confin’d 
 Within no bounds— the blind that lead the blind ; 
 
 To streams of popular opinion drawn, 
 
 Deposit in 'those shallows all their spawn. 
 
 The wriggling fry soon fill the creeks around, 
 Pois’ning the w aters w here their swarms abound : 
 Scorn’d by the nobler tenants of the flood, 
 
 Minnows and gudgeons gorge th’ unwholesome food. 
 The propagated myriads spread so fast, 
 
 Ev’n Leuweuhoeck himself would stand aghast, 
 Employ’d to calculate th’ enormous sum, 
 
 And own his erab-computing pow’rs o’ercome. 
 
 Is this hyperbole? The World well known, 
 
 Your sober thoughts will hardly find it one. 
 
 Fresh confidence the speculatist takes 
 From ev’ry hair-brain’d proselyte he makes ; 
 
 And therefore prints. Himself but half deceiv’d, 
 Till others have the soothing tale believ’d. 
 
 Hence comment after comment, spun as fine 
 As bloated spiders draw the flimsy line : 
 
 Hence the same word, that bids our lusts obey, 
 
 Is misapplied to sanctify their sw'ay. 
 
4(» THE PROGRESS OP ERROR. 
 
 If stubborn Greek refuse to be bis friend, 
 
 Hebrew or Syriac shall be forc’d to bend : 
 
 If languages and copies all cry, No- 
 Somebody prov’d it centuries ago. 
 
 Like trout pursu’d, the critic in despair 
 Darts to the mud, and finds his safety there. 
 Women, whom custom has forbid to fly 
 The scholar’s pitch (the scholar best knows why), 
 With all the simple and unletter’d poor, 
 
 Admire his learning, and almost adore. 
 
 Whoever errs, the priest can ne’er be wrong, 
 
 With such fine words familiar to his tongue. 
 
 Ye ladies ! (for indiff’rent in your cause, 
 
 I should deserve to forfeit all applause) 
 
 Whatever shocks, or gives the least offence 
 To virtue, delicacy, truth, or sense 
 (Try the criterion, ’tis a faithful guide), 
 
 Nor has, nor can have, Scripture on its side. 
 
 None but an author knows an author’s cares, 
 
 Or Fancy’s fondness for the child she bears. 
 Committed once into the public arms, 
 
 The baby seems to smile with added charms. 
 
 Like something precious ventur’d far from shore, 
 ’Tis valu’d 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 Heav’n, to bless the dear deceit. 
 So one, whose story serves at least to show 
 Men lov’d their own productions long ago, 
 
THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 47 
 
 Woo’d an unfeeling statue for his wife, 
 
 Nor rested till the gods had giv’n it life. 
 
 If some mere driv’ller 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 blund’rer is as sturdy as a rock. 
 
 The creature is so sure to kick and bite, 
 
 A muleteer’s the man to set him right. 
 
 First Appetite enlists him Truth’s sworn foe, 
 Then obstinate Self-will confirms him so. 
 
 Tell him he wanders ; that his error leads 
 To fatal ills ; that, though the path he treads 
 Be flow’ry, and he see no cause of fear, 
 
 Death and the pains of Hell attend him there ; 
 
 In vain; the slave of arrogance and pride, 
 
 He has no hearing on the prudent side. 
 
 His still refuted quirks he still repeats ; 
 
 New rais’d objections with new quibbles meets ; 
 Till, sinking in the quicksand he defends, 
 
 He dies disputing, and the contest ends — 
 
 But not the mischiefs ; they, still left behind, 
 Like thistle-seeds, are sown by ev’ry wind. 
 
 Thus men go wrong with an ingenious skill ; 
 Bend the straight rule to their own crooked wiil; 
 
4-8 Tli E PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 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 others 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 th’ elastic string, 
 
 It err but little from th' 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 assum’d ; but when we strive 
 To strip them off, ’tis being flay’d alive. 
 
 Call’d to the temple of impure delight. 
 
 He that abstains, and he alone, does right. 
 
 If a wish wander that way, call it home ; 
 
 He cannot long be safe, whose wishes roam, 
 
THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 49 
 
 But, if you pass the threshold, you are caught; 
 
 Die then, if pow’r Almighty save you not. 
 
 There hard’ning by degrees, till double steel'd, 
 
 Take leave of Nature’s God, and God reveal’d; 
 
 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 forbode a fall ; 
 Strike on the deepton’d chord the sum of all. 
 
 Hear the just law — the judgment of the skies, 
 
 He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies ; 
 
 And he that will be cheated to the last, 
 
 Delusions strong as Hell shall bind him fast. 
 
 But if the wand’rer his mistake discern, 
 
 Judge his own ways, and sigh for a return, 
 Bewilder’d once, must he bewail his loss 
 For ever and for ever? No — the cross ! 
 
 There and there only, (though the deist rave, 1 
 
 And atheist, if Earth bear so base a slave ;) > 
 
 There and there only is the pow’r to save. } 
 
 D 
 
50 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 There no delusive hope invites despair; 
 
 No mock’ry meets you, no deception there. 
 The spells and charms, that blinded you befon 
 All vanish there, and fascinate no more. 
 
 [ am no preacher, let this hint suffice — 
 
 The cross once seen is death to ev’ry vice : 
 Else he that hung there suffer’d all his pain, 
 Bled, groan’d, and agoniz’d, and died, in vain. 
 
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, 
 
 Pillow and bobbins all her little store, 
 
 Just earns a scanty pittance,^ 
 
 DRAWN BY RICHARD WES TALL RA. ENGRAVED BY WILLIAM FINDEN 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILIY. 
 
 OCT. 1.1817. 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 Pensautur InuinV — Hor. Lib. II. Epist. 1. 
 
 Man, on the dubious waves of error toss’d, 
 
 His ship half founder’d, and his compass lost, 
 Sees, far as human optics may command, 
 
 A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land : 
 
 Spreads all his canvass, ev’ry sinew plies; 
 
 Pants for’t, 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 wron 
 Take it and perish ; but restrain your tongue ; 
 
 D 2 
 
52 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 Charge not, with light sufficient, and left free. 
 
 Your wilful suicide on God's decree. 
 
 O how unlike the complex works of man, 
 
 Heav'n's easy, artless, unincumber’d plan ! 
 
 No meretricious graces to beguile, 
 
 No clust’ring ornaments to clog the pile ; 
 
 From ostentation as from weakness free, ) 
 
 It stands like the cerulean arch we see, \ 
 
 Majestic in its own simplicity. \ 
 
 Inscrib’d above the portal, from afar 
 Conspicuous as the brightness of a star, 
 
 Legible only by the light they give, 
 
 Stand the soul-quick’ning words — believe and live. 
 Too many, shock’d at what should charm them most, 
 Despise the plain direction, and are lost. 
 
 Heav'n on such terms! (they cry with proud disdain) 
 Incredible, impossible, and vain ! — 
 
 Rebel, because ’tis easy to obey; 
 
 And scorn, for its own sake, the gracious way. 
 These are the sober, in w hose cooler brains 
 Some thought of immortality remains ; 
 
 The rest too busy or too gay to wait 
 On the sad theme, their everlasting state, 
 
 Sport for a day, and perish in a night, 
 
 The foam upon the waters not so light. 
 
 Who judg’d the pharisee? What odious cause 
 Expos’d him to the vengeance of the laws ? 
 
 Had he seduc’d a virgin, wrong’d a friend, 
 
 Or stabb’d a man to serve some private end ? 
 
 Was blasphemy his sin? Or did he stray 
 From the strict duties of the sacred day? 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 53 
 
 Sit long- and late at the carousing board ? 
 
 (Such were the sins with which he charg’d his Lord) 
 No — the man’s morals were exact, what then ? 
 
 ’Twas his ambition to be seen of men; 
 
 His virtues were his pride ; and that one vice 
 Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price ; 
 
 He wore them as fine trappings for a show, 
 
 A praying, synagogue-frequenting, beau. 
 
 The self-applauding bird, the peacock see — 
 
 Mark what a sumptuous pharisee is he ! 
 
 Meridian sunbeams tempt him to unfold 
 His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold: 
 
 He treads as if, some solemn music near, 
 
 His measur’d step were govern’d by his ear; 
 
 And seems to say— Ye meaner fowl, give place, 
 
 I am all 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 J 
 To the close copse, or far sequester'd green, \ 
 And shines without desiring to be seen. x 
 
 The plea of works, as arrogant and vain, 
 
 Heav’n turns from with abhorrence and disdain; 
 Not more affronted by avow’d neglect, 
 
 Than by the mere 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 Heav’u to sell the proud a throne. 
 
 His dwelling a recess in some rude rock, 
 
 Book, beads, and maple-dish, his meagre stuck ; 
 
54 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 In shirt of hair, and weeds of canvass, dress’d, 
 
 Girt with a bell-rope, that the pope has bless’d ; 
 Adust with stripes told out for ev’ry crime, 
 
 And sore tormented long before his time; 
 
 His pray’r preferr’d to saints, that cannot aid ; 
 
 His praise postpon’d, and never to be paid. 
 
 See the sage hermit, by mankind admir’d, 
 
 With all that bigotry adopts inspir’d, 
 
 Wearing out life in his religious whim, 
 
 Till his religious whimsy wears out him. 
 
 His works, his abstinence, his zeal allow’d, 
 
 Y ou think him humble — God accounts him proud ; 
 High in demand, though lowly in pretence, 
 
 Of all his conduct this the genuine sense — 
 
 My penitential stripes, my streaming blood, 
 
 Have purchas’d Heav’n, and prove my title good. 
 
 Turn eastward now, and Fancy shall apply 
 To your weak sight her telescopic eye. 
 i’he bramin kindles on his own bare head 
 The sacred fire, self-torturing his trade ; 
 
 His voluntary pains, severe and long, 
 
 Would give abarb’rous air to British song; 
 
 No grand inquisitor could worse invent, 
 
 Than he contrives to suffer, well content. 
 
 Which is the saiutlier worthy of the two ? 
 
 Past all dispute, j r on anchorite say you. 
 
 Your sentence and mine differ. What’s a name ? 
 
 1 say the bramin has the fairer claim. 
 
 Tf sufferings, Scripture no where recommends, 
 Devis’d by self to answer selfish ends, 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 Give saintship, then all Europe must agree 
 Ten starving hermits suffer less than he. 
 
 The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear, 
 
 And prejudice have left a passage clear) 
 
 Pride has attain’d its most luxuriant growth, 
 
 And poison’d ev’ry 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 plac’d in golden Durham’s second stall. 
 
 Not all the plenty of a Bishop’s board, 
 
 His palace, and his lackeys, and “ My Lord,” 
 
 More nourish pride, that condescending vice, 
 
 Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice ; 
 
 It thrives in miaYy, and abundant grows 
 In mis’ry 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 w'ell instructed ? You shall hear. 
 
 Yon ancient prude, whose wither’d features show 
 She might be young some forty years ago, 
 
 Her elbows pinion’d close upon her hips, 
 
 Her head erect, her fan upon her lips, 
 
 Her eyebrows arch’d, her eyes both gone astray, 
 
 To watch yon am’rous couple in their play, 
 
 With bony and unkerchicf ’d neck defies 
 The rude inclemency of wintry skies, 
 
 And sails with lappet-head, and mincing airs, 
 
 Duly at clink of bell to morning pray’rs. 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 56 
 
 To thrift and parsimony much inclin’d, 
 
 She yet allows herself that boy behind ; 
 
 The shiv’ring urchin, bending as he goes, 
 
 With slipshod heels, and dewdrop at his nose ; 
 
 His predecessor’s coat advanc’d 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 ev’ry day. 
 
 Of temper as envenom’d as an asp, 
 
 Censorious, and her ev’ry word a wasp ; 
 
 In faithful mem’ry she records the crimes 
 Or real, or fictitious, of the times ; 
 
 Laughs at the reputations she has torn, 
 
 And holds them dangling at 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 pray’rs, 
 Where hermits and where braminsmect with theirs 
 Your portion is with them— Nay, never frown, 
 
 But, if you please, some fathoms lower down. 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 57 
 
 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 sav’d 
 From servile fear, or be the more enslav’d? 
 
 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 deliv’rance freely wrought. 
 Recompense ill ? He trembles at the thought. 
 
 His master’s int’rest and his own combin’d 
 Prompt ev’ry movement of his heart and mind ; 
 Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince, 
 
 His freedom is the freedom of a prince. 
 
 Man’s obligations infinite, of course 
 His life should prove, that he perceives their force : 
 His utmost he can render is but small — 
 
 The principle and motive all in all. 
 
 d 3 
 
58 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 "ion 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 r ; 
 
 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 serv’d, Charles takes his usual stand, 
 Watches your eye, anticipates command ; 
 
 Sighs if perhaps your appetite should fail ! 
 
 And, it he but suspects a frown, turns pale; 
 Consults all day your int’rest and your ease, 
 
 Richly rewarded if he can but please ; 
 
 And, proud to make his firm attachment known, 
 
 To save your life, would nobly 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 Heav’n approves as honest and sincere 
 The work of gen’rous love and filial fear; 
 
 Rut with averted eyes th’ omniscient Judge 
 Scorns the base hireling, and the slavish drudge. 
 
 Where dwell these matchless saints? — Old Curio) 
 Ev’n at your side, Sir, and before your eyes, [cries.C 
 The favour’d few — th’ enthusiasts you despise ; ) 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 50 
 
 And pleas’d at heart because on holy ground 
 Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found, 
 
 Reproach a people with a single fall, 
 
 And cast his filthy garment 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 trav’ller 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 elgantly dress’d, ) 
 
 By some kind hospitable heart possess’d, s 
 
 Offer him warmth, security, and rest; H 
 
 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 foarhing waves begins to roar ; 
 
60 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 The law grown clamorous, though silent long, 
 Arraigns him— charges him with ev’ry wrong — 
 Asserts the rights of his offended Lord, 
 
 And death or restitution is the word : 
 
 The last impossible, he fears the first, 
 
 And, having well deserv’d, expects the worst. 
 Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home ; 
 
 0 for a shelter from the w rath 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 
 
 1 dare not — and you need not, God replies; 
 
 The remedy you want I freely give ; 
 
 The book shall teach you — read, believe, and live l 
 ’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 unblamable 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 int’rest here. 
 
 And pardons are not sold as once they were, 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 01 
 
 No papist more desirous to compound, 
 
 Than some grave sinners upon English ground. 
 
 That plea refuted, other quirks they seek 
 Mercy is infinite, and man is weak ; 
 
 The future shall obliterate the past, 
 
 And Heav’n no doubt shall be their home at last. 
 
 Come then — a still small whisper in your ear — 
 He has no hope, 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, 
 
 Liv’d long, wrote much, laugh’d heartily, and died - r 
 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 ? 
 
 O — then a text would touch him at the quick ; 
 
 View him at Paris in his last career, 
 
 Surrounding throngs the demigod revere ; 
 
 Exalted on his pedestal of pride, 
 
 And fum’d with frankincense on cv’ry side. 
 
 He begs their flatt’ry with his latest breath, 
 
 And smother’d in’t at last, is prais’d to death. 
 
 Yon cottager, who weaves at her own doer, 
 
 Pillow and bobbins all her little store ; 
 
 Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay, 
 Shuffling her threads about the livelong day, 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 (3*2 
 
 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. 
 
 O happy peasaut! O unhappy bard! 
 
 His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward ; 
 
 He prais’d perhaps for ages yet to come, 
 
 She never heard of half a mile from home : 
 
 He lost in errors his vain heart prefers. 
 
 She safe in the simplicity of hers. 
 
 Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound 
 In science, win one inch of heav’nly ground. 
 
 And is it not a mortifying thought, 
 
 The poor should gain it, and the rich should not? 
 No — the voluptuaries, who ne’er forget 
 One pleasure lost, lose Heav’n without regret ; 
 Regret would rouse them, and give birth to pray’r, 
 Pray’r would add faith, and faith would fix them there. 
 Not that the Former of us all in this, 
 
 Or aught he does, is govern’d by caprice: 
 
 The supposition is replete with sin, 
 
 And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in. 
 
 Not so — the silver trumpet’s heav’nly call 
 Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all : 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 63 
 
 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. 
 
 O bless’d effect of penury and want, 
 
 The seed sown there, how vig’rous 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 w alk 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. 
 
t>4 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 How readily upon the Gospel plan, 
 
 That question has its answer — What is man ? 
 Sinful and weak, in ev’ry sense a wretch: 
 
 An instrument, whose chords upon the stretch. 
 And strain’d to the last screw that he can bear. 
 Yield only discord in his Maker’s ear: 
 
 Once the blest residence of truth divine, 
 Glorious as Solyma’s interior shrine, 
 
 Where, in his own oracular abode, 
 
 Dwelt visibly the light-creating God ; 
 
 But made long since, like Babylon of old, 
 
 A den of mischiefs never to be told: 
 
 And she, once mistress of the realms around. 
 Now scatter’d wide and no where to be found. 
 As soon shall rise and reascend the throne, 
 
 By native pow’r and energy her own, 
 
 As Nature at her own peculiar cost, 
 
 Restore to man the glories he has lost. 
 
 Go— bid the winter cease to chill the year, 
 Replace the wand’ring comet in his sphere, 
 Then boast (but wait for that unhop’d for hour); 
 The self-restoring arm of human pow’r. 
 
 But what is man in his own proud esteem? 
 Hear him — himself the poet and the theme: 
 
 A monarch cloth’d with majesty and awe, 
 
 His mind his kingdom, and his will his law, 
 Grace in his mien, and glory in his eyes, 
 Supreme on Earth, and •worthy of the skies. 
 Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod. 
 
 And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God! 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 65 
 
 
 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 tam’d and all at his control, 
 
 How perfect the composure of his soul ! 
 Complacency has breath’d a gentle gale 
 O’er all his thoughts, and swell’d his easy sail : 
 
 His books well trimm’d and in the gayest style, 
 Like regimented coxcombs rank and file, 
 
 Adorn his intellects as well as shelves, 
 
 And teach him notions splendid as themselves: 
 The Bible only stands neglected there, 
 
 Though that of all most worthy of his care ; 
 
 And, like an infant troublesome awake, 
 
 Is left to sleep for peace and quiet sake. 
 
 What shall the man deserve of humankind, 
 Whose happy skill and industry combin’d 
 Shall prove (what argument could never yet) 
 
 The Bible an imposture and a cheat ? 
 
 The praises of the libertine profess’d, 
 
 The worst of men, and curses of the best. 
 
 Where should the living, weeping o’er his woes, 
 The dying, trembling at 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? 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 GO 
 
 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 wo : 
 
 That field of promise, how it flings abroad 
 Its odour o’er the Christian’s thorny road ! 
 
 The soul, reposing on assur'd relief, 
 
 Feels herself happy amidst all her grief, 
 
 Forgets her labour as she toils along, 
 
 Weeps tears of joy, and bursts into a song. 
 
 But the same word, that, like the polish’d share, 
 Ploughs up the roots of a believer’s care, 
 
 Kills too the flow’ry weeds, where’er they grow, 
 That bind the sinner’s Bacchanalian brow. 
 
 O that unwelcome voice of heav’nly love, 
 
 Sad messenger of mercy from above! 
 
 How does it grate upon his thankless ear, 
 
 Crippling his pleasures with the cramp of fear ! 
 
 His will and judgment at continual strife, 
 
 That civil war imbitters all his life : 
 
 In vain he points his pow’rs against the skies, 
 
 In vain he closes or averts his eyes, 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 67 
 
 Truth will intrude — she bids him yet beware ; 
 And shakes the sceptic in the scorner’s chair. 
 
 Though various foes against the truth combine, 
 Pride above all opposes her design ; 
 
 Pride, of a growth superior to the rest, 
 
 The subtlest serpent with the loftiest crest, 
 
 Swells at the thought, and, kindling into rage, 
 Would hiss the cherub Mercy from the stage. 
 
 And is the soul indeed so lost ? — she cries, 
 Fall’n from her glory and too weak to rise ? 
 Torpid and dull beneath a frozen zone, 
 
 Has she no spark that may be deem’d her own ? 
 Grant her indebted to what zealots call 
 Grace undeserv’d, yet surely not for all — 
 
 Some beams of 1‘ectitude she yet displays, 
 
 Some love of virtue, and some pow’r to praise ; 
 Can lift herself above corporeal things, 
 
 And, soaring on her own unborrow’d wings. 
 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, unmel!ow'’d yet by time, 
 
 Bore on his branch luxuriant then and rude 
 Fruits of a blighted size, austere and crude, 
 Maturer years shall happier stores produce, 
 
 And meliorate the well concocted juice. 
 
 Then, conscious of her meritorious zeal, 
 
 To Justice she may make her bold appeal, 
 
 And leave to Mercy, with a tranquil mind, 
 
 The worthless and unfruitful of mankind. 
 
68 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 Hear then how Mercy, slighted and defied, 
 Retorts th’ affront against the crown of Pride. 
 
 Perish the virtue, as it ought, abhorr’d, 
 
 And the fool with it, 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 show’r, unlimited and free, 
 
 Shall fall on her, when Heav’n denies it thee. 
 
 Of all that wisdom dictates this the drift, 
 
 That man is dead in sin, and life a gift. 
 
 Js virtue then, unless of Christian growth, 
 
 Merc fallacy, or foolishness, or both ? 
 
 Ten thousand sages lost in endless wo, 
 
 For ignorance or 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 noonday beam, perverse. 
 Shall find the blessing unimprov’d a curse. 
 
 Let heathen worthies, whose exalted mind 
 Left sensuality and dross behind, 
 
 Possess for me their undisputed lot, 
 
 And take unenvied the reward they sought. 
 
 But still in virtue of a Saviour’s plea, 
 
 Not blind by choice, but destin’d not to see- 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 61 ) 
 
 
 Their fortitude and wisdom were a flame 
 Celestial, though they knew not whence it came. 
 Deriv’d from the same source of light and grace, 
 That guides the Christian in his swifter race; 
 
 Their judge was Conscience, and her rule their law, 
 That rule, pursued with rev’rence and with awe, 
 Led them, however falt’ring, faint, and slow, 
 
 From what they knew, to what they wish’d to know. 
 But let not him that shares a brighter day, 
 
 Traduce the splendour of a noontide jay, 
 
 Prefer the twilight of a darker time, 
 
 And deem his base stupidity no crime ; 
 
 The wretch, who slights the bounties 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 ev’ry flaw. 
 
 When the great Sov’reign would his will express, 
 
 He gives a perfect rule ; what can he less P 
 And guards it with a sanction as severe 
 As vengeance can inflict, or sinners fear : 
 
 Else his own glorious rights he would disclaim, 
 And man might safely trifle with his name. 
 
 He bids him glow with unremitting love 
 To all on Earth, and to himself above; 
 
 Condemns th’ injurious deed, the sland’rous tongue 
 The thought that meditates a brother’s wrong ; 
 
70 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 Brings not alone the more conspicuous part, 
 
 His conduct, to the test, but tries his heart. 
 
 Hark ! universal Nature shook and groan’d ; 
 ’Tvvas the last trumpet — see the Judge enthron’d 
 Rouse all your courage at your utmost need. 
 
 Now summon ev’ry virtue, stand and plead. 
 
 What ! silent? Is jour 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 hop’d but in thy righteousness divine: 
 
 My pray’rs and alms, imperfect and defil’d, 
 
 Were but the feeble efforts of a child ; 
 
 Howe’er perform’d, it was their brightest part, 
 That they proceeded from a grateful heart : 
 Cleans’d in thine own all-purifying blood, 
 
 Forgive their evil, and accept their good ; 
 
 I cast them at thy feet— my only plea 
 Is what it was, dependance 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 tain patiens, nullo certaroine tolli 
 Dona sines ? Virg. 
 
 Why weeps the muse for England ? What appears 
 In England’s case, to move the muse to tears ? 
 From side to side of her delightful isle 
 Is she not cloth ’d with a perpetual smile ? 
 
 Can Nature add a charm, or Art confer 
 A new found luxury not seen in her ? 
 
 Where under Heav’n is pleasure more pursu’d, 
 
 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 w hich Art supplies 
 The fervour and the force oflndian skies ; 
 
 Her peaceful shores, where busy Commerce waits, 
 To pour his golden tide through all her gates ; 
 Whom fi’ry 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 ; 
 
72 
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 Whom the winds waft where'er the billows roll, 
 From the World’s girdle to the frozen pole ; 
 
 The chariots bounding in her wheel-worn streets ; 
 Her vaults below, where ev’ry vintage meets ; 
 
 Her theatres, her revels, and her sports ; 
 
 The scenes to which not youth alone resorts, 
 
 But age, in spite of weakness and of pain, 
 
 Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again ; 
 
 All speak her happy : let the muse look round 
 From East to West, no sorrow can be found : 
 
 Or only what, in cottages confin’d, 
 
 Sighs unregarded to the passing wind. 
 
 Then wherefore weep for England ? What appears 
 In England’s case, to move the muse to tears ? 
 
 The prophet wept for Israel ; wish’d his eyes 
 Were fountains fed with infinite supplies: 
 
 For Israel dwelt in robbery and wrong : 
 
 There were the scorner’s and the sland’rer’s tongue ; 
 Oaths, us’d as playthings or convenient tools, 
 
 As int’rest biass’d knaves, or fashion fools ; 
 
 Adult’ry, neighing at his neighbour’s door; 
 Oppression, lab’ring hard to grind the poor ; 
 
 The partial balance, and deceitful weight ; 
 
 The treach’rous smile; a mask for secret hate ; 
 Hypocrisy, formality in pray’r, 
 
 And the dull service of the lip were there. 
 
 Her women, insolent and self-caress’d, 
 
 By Vanity's unwearied finger dress’d, 
 
 Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart 
 To modest cheeks, and borrow’d one from art ; 
 
EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 73 
 
 Were just such trifles without worth or use, 
 
 As silly pride and idleness produce ; 
 
 Curl’d, scented, furbelow’d, and flounc’d around, 
 With feet too delicate to touch the ground, 
 
 They stretch’d the neck, and roll’d the wanton eye, 
 And sigh’d for ev’ry fool that flutter’d by. 
 
 He saw his people slaves to ev’ry lust, 
 
 Lewd, avaricious, arrogant, unjust; 
 
 He heard the wheels of an avenging God 
 Groan heavily along the distant road : 
 
 Saw Babylon set wide her two-leav’d brass, 
 
 To let the military deluge pass; 
 
 Jerusalem a prey, her glory soil’d, 
 
 Her princes captive, and her treasures spoil’d ; 
 Wept till all Israel heard his bitter cry, 
 
 Stamp’d with his foot, and smote upon his thigh ; 
 But wept, and stamp’d, and smote his thigh in vain, 
 Pleasure is deaf, when told of future pain, 
 
 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 their tow’rs. 
 
 Long time Assyria bound them in her chain, 
 
 Till penitence had purg’d the public stain, 
 
 And Cyrus, with relenting pity mov’d, 
 
 Return’d them happy to the land they lov’d ; 
 
 There, proof against prosperity, awhile 
 They stood the test of her ensnaring smile, 
 
 E 
 
74 
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 And had the grace in scenes of peace to show 
 The virtue they had learn’d in scenes of wo. 
 
 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, Yice silently succeeds. 
 
 When he that rul’d 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 tilth 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-idoliz’d, and yet a knave at heart. 
 
 When nations are to perish in their sins, 
 
 'Tis in the church the leprosy begins ; 
 
 Yhe 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 gen’ral rot. 
 
 Then truth is hush’d, that Heresy may preach ; 
 And all is trash, that Reason cannot reach : 
 
EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 75 
 
 Then God’s own image on the soul impress’d 
 Becomes a mock’ry, and a standing jest ; 
 
 And faith, the root whence only can arise 
 The graces of a life that wins the skies, 
 
 Loses at once all value and esteem, 
 
 Pronounc’d by graybeards a pernicious dream ; 
 Then Ceremony leads her bigots forth, 
 
 Prepar’d to light 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 judg’d them with as terrible a frown, 
 
 As if not love, but wrath, had brought him down; 
 Yet he was gentle as soft summer airs, 
 
 Had grace for others’ sins, but none for theirs ; 
 Through all he spoke a noble plainness ran — 
 Rhet’ric is artifice, the work of man ; 
 
 And tricks and turns, that fancy may devise, 
 
 Are far too mean for him that rules the skies, 
 
 e 2 
 
76 
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 Th’ astonish’d vulgar trembled while he tore 
 The mask from faces never seen before ; 
 
 He stripp’d th’ impostors in the noonday sun, 
 Show’d that they follow’d all they seem’d to shun ; 
 Their pray’rs made public, their excesses kept 
 As private as the chambers where they slept ; 
 
 The temple and its holy rites profan’d 
 By mumm’ries, he that dwelt in it disdain’d ; 
 Uplifted hands, that at convenient times 
 Could act extortion and the worst of crimes, 
 Wash’d with a neatness scrupulously nice, 
 
 And free from ev’ry taint but that of vice. 
 
 Judgment, however tardy, mends her pace 
 When Obstinacy once has conquer’d Grace. 
 
 They saw distemper heal’d, and life restor’d, 
 
 In answer to the fiat of his word ; 
 
 Confess’d the wonder, and with daring tongue 
 Blasphem’d th’ authority from which it sprung. 
 They knew by sure prognostics seen on high, 
 
 The future tone and temper of the sky ; 
 
 But, grave dissemblers ! could not understand, 
 
 That Sin let loose speaks Punishment at hand. 
 
 Ask now of history’s authentic page, 
 
 And call up evidence from ev’ry age ; 
 
 Display with busy and laborious hand 
 The blessings of the most indebted land ; 
 
 What nation will you find, whose annals prove 
 So rich an int’rest in almighty love ; 
 
 AVliere dwell they now, where dwelt in ancient day, 
 A people planted, water’d, blest, as they? 
 
EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 77 
 
 Let Egypt’s plagues and Canaan’s woes proclaim 
 The favours pour’d upon the Jewish name ; 
 
 Their freedom purchas’d for them at the cost 
 Of all their hard oppressors valued most ; 
 
 Their title to a country' not their own 
 Made sure by prodigies till then unknown ; 
 l’or 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 tire to cheer the gloomy way ; 
 
 That moving signal summoning, when best, 
 
 Their host to move, and, when it staid, to rest. 
 
 Tor them the rocks dissolv’d into a flood, 
 
 The dews condens’d into angelic food, 
 
 Their very garments sacred, old yet new, 
 
 And Time forbid to touch them as he flew; 
 
 Streams, swell’d above the bank, enjoin’d to stand. 
 While they pass’d through to their appointed land ;- 
 Their leader arm’d with meekness, zeal, and love, 
 And grac’d with clear credentials from above ; 
 Themselves secur’d beneath th’ Almighty wing; 
 Their God their captain,* lawgiver, and king; 
 Crown’d with a thousand vict’ries, and at last 
 Lords of the conquer’d soil, there rooted fast, 
 
 In peace possessing what they won by war. 
 
 Their name far publish'd, and rever’d as far; 
 
 Where will you find a race like theirs, endow’d 
 With all that man e’er wish’d, or Heav’n bestow’d P 
 
 Ste Joshua, v. 14. 
 
78 
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 They, and they only, amongst all mankind 
 Receiv’d the transcript of th 5 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 tierce and envious yet admiring eyes, 
 
 Had sought to crush them, guarded as they were 
 By pow’r 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-conqu’ring Rome 
 Had found one city not to be o’ercome ; 
 
 And the twelve standards of the tribes unfurl’d 
 Had bid defiance to the warring world. 
 
 But grace abus’d brings forth the foulest deeds, 
 
 As richest soil the most luxuriant weeds. 
 
 Cur’d of the golden calves, their fathers’ sin, 
 
 They set up self, that idle god, within ; 
 
 View’d a Deliv’rer with disdain and hate, 
 
 Who left them still a tributary state ; 
 
 Seiz’d fast his hand, held out to set them free 
 From a worse yoke, and nail’d it to the tree : 
 There was the consummation and the crown, 
 
 The flow’r of Israel’s infamy full blown ; 
 
 Thence date their sad declension and their fall, 
 Their woes, not yet repeal’d, thence date them all. 
 
 Thus fell the best instructed in her day, 
 
 And the most favour’d land, look where we may. 
 
EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 79 
 
 Philosophy indeed on Grecian eyes 
 Had pour’d the day, and clear’d the Roman skies; 
 
 In other climes perhaps creative Art, 
 
 With pow’r surpassing theirs, perform’d her part, 
 Might give more life to marble, or might fill 
 The glowing tablets with a juster skill, 
 
 Might shine in fable, and grace idle themes 
 With all th’ embroid’ry of poetic dreams ; 
 
 Tvvas theirs alone to dive into the plan. 
 
 That truth and mercy had reveal’d to man ; 
 
 And while the world beside, That plan unknown, 
 Deified useless wood, or senseless stone, 
 
 They breath'd in faith their well-directed pray’rs, 
 And the true God, the God of truth, was theirs. 
 
 Their glory faded, and their race dispers’d, 
 
 The last of nations now, though once the first; 
 
 They warn and teach the proudest, would they learn* 
 Keep wisdom, or meet vengeance in your turn : 
 
 If we escap'd not, if Heav’n spar’d not us, 
 
 Peel’d, scatter’d, and exterminated thus ; 
 
 If Vice receiv’d her retribution due, 
 
 When we were visited, what hope for you ? 
 
 When God arises with an awful frown, 
 
 To punish lust, or pluck presumption down 
 When gifts perverted, or not duly priz’d, 
 
 Pleasure o’ervalu’d, and his grace depis’d, 
 
 Provoke the vengeance of his righteous hand,, 
 
 To pour down wrath upon a thankless land ; 
 
 He will be found impartially severe, 
 
 Too just to wink, or speak the guilty clear. 
 
80 
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 O Israel, of all nations most undone ! 
 
 Thy diadem displac'd, thy sceptre gone ; 
 
 Thy temple, once thy glory, fall’n and ras’d, 
 
 And thou a worshipper ev’n w here thou maysl ; 
 
 Thy services once only without spot, 
 
 Alere shadows now, their ancient pomp forgot ; 
 t hy Levites, once a consecrated host, 
 
 No longer Levites, and their lineage lost, 
 
 And, thou thyself o’er ev'ry country sown, 
 
 YV ith none on earth that thou canst call thine own ’ r 
 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 ; A 
 Say wrath is coming, and the storm appears ; C 
 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 pow’r that shine 
 With light deriv’d from thee, would smother thine : 
 Thy very children watch for thy disgrace — 
 
 A lawless brood, and curse thee to thy face. 
 
 Thy rulers load thy credit, year by year, 
 
 With sums Peruvian mines could never clear;. 
 
EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 Hi 
 
 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 asham’d without the wreaths they sought. 
 Thy senate is a scene of civil jar, 
 
 Chaos of contrarieties at war ; 
 
 Where sharp and solid, phlegmatic and light, 
 Discordant atoms meet, ferment, and fight ; 
 
 Where Obstinacy takes his sturdy stand, 
 
 To disconcert what Policy has plann’d ; 
 
 Where Policy is busied all night long 
 In setting right what Faction has set wrong ; 
 Where flails of oratory thresh the floor, 
 
 That yields them chaff and dust, and nothing more. 
 Thy rack’d inhabitants repine, complain, 
 
 Tax’d till the brow of Labour sweats in vain ; 
 
 War lays a 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 heav’nly wisdom on this ball 
 Creates, gives birth to, guides, consummates alLi. 
 
 E 3 
 
82 
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 That, while laborious and quink-thoughted man 
 Snuffs up the praise of what he seems to plan, 
 
 He first conceives, then perfects his design, 
 
 As a mere instrument in hands divine : 
 
 Blind to the working of that secret pow’r, 
 
 1 hat balances the wings of ev’ry hour, 
 
 The busy trifler dreams himself alone, 
 
 Frames many a purpose, and God works his own. 
 States thrive or wither as moons wax and wane, 
 Ev’n as his will .and his decrees ordain: 
 
 While honour, virtue, piet 3 r bear sway, 
 
 They flourish ; and as these decline, decay. 
 
 In just resentment of his injur’d laws, 
 
 He pours contempt on them and on their cause ; 
 Strikes the rough thread of error right athwart 
 The web of ev’ry scheme they have at heart ; 
 
 Bids rottenness invade and bring to dust 
 i he 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 ? 
 
EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 83 
 
 Hast tlion (a sacrilege his soul abhors) 
 
 Claim’d all the glory of thy prosp’rous wars? 
 
 Proud of thy fleets and armies, stol’n the gem 
 Of his just praise, to lavish it on them ? 
 
 Hast thou not learn’d, what thou art often told, 
 
 A truth still sacred, and believ’d of old, 
 
 That no success depends on spears and swords 
 Unblest, and that the battle is the Lord’s? 
 
 That Courage is his creature, and Dismay 
 The post that at Iris bidding speeds away, 
 
 Ghastly in feature, and his stamm’ring tongue, 
 
 With doleful rumour 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, w hen none pursue, 
 
 Saves as he w'ill by many or by few, 
 
 And claims for ever, as his royal right, 
 
 Th’ event and sure decision of the fight? 
 
 Hast thou, though suckled at fair Freedom’s breast, 
 Exported slav’ry to the conquer’d East, 
 
 Pull’d down the tyrants India serv’d with dread, 
 And rais’d thyself, a greater, in their stead ! 
 
 Gone thither arm’d and hungry, return’d full, 
 
 Fed from the richest veins of the Mogul, 
 
 A despot big with pow r ’r obtain’d by wealth, 
 
 And that obtain’d by rapine and by stealth? 
 
 With Asiatic vices stor’d thy mind, 
 
 But left their virtues and thine own behind ; 
 
 And, having truck’d thy soul, brought home the fee, 
 To tempt the poor to sell himself to thee? 
 
84 
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 Hast thou by statute shov’d 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 oatli dipp’d in sacramental blood?" 
 
 A blot that will be still a blot, in spite 
 Of all that grave apologists may write: 
 
 And though a bishop toil to cleanse the stain. 
 
 He wipes and scours the silver cup in vain. 
 
 And hast thou sworn on ev’ry slight pretence, 
 
 Till perjuries are common as bad pence. 
 
 While thousands careless of the damning sin, 
 
 Kiss the book’s outside, who ne’er look’d within? 
 
 Hast thou, when Heav’n has cloth’d thee with dis- 
 And, long provok’d, repaid thee to thy face, [grace, 
 (For thou hast known eclipses, and endur’d 
 Dimness and anguish, all thy beams obscur’d, 
 
 When sin has shed dishonour on thy brow; 
 
 And never of a sablcr hue than now) 
 
 Hast thou, with heart perverse, and conscience sear’d, 
 Despising all rebuke, still persever’d, 
 
 And, having chosen evil, scorn’d the voice 
 That cried, Repent ! — and gloried in thy choice ? 
 Thy fastings, when calamity at last 
 Suggests th’ expedient of a yearly fast, 
 
 What mean they ? Canst thou dream there is a pow’r 
 In lighter diet at a later hour, 
 
 To charm to sleep the threat’ning of the skies, 
 
 And hide past folly from all-seeing eyes ? 
 
EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 85 
 
 The fast, that wins delivTanee, 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, idoliz’d 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 the sin, that in old time 
 Brought fire from Heav’n, the sex-abusing crime, 
 Whose horrid perpetralion stamps disgrace, 
 Baboons are free from, upon human race? 
 
 Think on the fruitful and well-water’d spot, 
 
 That fed the flocks and herds of wealthy Lot, 
 Where Paradise seem’d still vouchsaf’d on earth, 
 Burning and scorch’d into perpetual dearth, 
 
 Or, in his words who damn’d the base desire, 
 Suffering the vengeance of eternal fire; 
 
 Then Nature injur’d, scandaliz’d, defil’d, 
 
 Unveil’d her blushing cheek, look’d on, and smil’d; 
 Beheld with joy the lovely scene defac’d, 
 
 And prais’d the wrath that 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 pierc’d in play, or in the dark;. 
 
EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 86 
 
 But public censure speaks a public foe, 
 
 Unless a zeal for virtue guide the blow. 
 
 The priestly brotherhood, devout, sincere. 
 
 From mean self-int’rest and ambition clear. 
 
 Their hope in Heav’n, servility their scorn, 
 
 Prompt to persuade, expostulate, and warn, 
 
 Their wisdom pure, and giv’n them from above, 
 
 Their usefulness ensur’d by zeal and love, 
 
 As meek as the man Moses, and withal 
 As bold as in Agrippa’s presence Paul, 
 
 Should fly the World’s contaminating touch, 
 
 Holy and unpolluted: — are thine such? 
 
 Except a few with Eli’s spirit blest, 
 
 Hophni and Plrineas 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. 
 
 O vain inquiry ! they without remorse 
 Are altogether gone a devious course ; 
 
 Where beck’ning Pleasure leads them, wildly stray -;l 
 Have burst the bands, and cast the yoke away. 
 
EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 87 
 
 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 receiv’d thee at thy birth, 
 
 Was rock’d by many a rough Norwegian blast, 
 
 And Danish bowlings scar’d thee as they pass’d; 
 k For thou wast born amid the din of arms, 
 
 And suck’d a breast that panted with alarms. 
 
 While yet thou wast a grov’ling puling chit, 
 
 Thy bones not fashion’d, and thy joints not knit, 
 
 The Roman taught thy stubborn knee to bow. 
 Though twice a Caesar could not bend thee now: 
 His victory was that of orient light, 
 
 When the sun’s shafts disperse the gloom of night. 
 
 J hy language at this distant moment shows 
 How much the country to the conqu’ror owes ; 
 Expressive, energetic, and refin’d, 
 
 It sparkles with the gems he left behind : 
 
 He brought thy land a blessing when he came, 
 
 He found thee savage, and he left thee tame ; 
 Taught thee to clothe thy pink’d and painted hide, 
 And grace 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 rul’d thee by the sword alone, 
 
 Made thee at last a warrior like his own. 
 
 Religion, if in heav’nly truths attir’d, 
 
 Needs only to be seen to be admir’d ; 
 
 But thine, as dark as witch’ries of the night, 
 
 Was form’d to harden hearts and shock the sight; 
 
88 
 
 EXPOSTULATION 
 
 Thy Druids struck the well-hung harps they bore 
 With fingers deeply died 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 ot thine, 
 Woden and Thor, each tott’ring in his shrine, 
 
 Fell broken and defac’d at his own door, 
 
 As Dagon in Philistia long before. 
 
 But Rome with sorceries and magic wand 
 Soon rais’d a cloud that darken d ev ry land , 
 
 And thine was smother'd in the stench and fog 
 Of Tiber’s marshes and the papal bog. 
 
 Then priests with bulls and briefs, and shaven crowns, 
 And griping fists, and unrelenting frowns, 
 
 Legates and delegates with pow’rs from Helf, 
 Though heav’nly in pretension, fleec’d thee well; 
 And to this hour, to keep it fresh in mind, 
 
 Some twigs of that old scourge are left behind*. 
 
 Thy soldiery, the pope’s well manag’d pack, 
 
 Were train’d beneath his lash, and knew the smack, 
 And when he laid them on the scent of blood, 
 Would hunt a Saracen through fire and flood. 
 
 Lavish of life to win an empty tomb. 
 
 That prov’d a mint of wealth, a mine to Rome, 
 
 * Which may be found at Doctors’ Commons. 
 
EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 89 
 
 They left their bones beneath unfriendly skies, 
 
 His worthless absolution all the prize. 
 
 Thou wast the veriest slave in days of yore, 
 
 That ever dragged a chain, or tugg’d an oar;. 
 
 Thy monarchs, arbitrary, fierce, unjust. 
 Themselves the slaves of bigotry or lust, 
 
 Disdain’d thy counsel?, only in distress 
 Found thee a goodly spunge for Pow’r to press.. 
 Thy chiefs, the lords of many a petty fee, 
 
 Provok’d and harass’d, in return plagu’d thee ; 
 Call’d thee away from peaceable employ, 
 
 Domestic happiness and rural joy, 
 
 To waste thy life in arms, or lay it down 
 In causeless feuds and bick'rings of their own. 
 
 Thy parliaments ador'd on bended knees 
 The sov’reignty, they were conven’d to please ; 
 Whate’er was ask'd, too timid to resist, 
 
 Complied with, and were graciously dismiss’d; 
 And if some Spartan soul a doubt express’d, 
 
 And, blushing at the tameness of the rest, 
 
 Dar’d to suppose the subject had a choice, 
 
 He was a traitor by the gen’ral voice. 
 
 O slave ! with pow’rs 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. 
 
90 
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 Kneel now, and lay thy forehead in the dust ; 
 Blush if thou canst; not petrified, thou must; 
 
 Act but an honest and a faithful part ; 
 
 Compare what then thou wast with what thou art ; 
 And God’s disposing providence confess’d, 
 
 Obduracy itself must yield the rest— 
 
 Then thou art bound to serve him, and to prove. 
 Hour after hour, thy gratitude and love. 
 
 Has he not hid thee, and thy favour’d land, 
 
 For ages safe beneath his shelt’ring hand, 
 
 Giv’n thee his blessing on the clearest proof, 
 
 Bid nations leagu'd against thee stand aloof, 
 
 And charg’d Hostility and Hate to roar, 
 
 Where else they would, but not upon thy shore 
 His pow’r secur’d thee, when presumptuous Spain 
 Baptiz’d her fleet, invincible in vain ; 
 
 Her gloomy monarch, doubtful and resign’d 
 Toev’ry pang that racks an anxious mind, 
 
 Ask’d of the waves, that broke upon his coast, 
 
 What tidings? and the surge replied— All lost ! 
 
 And when the Stuart leaning on the Scot, 
 
 Then too much fear’d, and now too much forgot, 
 Pierc’d to the very centre of the realm, 
 
 And hop’d to seize his abdicated helm, 
 
 Twas but to prove, how quickly with a frown 
 He that had rais’d thee could have pluck’d thee down. 
 Peculiar is the grace by thee possess’d. 
 
 Thy foes implacable, thy land at rest; 
 
 Thy thunders travel over earth and seas, 
 
 And all at home is pleasure, wealth, and ease. 
 
EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 m 
 
 ’Tis thus, extending his tempestuous arm, 
 
 Thy Maker fills the nations with alarm, 
 
 While his own Heav’n surveys the troubl’d 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 int’rest in her rays, 
 
 As ever Roman had in Rome’s best days. 
 
 True freedom is where no restraint is known, 
 
 That Scripture, Justice, and good Sense disown, 
 Where only Vice and Injury are tied, 
 
 And all from shore to shore is free beside. 
 
 Such freedom is — and Windsor’s hoary tow’rs 
 Stood trembling at the boldness of thy pow’rs, 
 
 That won a nymph on that immortal plain, 
 
 Like her the fabled Phoebus woo’d in vain : 
 
 He found the laurel only— happier you, 
 
 Th’ unfading laurel and the virgin too ! * 
 
 Now think, if Pleasure have a thought to spa<re ; 
 If God himself be not beneath her care ; 
 
 If Bus’ness, constant as the wheels of time, 
 
 Can pause an hour to read a serious rhime ; 
 
 If the new mail thy merchants now receive, 
 
 Or expectation of the next give leave : 
 
 O think, if chargeable with deep arrears 
 For such indulgence gilding all thy years, 
 
 How much, though long neglected, shining yet 
 The beams of lieav’nly truth have swell’d the debt. 
 
 * Alluding to the grant of Magna Cliarta, which was extorted from 
 king John by the barons, at Rnnymede, near Windsor. 
 
92 
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 When persecuting zeal made royal sport 
 With tortur'd innocence in Mary’s court, 
 
 And Bonner, blithe as shepherd at a wake, 
 
 Enjoy’d the show, and danc’d about the stake; 
 
 The sacred book, its value understood, 
 
 Receiv’d the seal of martyrdom in blood. 
 
 Those holy men, so full of truth and grace, 
 
 Seem to reflection of a diff’rent race, 
 
 Meek, modest, venerable, wise, sincere, 
 
 In such a cause they could not dare to fear; 
 
 They could not purchase Earth with such a prize, 
 
 Or spare a life too short to reach the skies. 
 
 From them to thee convey’d along the tide, 
 
 Their streaming hearts pour’d freely when they died 
 Those truths which neither use nor years impair, 
 Invite thee, \yoo thee, to the bliss they share. 
 
 What dotage will not Vanity maintain? 
 
 What web too weak to catch a modern brain? 
 
 The moles and bats in full assembly find, 
 
 On special search, the keen-ey'd eagle blind. 
 
 And did they dream, and art thou wiser now! 
 
 Prove it — if better, I submit and bow. 
 
 Wisdom and Goodness are twin born, one heart 
 Must hold both sisters, never seen apart. 
 
 So then— as darkness overspread the deep, 
 
 Ere Nature rose from her eternal sleep, 
 
 And this delightful Earth, and that fair sky, 
 
 Leap’d out of nothing, call’d by the Most High: 
 
 By such a change thy darkness is made light, 
 
 Thy chaos order, and thy weakness might ; 
 
EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 93 
 
 And He, whose pow’r mere nullity obeys, 
 
 Who found thee nothing, form’d thee for his praise. 
 To praise him is to serve him, and fulfil, 
 
 Doing and suff’ring, his unquestion’d will; 
 
 ’Tis to believe what men inspir’d of old, 
 
 Faithful, and faithfully inform'd, unfold ; 
 
 Candid and just, with no false aim in view, 
 
 To take for truth what cannot but be true; 
 
 To learn in God’s own school the Christian part, 
 And bind the task assign’d thee to thine heart: 
 Happy the man there seeking and there found, 
 Happy the nation where such men abound. 
 
 How shall a verse impress thee ; by what name 
 Shall I adjure thee not to court thy shame ? 
 
 By theirs, whose bright example unimpeach’d 
 Directs thee to that eminence they reach’d, 
 
 Heroes and worthies of days past, thy sires? 
 
 Or his, who touch’d their hearts with hallow’d fires? 
 Their names, alas 1 in vain reproach an age, 
 
 Whom all the vanities they scorn’d engage; 
 
 And his, that seraphs trembled at, is hung 
 Disgracefully on ev’ry tiifler’s tongue, 
 
 Or serves the champion in forensic war 
 To flourish and parade with at the bar. 
 
 Pleasure herself perhaps suggests a plea. 
 
 If int’rest move thee, to persuade ev’n thee ; 
 
 By ev’ry charm that smiles upon her face, 
 
 By joys possess’d, and joys still held in chase. 
 
 If dear society be worth a thought, 
 
 And if the feast of freedom cloy thee not, 
 
94 
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 Reflect that these, and all that seem thine own, 
 Held by the tenure of his will alone. 
 
 Like angels in the service of their Lord, 
 
 Remain with thee, or leave thee at his word ; 
 
 That gratitude and temp’rance in our use 
 Of what he gives unsparing and profuse, 
 
 Secure the favour, and enhance the joy, 
 
 That thankless waste and wild abuse destroy. 
 
 But above all reflect, how cheap soe’er 
 Those rights, that millions envy thee, appear, 
 
 And though resolv’d to risk them, and swim down 
 The tide of pleasure headless of His frown, 
 
 That blessings truly sacred, and, when giv’n. 
 Mark’d with the signature and stamp of Heavn, 
 The word of prophecy, those truths divine, 
 
 Which make that Heav’n, if thou desire it, thine, 
 (Awful alternative ! believ’d, belov’d, 
 
 Thy glory ; and thy shame if unimprov’d) 
 
 Are never long vouchsaf’d, if push’d aside 
 With cold disgust or philosophic pride; 
 
 And that judicially withdrawn, disgrace. 
 
 Error, and darkness, occupy their place. 
 
 A world is up in arms, and thou, a spot 
 Not quickly found, if negligently sought, 
 
 Thy soul as ample as thy bounds are small, 
 Endur’st the brunt, and dar’st defy them all : 
 
 And wilt thou join to this bold enterprise 
 A bolder still, a contest with the skies? 
 Remember, if he guard thee, and secure, 
 
 Whoe’er assails thee, the success is sure ; 
 
EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 95 
 
 Bat if he leave thee, though thy skill and pow’r 
 Of nations, sworn to spoil thee and devour, 
 
 Were all collected in thy single arm, 
 
 And thou couldst laugh away the fear of harm, 
 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 charg’d on me? 
 
 Their measure fill’d, they too shall pay the debt, 
 Which God, though long forborn, will not forget. 
 But know that Wrath divine, when most severe, 
 Makes justice still the guide of his career, 
 
 And will not punish, in one mingled crowd, 
 
 Them without light, and thee without a cloud. 
 
 Muse, hang this harp upon yon aged beech, 
 
 Still murm’ring with the solemn truths I teaeh: 
 And while at intervals a cold blast sings 
 Thro’ the dry leaves, and pants upon the strings, 
 My soul shall sigh in secret, and lament 
 A nation scourg’d, yet tardy to repent. 
 
 I know the warning song is sung in vain, 
 
 That few will hear and fewer heed the strain ; 
 
 But if a sweeter voice, and one design’d 
 A blessing to my country and mankind, 
 
 Reclaim the wand’ring thousands, and bring home 
 A flock so scatter’d and so wont to roam, 
 
 Then place it once again between my knees ; 
 
 The sound of truth will then be sure to please : 
 
JJG 
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 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. 
 
If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost. 
 When Hope, long - ling'ring', at last yields the ghost, 
 The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear, 
 
 DRAWN BY RICHARD WE STALL R.A. ENGRAVED BY EDWARD FINBEN 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE PICCADILLY 
 OCT. 1.1817 . 
 
HOPE. 
 
 doce.is iter, et sacra ostea pandas. 
 
 firs. En. 6. 
 
 Ask what is human life — the sage replies, 
 
 With disappointment low’ring in his eyes, 
 
 A painful passage o’er a restless flood, 
 
 A vain pursuit of fugitive false good, 
 
 A scene of fancied bliss and heart-felt care, 
 Closing at last in darkness and despair. 
 
 The poor, inur’d to drudg’ry and distress, 
 
 Act without aim, think little, and feel less, 
 
 And no where, but in feign’d Arcadian scenes, 
 Taste happiness, or know what pleasure means. 
 Riches are pass’d away from hand to hand, 
 
 As fortune, vice, or folly may command ; 
 
 As in a dance the pair that take the lead 
 Turn downward, and the lowest pair succeed, 
 
 So shifting and so various is the plan, 
 
 By which Heav'n rules the mix’d affairs of man : 
 Vicissitude wheels round the motley crowd, 
 
 The rich grow poor, the poor become purse proud 
 F 
 
98 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Bus’ness is labour, and man’s weakness such. 
 Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much. 
 
 The very sense of it foregoes its use, 
 
 By repetition pall’d, by age obtuse. 
 
 Youth lost in dissipation, we deplore, 
 
 Through life's sad remnant, what no sighs restore ; 
 Our years, a fruitless race without a prize, 
 
 Too many, yet too few to make us wise. 
 
 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 dislieart’ning waste ; 
 Would age in thee resign his wintry reign, 
 
 And youth invigorate that frame again, 
 
 Ptenew’d desire would grace with other speech 
 Joys always priz'd, Avhen plac’d within our reach. 
 
 For lift thy palsied head, shake off the gloom. 
 That overhangs the borders of thy tomb, 
 
 See Nature gay, as when she first began 
 With smiles alluring her admirer man ; 
 
 She spreads the morning over eastern hills. 
 
 Earth glitters with the drops the night distils: 
 
 The Sun obedient at her call appears, 
 
 To fling his glories o’er the robe she wears; 
 
 Banks clotli’d withflow’rs, groves fill’d with sprightly 
 sounds, 
 
 The yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, rising grounds, 
 Streams edg’d with osiers, fatt’ning ev’ry field 
 Where’er they llow, now seen and now conceal’d ; 
 
HOPE. 
 
 99 
 
 I rom the blue rim where skies and mountains meet, 
 Down to the very turf beneath thy feet, 
 
 Ten thousand charms, that only fools despise. 
 
 Or pride can look at with indiff’rent eyes, 
 
 All speak one language, all with one sweet voice 
 Cry to her universal realm, Rejoice ! 
 
 Man feels the spur of passions and desires, 
 
 And she gives largely more than he requires; 
 
 Not that his hours devoted all to Care, 
 
 Hollo w-ey’d Abstinence, and lean Despair, 
 
 The wretch may pine, while to his smell, taste, sight, 
 She holds a paradise of rich delight ; 
 
 Rut gently to rebuke his awkward fear, 
 
 'J o prove that what she gives, she gives sincere, 
 lo banish hesitation, and proclaim 
 His happiness, her dear, her only aim. 
 
 Tis grave Philosophy’s absurdest dream. 
 
 That Heav’n’s intentions are not what they seem, 
 'that only shadows are dispens’d below, 
 
 And earth has no reality but wo. 
 
 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, 
 
 Rut still th’ imputed tints are those alone 
 The medium represents, and not their own. 
 
 To rise at noon, sit slipshod and undress’d, 
 
 To read the news, or fiddle, as seems best, 
 
 Fill half the world comes rattling at his door, 
 
 Fo fill the dull vacuity till four; 
 
 F 2 
 
100 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 And, just when ev’ning turns the blue vault gray, 
 To spend two hours in dressing for the day ; 
 
 To make the Sun a bauble w ithout use, 
 
 Save for the fruits his heav’nly beams produce ; 
 Quite to forget, or deem it w orth 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 ev’ry breath 
 Sighs for his exit, vulgarly called death ; 
 
 For he, w ith 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. 
 
 O 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, 
 
 Grow s drow sy 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; 
 
HOPE. 
 
 101 
 
 For truth self-evident, with pomp impress’d, 
 
 Is vanity surpassing all the rest. 
 
 That remedy, not hid in deeps profound, 
 
 Yet seldom sought where only to be found. 
 While passion turns aside from its due scope 
 Th’ inquirer's aim, that remedy is hope. 
 
 Life is His gift, from whom whate’er life needs. 
 With ev’ry 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 flow’r ; 
 
 Design’d in honour of his endless love, 
 
 To fill with fragrance his abode above; 
 
 No trifle, howsoever short it seem, 
 
 And, howsoever shadowy, no dream ; 
 
 Its value what no thought can ascertain, 
 
 Nor all an angel’s eloquence explain. 
 
 Men deal with life, as children witli their play, 
 Who first misuse, then cast their toys away ; 
 
 Live to no sober purpose, and contend, 
 
 That their Creator had no serious end. 
 
 When God and man stand opposite in view, 
 Man’s disappointment must of course ensue. 
 
 The just Creator condescends to write, 
 
 In beams of inextinguishable light, 
 
 His names of wisdom, goodness, pow’r, and love. 
 On all that blooms below, or shines above ; 
 
 To catch the wandiing notice of mankind, 
 
 And teach the world, if not perversely blind,, 
 
102 HOPE. 
 
 His gracious attributes, and prove the share 
 His offspring hold in his paternal care. 
 
 If, led from earthly things to things divine, 
 
 His creature thwart not his august design, 
 
 'Then praise is heard instead of reas’ning pride. 
 And captious cavil and complaint subside. 
 Nature, employ’d in her allotted place, 
 
 Is hand-maid to the purposes of Grace; 
 
 Ijy good vouchsaf’d makes known superior good 
 And bliss not seen by blessings understood : 
 
 That bliss, reveal’d in Scripture, with a glow 
 Bright as the covenant-ensuring bow, 
 h ires all his feelings with 'a noble scorn 
 Ot 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 th’ immense abyss. 
 Plucks amaranthine joys from bow’rs 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. 
 
 103 
 
 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, th’ inestimable mine, 
 
 Were light, when weigh’d agaiust one smile of thine. 
 
 Though, clasp’d and cradled in his nurse’s arms, 
 He shine with all a cherub’s artless charms, 
 
 Man is the genuine offspring of revolt, 
 
 Stubborn and sturdy as a wild ass’ colt; 
 
 His passions, like the wat’ry stores that sleep 
 Beneath the smiling surface of the deep, 
 
 Wait but the lashes of a wintry storm, 
 l 1 o 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, 
 
104 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Their fleece his pillow, and his weekly drawl, 
 Though short, too long, the price he pays for alt. 
 If lawyer, loud whatever cause he plead, 
 
 But proudest of the worst, if that succeed. 
 
 Perhaps a grave physician, gath’ring fees, 
 Punctually paid for length’ning out disease ; 
 
 No Cotton, whose humanity sheds rays, 
 
 That make superior skill his second praise. 
 
 If arms engage him, he devotes to sport 
 His date of life, so likely to be short ; 
 
 A soldier may be any thing, if brave, 
 
 So may a tradesman, if not quite a knave. 
 
 Such stuff the world is made of; and mankind 
 To passion, int’rest, pleasure, whim, resign’d, 
 Insist on, as if each were his own pope, 
 Forgiveness and the privilege of hope. 
 
 But Conscience, in some awful silent hour, 
 
 When captivating lusts have lost their pow’r, 
 Perhaps when sickness, or some fearful dream, 
 Reminds him of religion, hated theme! 
 
 Starts from the down, on which she lately slept, 
 And tells of laws despis’d, at least not kept : 
 Shows with a pointing finger, but no noise, 
 
 A pale procession of past sinful joys, 
 
 All witnesses of blessings foully scorn’d, 
 
 And life abus’d, and not to be suborn’d. 
 
 Mark these, she says; these, 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. 
 
HOPE. 
 
 10 
 
 Peace be to those (such peace as Earth can give) 
 Who live in pleasure, (dead cv’u while they live ;) 
 Born capable indeed of heav’nly truth ; 
 
 But down to latest age, from earliest youth, 
 
 Their mind a wilderness through want of care. 
 
 The plough of wisdom never ent’ring there. 
 
 Peace (if insensibility may claim 
 A right to the meek hononrs of her name) 
 
 To men of pedigree ; their noble race, A 
 
 Emulous always of the nearest place C 
 
 To any throne, except the throne of grace, \ 
 
 Let cottagers and unenlighten’d swains 
 Revere the laws they dream that Heav’n ordains; 
 Resort on Sundays to the house of pray’r, 
 
 And ask, and fancy they find, blessings there. 
 Themselves perhaps, when weary they retreat 
 T’ enjoy cool nature in a country seat, 
 
 T’ exchange the 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 towm 
 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 liv’d and died a Jew, 
 
 F 3 
 
JOG 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 And truth, propos’d to reas’ners wise as the}', 
 
 Is a pearl cast — completely cast away. 
 
 They die. — Death lends them, pleas’d and as in 
 All the grim honours of his ghastly court. [sport, 
 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, plac’d idly at their head, 
 
 Adds nothing now to the degraded dead, 
 
 And ev’n the star, that glitters on the bier, 
 
 Can only say — Nobility lies here. 
 
 Peace to all such — ’twere pity to offend 
 By useless censure, whom we cannot mend; 
 
 Life without hope can close but in despair, 
 
 ’Twas there we found them, and must leave them there. 
 
 As, when two pilgrims in a forest stray, 
 
 Both may be lost, yet each in his own way ; 
 
 So fares it with the multitudes beguil’d 
 In vain Opinion’s waste and dang’rous wild ; 
 
 Ten thousand rove the brakes and thorns among, 
 Some eastward, and some westward, and all wrong. 
 But here, alas! the fatal diff’rence lies, 
 
 Each man’s belief is right in his own eyes ; 
 
 And he that blames, what they have blindly chose, 
 Incurs resentment for the love he shows. 
 
 Say, botanist, wdthin whose province fall 
 The cedar and the hyssop on the wall, 
 
HOPE. 
 
 107 
 
 Of all that deck the lanes, the fields, the bow’rs, 
 What parts the kindred tribes of weeds and tlow’rs? 
 Sweet scent, or lovely form, or both combin’d, 
 Distinguish ev’ry cultivated kind; 
 
 The want of both denotes a moaner breed, 
 
 And Chloe from her garland picks the weed. 
 
 Thus hopes of ev’ry 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, 
 
 I (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, 
 
 Eut guests that sought it in th’ appointed One, 
 
 And they might enter at his open door, 
 
 Ev’n till his spacious hall would hold no more. 
 
 He sent a servant forth by ev’ry road, 
 
 To sound his horn, and publish it abroad, 
 
 That all might mark— knight, menial, high, and low, 
 An ord’nance it concern’d them much to know. 
 
 If after all some headstrong hardy lout, 
 
 Would disobey, though sure to be shut out, 
 
 Could he with reason murmur at his case, 
 
 Himself sole author of his own disgrace? 
 
108 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 No ! the decree was just and without flaw ; 
 
 And he that made, had right to make, the law ; 
 His sov’reign pow’r and pleasure unrestrain’d, 
 The wrong was his, who wrongfully complain’d. 
 
 Yet half mankind maintain a churlish strife 
 With Him, the Donor of eternal life. 
 
 Because the deed, by which his love confirms 
 The largess he bestows, prescribes the terms. 
 Compliance with his will your lot 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 trump’ry 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 gen’rous part, 
 
 Nor set a price upon a w illing heart. 
 
 Of all the ways that seem to promise fair, 
 
 To place you w here his saints his presence share, 
 This only can; for this plain cause, express’d 
 In terms as plain, Himself has shut the rest. 
 
 But oh the strife, the bick’ring, and debate, 
 
 The tidings of unpurchas’d Heav’n create! 
 
 The flirted fan, the bridle and the toss, 
 
 All speakers, yet all language at a loss. 
 
 From stuccoed walls smart arguments rebound ; 
 And beaus, adepts in ev’ry thing profound, 
 
 Die of disdain, or whistle off the sound. 
 
HOPE. 
 
 100 
 
 Such is the clamour of rooks, daws, and kites, 
 
 Th’ explosion of the levcll’d tube excites, 
 
 Where mould’ring abbey-walls o’erhaug the glade, 
 And oaks coeval spread a mournful shade, 
 
 The screaming nations, hov’ring in mid air, 
 
 Loudly resent the stranger’s freedom there, 
 
 And seem to warn him never to repeat 
 His bold intrusion on their dark retreat. 
 
 Adieu, Vinosa cries, ere yet lie 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, 
 ThatHeav’n will weigh man’s virtues and his crimes 
 With nice attention, in a righteous scale, 
 
 And save or damn as these or those prevail. 
 
 I plant my foot upon this ground of trust, 
 
 And silence ev’ry fear with — God is just. 
 
 But if perchance on some dull drizzling day 
 A thought intrude, that says, or seems to say, 
 
 If thus th’ important cause is to be tried, 
 
 Suppose the beam should dip on the wrong side j 
 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. 
 
110 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 I glide and steal along with lieav’n in view, 
 
 And, — pardon me, the bottle stands with you. 
 
 I never will believe, the eolonel 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 ev’n because they must, 
 Ee punish’d with perdition, who is pure? 
 
 Then theirs, no doubt, as well as mine, is sure? 
 
 If sentence of eternal pain belong 
 To ev’ry sudden slip and transient wrong. 
 
 Then Heav’n 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 ev’ry 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 pray’r sit well upon a priest, 
 
 A decent caution and reserve at least. 
 
 A soldier's best is courage in the field, 
 
 With nothing here that wants to be conceal'd. 
 Manly deportment, gallant, easy, gay; 
 
 A hand as lib’ral as the light of day. 
 
HOPE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 Heav’n — and 1 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 suffer’d, 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 diff’ring 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 ihat knows 
 To take with gratitude what Heav’n bestows. 
 
 With prudence always ready at our call, 
 
 To guide our use of it, is all in all. 
 
 Doubtless it is.— -To which, of my ow n 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 Rev’rend to Smug’s honour’d name. 
 
n-2 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Anil yet our lot is giv’n us in a land. 
 
 Where busy arts are never at a stand ; 
 
 Where Science points her telescopic eye, 
 Familiar with the wonders of the sky; 
 
 Where bold 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 longue ; 
 
 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 other Cornubian mines, 
 
 And still it spreads. See Germany send forth 
 Her sons* 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 plaius, and in eternal snows. 
 
 O blest within th’ enclosure of your rocks, 
 
 Nor herds have ye to boast, nor bleating flocks; 
 
 No fertilizing streams jour fields divide, 
 
 'l hat show revers’d the villas on their side ; 
 
 * The Moravian missionaries in Greenland. See Kranla. 
 
HOPE. 
 
 112 
 
 No groves have ye; no cheerful sound of bird, 
 
 Or voice of turtle, in your land is heard ; 
 
 Nor grateful eglantine regales the smell 
 Of those, that walk at ev’ning where ye dwell : 
 
 But Winter, arm’d with terrors here unknown, 
 
 Sits absolute on his unshaken throne ; 
 
 Piles up his stores amidst the frozen waste, 
 
 And bids (he 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 flow’r, and ev’ry creature here ; 
 
 But brighter beams than his who fires the skies. 
 Have ris’n at length on your admiring eyes. 
 
 That shoot into your darkest caves the day, 
 
 From which our nicer optics turn away. 
 
 Here see 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. 
 
114 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 The gross idolatry blind heathens teach 
 Was too refin’d for them, beyond their reach. 
 
 Not ev’n the glorious Sun, though men revere 
 The monarch most, that seldom will appear, 
 
 And though his beams, that quicken where they shine, 
 May claim some right to be esteem’d divine, 
 
 Not ev’n the Sun, desirable as rare, 
 
 Could bend one knee, engage one votary there ; 
 They were, what base credulity believes 
 True Christians are, dissemblers, drunkards, thieves- 
 The full-gorg’d savage, at his nauseous feast 
 Spent half the darkness, and snor’d out the rest, 
 Was one, whom justice on an equal plan 
 Denouncing death upon the sins of man, 
 
 Might almost have indulg’d with an escape. 
 Chargeable only with a human shape. 
 
 What are they now ? — Morality may spare 
 Her grave concern, her kind suspicions there : 
 
 The wretch, who once sang wildly, danc’d and laugh’d, 
 And suck’d in dizzy madness with his draught, 
 
 Has wept a silent flood, revers’d his ways, 
 
 Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays, 
 
 Feeds sparingly, communicates his stoi c, 
 
 Abhors the craft he boasted of before, C 
 
 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, 
 
HOPE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 If self-exalting claims lie turn’d adrift, 
 
 And grace be grace indeed, and life a gift : 
 
 The poor reclaim’d inhabitant, his eyes 
 Glist’ning at once with pity and surprise, 
 
 Amaz’d that shadows should obscure the sight 
 Of one, whose birth was in a land of light, 
 
 Shall answer, Hope, sweet Hope, lias set me free, 
 And made all pleasures else mere dross to me. 
 
 These, amidst scenes as waste as if denied 
 The common care that waits on all beside, 
 
 Wild as if Nature there, void of all good, 
 
 Play’d only gambols in a frantic mood, 
 
 (Yet charge not heav’nly skill with having plann’d 
 A 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 num’rous woes. 
 
 Nor spurn away a gift a God bestows. 
 
 Hard task indeed o’er arctic seas to roam ! 
 
 Is hope exotic ? grows it not at home? 
 
 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 
 J slur a name a poet must not speak) 
 
 ■ Stood pilloried on infamy’s high stage, 
 
 And bore the pelting scorn of half an age ; 
 
 The very butt of slander, and the blot 
 For ev’ry dart that Malice ever shot. 
 
UG 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 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, lie 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 wond’riug eyes 
 This more than monster in his proper guise. 
 
 He lov’d 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 forg’d, and he that threw the dart, 
 Had each a brother’s int’rest in his heart. 
 
 Paul’s love of Christ, and steadiness unbrib’d, 
 Were copied close in him, and well transcrib’d. 
 
 He follow’d 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, suffer’d shame where’er he went. 
 
 Blush Calumny! and write upon his tomb. 
 
 If honest Eulogy can spare thee room, 
 
HOPE. 
 
 117 
 
 Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies, 
 
 Which, aim’d at him, have pierc’d th’ offended skies; 
 And say, Blot out my sin, confess’d, deplor’d, 
 
 Against thine image in thy saint, 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 arc 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 ; 
 
 Contriv’d to suit frail nature’s crazy case, 
 
 And reconcile his lusts with saving grace. 
 
 By this, with nice precision of design, 
 
 He draws upon life’s map a zigzag line, 
 
 That shows how far ’tis safe to follow sin, 
 
 And where his danger and God’s wrath begin. 
 
 By this he forms, as pleas’d he sports along, 
 
 His well-pois’d estimate of right and wrong; 
 
 And finds the modish manners of the day, 
 
 Though loose, as harmless as an infant’s play. 
 
 Build by whatever plan caprice decrees, 
 
 With what materials, on what ground you please ; 
 Your hope shall stand unblam’d, perhaps admir’d. 
 If not that hope the Scripture has requir’d, 
 
 The strange conceits, vain projects, and wild dreams 
 With which hypocrisy for ever teems, 
 
118 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 (Though other follies strike the public eye, 
 
 And raise a laugh) pass unmolested by; 
 
 Eut if, unblamable in word or thought, 
 
 A man arise, a man whom God has taught, 
 
 With all Elijah’s dignity of tone, 
 
 And all the love of the beloved John, 
 
 To storm the citadels they build in air, 
 
 And smite th’ untemper’d wall; ’tis death to spare. 
 To sweep away all refuges of lies, v 
 
 And place, instead of quirks themselves devise, \ 
 Lama sabacthani before their eyes; \ 
 
 To prove that without Christ all gain is loss, 
 
 AH hope despair, that stands not on his cross; 
 Except the few his God may have impress’d, 
 
 A tenfold frenzy seizes all the rest. 
 
 Throughout mankind, the Christian kind at least, 
 There dwells a consciousness in ev’ry breast, 
 
 That folly ends where genuine hope begins, 
 
 And he that finds his Heav’n must lose his sins. 
 Nature opposes with her utmost force 
 This riving stroke, this ultimate divorce ; 
 
 And, while religion seems to be her view, 
 
 Hates with a deep sincerity the true : 
 
 For this, of all that ever influenc’d man, 
 
 Since Abel worship]) 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 indilT’rence frowns and smiles 
 
HOPE. 
 
 119 
 
 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, 
 
 Pow’rs 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 dissembl’d fears, 
 
 His eyes shut fast, his fingers in his ears. 
 
 Mighty to parry and push by God’s word 
 With senseless noise, his argument the sword, 
 Pretends a zeal for godliness and grace, 
 
 And spits abhorrence in the Christian's face. 
 
 Parent of Hope, immortal Truth ! make known 
 Thy deathless wreaths, and triumphs all thine own: 
 The silent progress of thy pow’r is such, 
 
 Thy means so feeble, and despis’d so much, 
 
 That few believe the wonders thou hast wrought. 
 And none can teach them but whom thou hast taught. 
 O sec 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, C 
 
 And light, and shade, and ev’ry stroke be thine. S 
 
 If ever thou hast felt another’s pain, 
 
 If ever when he sigh’d hast sigh’d 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 ev’ry joy it can afford ; 
 
 Friendship and love seem’d tenderly at strife, 
 Which most should sweeten his untroubled life; 
 
1*20 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Politely learn’d, and of a gentle race, 
 Good-breeding and good sense gave all a grace, 
 And w hether at the toilette of the fair 
 He laugh’d and trifled, made him welcome there. 
 Or if in masculine debate he shar’d, 
 
 Ensur’d him mnte attention and regard. 
 
 Alas how chang’d ! Expressive of his mind. 
 
 His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head reclin’d; 
 Those awful syllables, Hell, death, and sin. 
 Though whisper’d, plainly tell what w orks 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 ev’ry day ; 
 
 He hears the notice of the clock, perplex’d, 
 
 And cries, perhaps eternity strikes next; 
 
 Sweet music is no louger music here, 
 
 And laughter sounds like madness in his ear: 
 
 His grief the W orld of all her pow’r disarms, 
 
 Wine has no taste, and beauty has no charms: 
 God’s holy word, once trivial in his view, 
 
 Now by the voice of his experience true, 
 
 Seems as it is, the fountain whence alone 
 Must spring that hope he pants to make his own. 
 Now let the bright reverse be known abroad; 
 
 Say man’s a worm, and pow’r belongs to God. 
 
HOPE. 
 
 121 
 
 As when a felon, whom his country’s laws 
 Have justly doom’d for some atrocious cause, 
 Expects in darkness and heart-chilling fears, 
 
 The shameful close of all his mispent years; 
 
 If chance, on heavy pinions slowly born, 
 
 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 bis fetters and his fear; 
 
 | A transport glows in all he looks and speaks, 
 
 And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks, 
 jJoy, far superior joy, that much outweighs 
 ; The comfort of a few poor added days, 
 
 ! Invades, possesses, and o’erw helms the soul 
 Of him, whom hope has with a touch made whole. 
 ’Tis Heav’n, all Heav'n descending on the wings 
 Of the glad legions of the King of kings; • 
 
 ’Tis more — ’tis God diffus’d through ev’ry part, 
 
 /Tis God himself triumphant in his heart. 
 
 O welcome now the sun’s once hated light, 
 
 His noonday beams were never half so bright. 
 
 Not kindred minds alone are call’d t’ employ 
 Their hours, their days, in list’ning to his joy ; 
 Unconscious nature, all that he surveys, 
 
 Hocks, groves, and streams, must join him in his praise. 
 
 G 
 
122 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 These are thy glorious works, eternal Truth, 
 
 The scoff of wither’d age and beardless youth ; 
 These move the censure and illib’ral grin 
 Of fools, that hate thee and delight in sin : 
 
 But these shall last when night has quench’d the pole, 
 And Heav’n is all departed as a scroll. 
 
 And when, as Justice has long since decreed, 
 
 This Earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed, 
 Then these thy glorious works, and they 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 flow’rs to suit a fickle taste ; 
 
 But while they speak the wisdom of the skies, 
 Which art can only darken and disguise, 
 
 Th’ abundant harvest, recompense divine, 
 
 Repays their work — the gleaning only mine. 
 

CHARITY. 
 
 Olio nihil majus meliusvc terns 
 Fata donav&re, boniqne divi : 
 
 Nec dabunt, quamvis redeant in aurum 
 Tempora priscnm. 
 
 11 or. lib. iv. ode 2. 
 
 Fairest and foremost of the train that wait 
 On man’s most dignified and happiest state, 
 Whether we name thee Charity or love, 
 
 Chief grace below, and all in all above, 
 
 Prosper (I press thee with a pow’rful plea) 
 
 A task I venture on, imped’d by thee : 
 
 O never seen but in thy blest effects, 
 
 Or felt but in the soul that Heav’n selects ; 
 
 Who seeks to praise thee, and to make thee known 
 To other hearts, must have thee in his own. 
 
 Come, proinp me with benevolent desires, 
 
 Teach me to kindle at thy gentle fires, 
 
 And though disgrac’d and slighted, to redeem 
 A poet’s name, by making thee the theme. 
 
 God, working ever on a social plan, 
 
 By various ties attaches man to man : 
 
 He made at first, though free and unconfin’d, 
 
 One man the common father of the kind; 
 
 G 2 
 
124 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 That ev’ry tribe, though plac’d as he sees best, 
 Where seas or deserts part them from the rest, 
 
 Diff ’ring in language, manners, or in face, 
 
 Might feel themselves allied to all the race. 
 
 When Cook — lamented, and with tears as just 
 As ever mingled with heroic dust, 
 
 Steer’d Britain’s oak into a world unknown, 
 
 And in his country’s glory sought his own, 
 Wherever he found man, to nature true, 
 
 The rights of man were sacred in his view ; 
 
 He sooth’d with gifts, and greeted with a smile, 
 
 The simple native of the new found isle ; 
 
 He spurn’d the wretch, that slighted or withstood 
 The tender argument of kindred blood, 
 
 Nor would endure that any should 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 lov’d for savage lives he sav’d, 
 
 See Cortez odious for a world enslav’d ! 
 
 Where wast thou then, sw eet Charity P where then, 
 Thou tutelary friend of helpless men? 
 
 Wast thou in monkish cells and nunn’ries found, 
 
 Or building hospitals on English ground? 
 
 No.— Mammon makes the world his legatee 
 Through fear, not love ; and Heav’n abhors the fee. 
 Wherever found, (and all men need thy care) 
 
 Nor age nor infancy could find thee there. 
 
CHARITY. 
 
 125 
 
 The hand, that slew till it could slay no more, 
 
 Was glued to the sword-hilt with Indian g ore. 
 Their prince, as justly seated on his throne 
 As vain imperial Philip on his own, 
 
 Trick’d out of all his royalty by art, 
 
 That stripp’d him bare, and broke his honest heart, 
 Died by the sentence of a shaven priest, 
 
 For scorning what they taught him to detest. 
 
 How dark the veil, that intercepts the blaze 
 Of Heav’n’s mysterious purposes and ways ; 
 
 God stood not, though he seem’d to stand, aloof ; 
 And at this hour the conqu’ror feels the proof: 
 
 The wreath he won drew down an instant curse, 
 The fretting plague is in the public purse, - 
 The canker’d spoil corrodes the pining state, 
 Starv’d 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 fall’n, Iberia! Do we see 
 The robber and the murd’rer w eak as we ? 
 
 Thou, that hast wasted Earth, and dar’d 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? 
 
126 
 
 CHAItITY. 
 
 The sword shall light upon thy boasted pow’rs. 
 And waste them, as thy sword has wasted ours. 
 ’Tis thus Omnipotence his law fulfils, 
 
 And Vengeance executes what Justice wills. 
 
 Again — the band of commerce was design’d 
 T’ associate all the branches of mankind ; 
 
 And if a boundless plenty be the robe, 
 
 Trade is the golden girdle of the globe. 
 
 Wise to promote whatever end he means, 
 
 God opens fruitful nature’s various scenes : 
 Each climate needs what other climes produce. 
 And offers something to the gen’ral use ; 
 
 No land but listens to the common call, 
 
 And in return receives supply from all. 
 
 This genial intercourse, and mutual aid, 
 
 Cheers what were else 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 canvass borrows light and shade. 
 And verse, more lasting, hues that never fade. 
 
CHARITY. 
 
 127 
 
 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 Provideuce enjoins to ev’ry soul 
 A union with the vast terraqueous whole. 
 
 Heav’n speed the canvass, gallantly unfurl’d 
 To furnish and accommodate a world, 
 
 To give the pole the produce of the sun, 
 
 And knit th’ unsocial climates into one. — 
 
 Soft airs and gentle heavings of the wave 
 Impel the fleet, whose errand is to save, 
 
 To succour wasted regions, and replace 
 The smile of Opulence in Sorrow’s face — 
 
 Let nothing adverse, nothing unforeseen, 
 Impede the bark, that plows the deep serene, 
 Charg’d with a freight transcending in its worth 
 The gems of India, Nature’s rarest birth, 
 
 That flies, like Gabriel on his Lord’s commands, 
 A herald of God’s love to pagan lands. 
 
 But ah ! what wish can prosper, or what pray’r, 
 For merchants rich in cargoes of despair, 
 
CHARITY. 
 
 128 
 
 IV ho 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 
 Depriv’d of her and freedom at a blow, 
 
 What has he left that he can yet forego? 
 
 Aes, to deep sadness sullenly resign’d, 
 
 He feels his body’s bondage in his mind: 
 
 Puts off his gen’rons nature ; and, to suit 
 His manners with his fate, puts on the brute. 
 
 O most degrading of all ills, that wait 
 On man, a mourner in his best estate 1 
 All other sorrows virtue may endure, 
 
 And find submission more than half a cure ; 
 
 Grief is itself a med’cine, and bestow’d 
 T’ improve the fortitude that bears the load, 
 
 To teach the wand’rer, as his woes increase, 
 
 The path of Wisdom, all whose paths are peace; 
 But slav’ry ! — Virtue dreads it as her grave: 
 Patience itself is meanness in a slave : 
 
 Or if the will and sovereignty of God 
 Bid suffer it awhile, and kiss the rod, 
 
 Wait for the dawning of a brighter day, 
 
 And snap the chain the moment when you may. 
 
CHARITY. 
 
 129 
 
 Nature imprints upon whate’er we sec, 
 
 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 bis 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 forc’d the door, 
 
 He found it inconvenient to be poor. 
 
 Has God then giv’n its sweetness to the cane, 
 Unless Ins laws be trampled on — in vain? 
 
 Built a brave World, which cannot yet subsist, 
 Unless his right to rule it be dismiss’d ? 
 impudent blasphemy ! So Folly pleads, 
 
 And, Av’rice being judge, with ease succeeds. 
 
 But grant the plea, and let it stand for just, 
 
 That man make man his prey, because he must ;■ 
 Still there is room for pity to abate, 
 
 And sooth the sorrows of so sad a state. 
 
 g3 
 
130 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 A Briton knows, or if he knows it not, 
 
 The Scripture plac’d within his reach, he ought. 
 
 That souls have no discriminating hue, 
 
 Alike important in their Maker’s view; 
 
 That none are free from blemish since the fall, 
 
 And Love divine has paid one price for all. 
 
 The wretch, that works and weeps without relief. 
 Has one that notices his silent grief, 
 
 He, from whose hands alone all pow’r proceeds. 
 Ranks its abuse among the foulest deeds, 
 
 Considers all injustice with a frown ; 
 
 But marks the man that treads his fellow down. 
 Begone, the whip and bell in that hard hand 
 Are hateful ensigns of usurp’d command. 
 
 Not Mexico could purchase kings a claim 
 To scourge him, weariness his only blame. 
 Remember, Heav’n has an avenging rod, 
 
 To smite the poor is treason against God. 
 
 Trouble is grudgingly and hardly brook’d, 
 
 While life’s sublimest joys are overlook’d : 
 
 We wander o’er a sunburnt thirsty soil, 
 
 Murm’ring and weary of our daily toil, 
 
 Forget t’ enjoy the palm tree’s offer’d shade, 
 
 Or taste the fountain in the neighb’ring glade : 
 
 Else who would lose, that had the pow’r t’ improve, 
 Th’ occasion of transmuting fear to love ? 
 
 O ’tis a godlike privilege to save, 
 
 And he that scorns it is himself a slave. 
 
 Inform his mind ; one flash of heav’nly day 
 Would heal his heart, and melt his chains away. 
 
CHARITY.. 
 
 131 
 
 u Beauty for ashes” is a gift indeed, 
 
 And slaves, by truth enlarg’d, are doubly freed. 
 
 Then would he say, submissive at thy feet, 
 
 While gratitude and love made service sweet, 
 
 My dear deliv’rer out of hopeless night, 
 
 Whose bounty bought me but to give me light, 
 
 1 was a bondman on my native plain, 
 
 Sin forg’d, and Ignorance made fast, the chain ; 
 
 Thy lips have shed instruction as the dew, 
 
 Taught me what path to shun, and what pursue; 
 Farewell my former joys ! I sigh no more 
 For Africa’s once lov’d, benighted shore ; 
 
 Serving a benefactor I am free, 
 
 At my best home, if not exil’d from thee. 
 
 Some men make gain a fountain, whence proceeds 
 A stream of lib’ral and heroic deeds ; 
 
 The swell of pity, not to be confin’d 
 Within the scanty limits of the mind, 
 
 Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sands, 
 
 A rich deposit, on the bord’ring lands ; 
 
 These have an ear for his paternal call, 
 
 Who makes some rich for the supply of all; 
 
 God’s gift with pleasure in his praise employ, 
 
 And Thornton is familiar with the joy. 
 
 O 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 flow’rs as wild and fair, 
 
 As ever dress’d a bank, or scented summer air. 
 
132 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 Duly, as ever on the mountain’s height 
 The peep of Morning shed a dawning light; 
 
 Again, when Ev’ning 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 pow’r, 
 
 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, tire, and flood, 
 Are mighty mischiefs, not to be withstood ; 
 
 And honest Merit stands on slipp’ry ground, 
 
 Where covert guile and artifice abound. 
 
 Let just Restraint, for public peace design’d, 
 
 Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind ; 
 
 The foe of virtue has no claim to thee, 
 
 But let insolvent innocence go free. 
 
CHARITY. 
 
 133 
 
 Patron of else the most despis’d of men, 
 
 Accept the tribute of a stranger’s pen; 
 
 Verse, like the laurel, its immortal meed, 
 
 Sliould be the guerdon of a noble deed ; 
 
 I may alarm thee, but I fear the shame Y 
 
 (Charity chosen as my theme and aim) C 
 
 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 amid scenes of wo, 
 
 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. 
 
 O that the voice of clamour and debate, 
 
 That pleads for peace till it disturbs the state, 
 Were hush’d in favour of thy gen’rous plea, 
 
 The poor thy clients, and Heav’n’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 step 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 nighl, 
 
134 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 And brings at his return a bosom charg’d 
 With rich instruction, and a soul enlarg’d. 
 
 The treasur’d sweets of the capacious plan, 
 
 That Heav’n spreads wide before the view of man 
 All prompt his pleas’d pursuit, and to pursue 
 Still prompt him, with a pleasure always new ; 
 
 He too has a connecting pow’r, 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 pow’rs must needs refine. 
 He reads the skies, and watching ev’ry change, 
 Provides the faculties an ample range ; 
 
 And wins mankind, as his attempts prevail, 
 
 A prouder station on the gen’ral scale. 
 
 But Reason still, unless divinely taught, 
 
 Whate’er she learns, learns nothing as she ought; 
 The lamp of revelation only shows, 
 
 What human wisdom cannot but oppose, 
 
 That man, in nature’s richest mantle clad, 
 
 And grac’d 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 Iris pride; 
 He feels his need of an unerring guide, 
 
 And knows that falling he shall rise no more, 
 Unless the pow’r that bade him stand restore. 
 This is indeed philosophy ; this known 
 Makes wisdom, worthy of the name, his own ; 
 
CHARITY. 
 
 135 
 
 Anti 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 enlight’ning grace. 
 
 Here stay thy foot ; how copious and how clear, 
 
 Th’ o’erflowing well of Charity springs here! 
 
 Flark ! ’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 heavn’ly guide, 
 
 May blow up self-conceit, and nourish pride, 
 
 But, while his province is the reas’ning part, 
 
 Has still a veil of midnight on his heart : 
 
 ’Tis truth divine, exhibited on Earth, 
 
 Gives Charity her being and her birth. 
 
 Suppose (when thought is warm, and fancy flows 
 What will not argument sometimes suppose?) 
 
136 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 An isle possess’d by creatures of our kind. 
 
 Endued with reason, yet by nature blind. 
 
 Let Supposition lend her aid once more, 
 
 And land some grave optician on the shore: 
 
 He claps bis lens, if haply they may see, 
 
 Close to the part where vision ought to be ; 
 
 But finds, that, though his tubes assist the sight. 
 They cannot give it, or make darkness light. 
 
 He reads wise lectures, and describes aloud, 
 
 A sense they know not, to the wond’ring crowd; 
 
 He talks of light, and the prismatic hues, 
 
 As men of depth in erudition use ; 
 
 But all be gains for his harangue is — Well 
 
 What monstrous lies some travellers will tell! 
 
 The soul, whose sight all quick’ning grace renews. 
 Takes the resemblance of the good she views, 
 
 As diamonds, stripp’d of their opaque disguise, 
 Reflect the noonday 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. 
 
CHARITY. 
 
 137 
 
 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, 
 Revil’d by those that hate her, prays for them ; 
 Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast, 
 
 The w r orst suggested, she believes the best; 
 
 Not soon provok’d, however stung and teas’d, 
 
 And, if perhaps made angry, soon .appeas’d; 
 
 She rather waves than will dispute her right, 
 
 And injur’d makes forgiveness her delight. 
 
 Such was the portrait an apostle drew, 
 
 The bright original was one he knew ; 
 
 Heav’u 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, 
 
133 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 Has dropp’d her anchor, and her canvass furl'd, 
 
 In some safe haven of our western world, 
 
 ’Twere vain inquiry to what port she went, 
 
 The gale informs 11s, 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 shortliv’d 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 hut alms aught values she, 
 
 Except in porc’lain on her mantle-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 Av’rice shall subscribe, 
 
 While fame and self-complacence are the bribe. 
 
 The brief proclaim’d, it visits ev’ry pew. 
 
 But first the squire’s, a compliment but due ; 
 
 AVith slow deliberation he unties 
 
 His glitt’ring purse, that envy of all eyes. 
 
CHAPATY. 
 
 139 - 
 
 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, 
 Plow the good squire gives never less than gold. 
 Prom motives such as his, though not the best, 
 Springs in due time supply for the distress’d ; 
 
 Not less effectual than what love bestows, 
 
 JExcept 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 asham’d: 
 
 But (I might instance in St. Patrick’s dean) 
 
 Too often rails to gratify bis spleen. 
 
 Most sat’rists are indeed a public scourge ; 
 
 Their mildest physic is a farrier’s purge ; 
 
140 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'il. 
 
 The milk of their good purpose all to curd. 
 
 Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, 
 
 By lean despair upon an empty purse, 
 
 The wild assassins start into the street, 
 
 Prepar’d to 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 
 Gath’ring around it with erected ears ; 
 
 A thousand names are toss’d into the crowd ; 
 Some whisper’d softly, and some twang’d aloud; 
 Just as the sapience of an author’s brain 
 Suggest it safe or dang’rous to be plain. 
 
 Strange! how the frequent interjected dash 
 Quickens a market, and helps otf the trash ; 
 
 Th’ important letters, that include the rest, 
 
 Serve as a key to those that are suppress’d ; 
 Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw, 
 
 The world is charm’d, and Scrib escapes the law. 
 So, when the cold damp shades of night prevail, 
 Worms may be caught by either head or tail ; 
 Forcibly drawn from many a close recess, 
 
 They meet with little pity, no redress; 
 
 Plung’d in the stream they lodge upon the mud. 
 Food for the famish’d rovers of the flood. 
 
CHARITY. 
 
 141 
 
 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 tow’ring poet’s pride. 
 Perhaps the man was in a sportive fit, 
 
 And had no other play-place for his wit ; 
 
 Perhaps, enchanted with the love of fame, 
 
 He sought the jewel in his neighbour’s shame; 
 Perhaps— whatever end he might pursue, 
 
 The cause Of virtue could not be his view. 
 
 At ev’ry stroke wit flashes in our eyes ; 
 
 The turns are quick, the polish’d points surprise, 
 But shine with cruel and tremendous charms, 
 
 That, while they please, possess us with alarms: 
 
 So have I seen, (and hasten’d to the sight 
 On all the wings of holiday delight) 
 
 Where stands that monument of ancient pow’r, 
 Nam’d with emphatic dignity, the Tow’r, 
 
 Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and small, 
 In starry forms dispos’d upon the wall ; 
 
 We wonder, as we,gazing stand below, 
 
 That brass and steel should make so fine a show ; 
 But though we praise th’ exact designer’s skill, 
 Account them implements of mischief still. 
 
 No works shall find acceptance in that day, 
 
 When all disguises shall be rent away, 
 
 That square not truly with the Scripture plan, 
 
 Nor spring from love to God, or love to man, 
 
 As he ordains things sordid in their birth 
 To be resolv’d into their parent earth; 
 
142 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 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 w'e ought; 
 
 Such virtues had need prove their own reward, 
 
 The judge of all men owes them no regard. 
 
 True charity, a plant divinely nurs’d, 
 
 Fed by the love from which it rose at first, 
 
 Thrives against hope, and in the rudest scene 
 Storms but enliven its unfading green; 
 
 Exub’rant is the shadow it supplies, 
 
 Its fruits on earth, its growth above the skies. 
 
 To look at him, who form’d us and redeem’d. 
 
 So glorious now, though once so disesteem’d, 
 
 To see a God stretch forth his human hand, 
 
 T’ uphold the boundless scenes of his command; 
 
 To recollect, that, in a form like ours, 
 
 He bruis’d beneath his feet th’ infernal pow’rs, 
 
 Captivity led captive, rose to claim 
 
 The wreath he won so dearly in our name ; 
 
 That thron’d above all height he condescends 
 To call the few that trust in him his friends; 
 
 That, in the Heav’n of heav’ns, that space he deems 
 Too scanty for th’ exertion of his beams, 
 
 And shines, as if impatient to bestow 
 Life and a kingdom upon worms below ; 
 
CHARITY. 
 
 ' 143 
 
 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 enlarg’d as she receives the grace, 
 Includes creation in her close embrace. 
 
 Behold a Christian ! — and without the fires 
 The founder of that name alone inspires, 
 
 Though all 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 pow’r, or cease, 
 And ev’n 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 w ould take the field, 
 
 Sure not to conquer, and sure not to yield; 
 
 Both sides deceiv’d, if rightly understood, 
 
 Pelting each other for the public good. 
 
144 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 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 
 Witli many a wild indeed but flow’ry spray, 
 
 In hopes to gain, what else I must have lost, 
 
 Tli’ attention pleasure has so much engross'd. 
 But if unhappily deceiv’d I dream, 
 
 And prove so weak for so divine a theme, 
 
 Let Charity forgive me a mistake 
 
 That zeal, not vanity, has chanc'd to make, 
 
 And spare the poet for his subject’s sake. 
 
I twirl my thumbs , fa.ll back into my chair, 
 Fix on the wainscot a distrefsfu.1 stare, 
 And when I hope his blunders are all out, 
 Reply discreetly— to be sure _no doubt. 
 
 DRAWN BY RICHARD WES TALL R A. ENGRAVED BYE.PORTBURY; 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY. 
 
 OCT. 1.1817. 
 

 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 Nam neqne me tantum venientis sibilus austri, 
 Nec percussa juvant flucttt tarn littora, nec quae 
 Saxosas inter decurrunt flumina valies. 
 
 Virg. Eel. 5. 
 
 Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense 
 To ev’ry 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 abc; 
 
 So language in the mouths of the adult, 
 
 Witness its insignificant result, 
 
 Too often proves an implement of play, 
 
 A toy to sport with, and pass time away. 
 
 H 
 
146 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 Collect at ev’ning what the day brought forth, 
 Compress the sum into its solid worth, 
 
 And if it weigh th’ importance of a fly, 
 
 The scales are false, or algebra a lie. 
 
 Sacred interpreter of human thought, 
 
 How few respect or use thee as they ought! 
 
 But all shall give account of ev’ry wrong, 
 
 Who dare dishonour or delilc the tongue ; 
 
 Who prostitute it in the cause of vice, 
 
 Or sell their glory at the 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 ev’ry satyr in his den. 
 
 O come not ye near innocence and truth, 
 
 Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth ! 
 Infectious as impure, your blighting pow’r 
 Taints in its rudiments the promis’d flow’r; 
 
 Its odour perish’d and its charming hue, 
 Thenceforth ’tis hateful, for it smells of you. 
 
 Not ev’n the vigorous and headlong rage 
 Of adolescence, or a firmer age, 
 
 Affords a plea allowable or just 
 
 For making speech the pamperer of lust ; 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 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 ev’ry spark. 
 
 Oaths terminate, as Paul observes, all strife- 
 Some men have surely then a peaceful life ; 
 Whatever subject occupy discourse, 
 
 The feats of Vestris, or the naval force, 
 Asseveration blust’ring in your face 
 Makes contradiction such a hopeless case: 
 
 In ev’ry tale they tell, or false or true, 
 
 Well known, or such as no man ever knew, 
 They fix attention, heedless of your pain, 
 
 With oaths like rivets forc’d into the brain ; 
 And ev’nwhen 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 ev’ry word impress, 
 
 Suppos’d 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 int’rest in his frequent pray’rs. 
 
 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 ; 
 h 2 
 
148 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 A mere disguise, in which a devil lurks, 
 
 Who yet betrays his secret by his works. 
 
 Ye pow’rs who rule the tongue, if such there an 
 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 dispos’d to death. 
 
 0 thwart me not, sir Soph, at ev’ry turn, 
 
 Nor carp at ev’ry flaw you may discern ; 
 
 Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue, 
 
 1 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 : 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 Adopt liis own, ’tis equally in vain, 
 
 Your thread of argument is snapp’d again ; 
 
 The wrangler, rather than accord with you, 
 
 Will judge himself deceiv’d, and prove it too. 
 Vociferated logic kills me quite, 
 
 A noisy man is always in the right — 
 
 I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, 
 
 Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare, 
 
 And, when 1 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, Avhatsoe’er befall, 
 
 Centring at last in having none at all. 
 
 Yet, though he tease and baulk your list’niugcar 
 He makes one useful point exceeding clear; 
 Howe’er ingenious on his darling theme 
 A sceptic in philosophy may seem, 
 
150 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 Reduc’d to practice, his beloved rule 
 Would only prove him a consummate fool ; 
 
 Useless in him alike both brain and speech, 
 
 Fate having plac’d 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-idoliz’d in ev’ry case, 
 
 Hate their own likeness in a brother’s face. 
 
 The cause is plain, and not to be denied, 
 
 The proud are always most provok’d by pride. 
 
 Few competitions but engender spite ; 
 
 And those the most, where neither has a right. 
 
 The point of honour has been 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 barb’rous still and rude, 
 
 We are restrain’d indeed, but not subdu’d. 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 151 
 
 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 shiv’ring to the bar 
 With all the guilt of such unnat’ral war, 
 
 Whatever Use may urge or Honour plead, 
 
 On Reasons verdict is a madman’s deed. 
 
 Am I to set my life upon a throw, 
 
 Because a bear is rude and surly ? No — 
 
 A moral, sensible, and well-bred man, 
 
 Will not affront me, and no other can. 
 
 Were I empow’r’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; 
 
152 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 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 ev’ry interview their route the same, 
 
 The repetition makes attention lame ; 
 
 We bustle up with unsuccessful speed, 
 
 And in the saddest part cry — Droll indeed ! 
 
 The path of narrative with care pursue, 
 
 Still making probability your clew; 
 
 On all the vestiges of truth attend. 
 
 And let them guide you to a decent end. 
 
 Of all ambitions man may entertain, 
 
 The worst, that can invade a sickly brain, 
 
 Is that, which angles hourly for 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. 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 A great retailer of this curious ware 
 Having unloaded and made many stare, 
 
 Can this be true? — an arch observer cries, 
 
 Yes, (rather mov’d) I saw it with these eyes: 
 
 Sir ! I believe it on that ground alone ; 
 
 I could not, had I seen it with my own. 
 
 A tale should be judicious, clear, succinct; 
 
 The language plain, and incidents well link’d; 
 
 Tell not as new what ev’ry body knows, 
 
 And, new or old, still hasten to a close; 
 
 There, cent’ring 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 gard’ner wants, 
 
 To poison vermin that infest his plants ; 
 
 But are we so to wit and beauty blind, 
 
 As to despise the glory of our kind, 
 
 H 3 
 
154 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 And show the softest minds and fairest forms 
 As little mercy, as the grubs and w orms ? 
 
 They dare not wait (he riotous abuse, 
 
 Thy thirst-creating steams at lengtli produce, 
 When wine has giv’n indecent language birth. 
 And forc’d the flood-gates of licentious mirth ; 
 
 For sea-born Venus her attachment shows 
 Still to that element, from which she rose, 
 
 And with a quiet, which no fumes disturb, 
 
 Sips meek infusions of a milder herb. 
 
 Th’ emphatic speaker dearly loves t’ oppose, 
 
 In contact inconvenient, nose to nose, 
 
 As if the gnomon on his neighbour’s phiz, 
 Touch’d with a magnet, had attracted his. 
 
 Bis whisper’d theme, dilated and at large, 
 
 Proves after all a windgun’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, 
 Resum’d his purpose, had a world of talk 
 With one he stumbled on, and lost his w alk. 
 
 1 interrupt him with a sudden bow, 
 
 Adieu, dear Sir ! lest you should lose it now. 
 
 I cannot talk with civet in the room, 
 
 A fine puss gentleman that’s all perfume ; 
 
 The sight’s enough — no need to smell a beau 
 Who thrusts his nose into a rareeshow ? 
 
 His odoriferous attempts to please 
 Perhaps might prosper with a swarm of bees ; 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 155 
 
 But vve that make no honey, though we sting, 
 Poets, are sometimes apt to maul the thing. 
 
 ’Tis wrong to bring into a mix’d resort, 
 
 What makes some sick, and others a-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 w eeks 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. 
 
156 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 Now the distemper, spite of draught or pilf, 
 Victorious seem’d, and now the doctor’s skill ; 
 
 And now— alas, for unforeseen mishaps! 
 
 They put on a damp night-cap and relapse; 
 
 They thought they must have died, they were so had 
 Their peevish hearers almost wish they had. 
 
 Some fretful tempers wince at ev’ry touch, 
 
 You always do too little or too much : 
 
 You speak with life, in hopes to entertain, 
 
 Your elevated voice goes through the brain; 
 
 You fall at once into a lower key, 
 
 That’s worse — Ihe 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 chooses fish; 
 
 With soal— that’s just the sort he would not wish. 
 He takes what he at first profess’d to loath, 
 
 And in due time feeds heartily on both ; 
 
 Yet still, o’erclouded with a constant frown, 
 
 He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. 
 
 Your hope to please him vain on ev’ry plan, 
 Himself should work that wonder, if he can — 
 
 Alas ! his efforts double his distress, 
 
 He likes yours little, and his own still less. 
 
 Thus always teasing others, always teas’d, 
 
 His only pleasure is— to be displeas’d. 
 
 I pity bashful men, who feel the pain 
 Of fancied scorn and undeserv’d disdain. 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 157 
 
 And bear the marks upon a blushing face 
 Of needless shame, and self-impos’d 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 unprolitably burns, 
 
 Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns. 
 
 Few Frenchmen of this evil have complain’d; 
 
 It seems as if we Britons were ordain’d, 
 
 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; 
 
 Bnt counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, 
 Where ’tis a shame to be asham’d t’ appear ; 
 Humility the parent of the first, 
 
 The last by vanity produc’d and nurs’d. 
 
158 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 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 
 Ev’ry five minutes how the minutes go; 
 
 Each individual, suff ’ring a constraint, 
 
 Poetry may, but colours cannot paint, 
 
 As if in close committee on the sky, 
 
 Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry ; 
 
 And finds a changing clime a happy source 
 Of wise reflection, and well-tim’d 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 ecstasy we come, 
 
 As from a seven years’ transportation, home, 
 
 And there resume an unembarrass’d brow, 
 Recov’ring what we lost we know not how, 
 
 The faculties, that seem’d reduc’d to nought, 
 Expression and the privilege of thought. 
 
 The reeking, roaring hero of the chase, 
 
 I give him over as a desp’rate case. 
 
 Physicians write in hopes to work a cure, 
 
 Never, if honest ones, when death is sure; 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 159 
 
 And though the fox he follows may be tam d, 
 
 A mere fox-foU’vver never is reclaim’d. 
 
 Some farrier should prescribe his proper course, 
 Whose only lit companion is his horse, 
 
 Or if, deserving of a better doom, 
 
 The noble beast judge otherwise, his groom. 
 
 Yet ev’n the rogue that serves him, though he stand, 
 To take his honour’s orders, cap in hand, 
 
 Prefers his fellow-grooms with much good sense, 
 Their skill a truth, his master’s a pretence. 
 
 If neither horse nor groom affect the squire, 
 
 Where can at last his jockeyship retire? 
 
 Oh to the club, the scene of savage joys, 
 
 The school of coarse good fellowship and noise ; 
 There, in the sweet society of those, 
 
 Whose friendship from his boyish years he chose, 
 Let him improve his talent if he can, 
 
 Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man. 
 
 Man’s heart had beeadmpenetrably seal’d 
 Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field, 
 Had not his Maker’s all-bestowing hand 
 Giv’n him a soul, and bade him understand ; 
 
 The reas’ning pow’r vouchsaf’d ot course inferr d 
 The pow’r 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 ; 
 
160 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 Visiting ev’ry flow’r with labour meet, 
 
 And gath’ring 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 diffus’d may more abundant grow, 
 
 And speech may praise the pow’r that bids it flow. 
 Will the sweet warbler of the livelong night, 
 
 That fills the list’ning lover with delight, 
 
 Forget his harmony, with rapture heard, 
 
 To learn the twitt’ring 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 deliver’d in our ears, 
 
 In the last scene of her six thousand years : 
 
 Yet Fashion, leader of a clustering train, 
 
 Whom man for his own hurt permits to reign, 
 
 Who shifts and changes all things but his shape, 
 And would degrade her vot’ry to an ape, 
 
 The fruitful parent of abuse and wrong, 
 
 Holds a usurp’d dominion o’er his tongue ; 
 
 There sits and prompts him with his own disgrace, 
 Piesciibes 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, 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 161 
 
 That Heav'n and Hell, and righteousness and sin, 
 Snares in his path, and foes that lurk within, 
 
 God and his attributes, (a field of day 
 Where ’tis an angel’s happiness to stray,) 
 
 Fruits of his love, and wonders of his might, 
 
 Be never nam’d in ears esteem’d jiolite. 
 
 That he who dares, when she forbids, be grave, 
 Shall stand proscrib’d, a madman or a knave, 
 
 A close designer not to be believ’d, 
 
 Or, if excus’d that charge, at least deceiv’d. 
 
 Oh folly worthy of the nurse’s lap, 
 
 Give it the breast, or stop its mouth with pap! 
 
 Js it incredible, or can it seem 
 A dream to any, except those that dream, 
 
 That man should lose 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 assum’d before, 
 
 Know, your arrears with ev’ry hour accrue 
 For mercy shown, while wrath is justly due. 
 
 The time is short, and there arc souls on earth, 
 Though future pain may serve for present mirth, 
 Acquainted with the woes, that fear or shame. 
 
 By Fashion taught, forbade them once to name, 
 And, having felt the pangs you deem a jest, 
 
 Have prov’d them truths too big to be express’d. 
 
162 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 Go seek on revelation’s hallow’d ground, 
 
 Sure to succeed, the remedy they found ; 
 
 Touch’d by that pow’r that you have dar’d 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 inclin’d, 
 
 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 lov'd, 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 trac’d, enrich’d them still the more ; 
 They thought him, and they justly thought him, one 
 Sent to do more than he appear’d t’ have done; 
 
 T’ 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 lie said, 
 Explain’d, illustrated, and search'd so well, 
 
 The tender theme, on which they chose to dwell, 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 163 
 
 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 
 Alan 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 mem’ry 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 th’ eternal plan appears, 
 
164 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 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 al! its quick’ning pow’r ; 
 And lips unstain’d by folly or by strife, 
 
 Whose wisdom, drawn from the deep well of life, 
 Tastes of its healthful origin, and flows 
 A Jordan lor th’ ablution of our woes. 
 
 O days of Heav’n, and nights of equal praise, 
 Serene and peaceful as those heav’nly days, 
 
 When souls drawn upwards in communion sweet, 
 Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat, 
 Discourse, as if releas’d and safe at home, 
 
 Of dangers past, and wonders yet to come, 
 
 And spread the sacred treasures of the breast 
 Upon the lap of covenanted Rest. 
 
 What, always dreaming over heav’nly things, 
 Like angel-heads in stone with pigeon-wings ? 
 Canting and whining out all day the word, 
 
 And half the night ? fanatic and absurd ! 
 
 Mine be the friend less frequent in his pray’rs, 
 Who makes no bustle with his soul’s affairs, 
 Whose wit can brighten up a wintry day, 
 
 And chase the splenetic dull hours away; 
 
 Content on Earth in earthly things to shine, 
 
 Who waits for Heav’n ere he becomes divine, 
 Leave saints t’ enjoy those altitudes they teach, 
 And plucks the fruit plac’d more within his reach. 
 Well spoken, Advocate of sin and shame, 
 
 Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name. 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 165 
 
 Is sparkling wit the World’s exclusive right P 
 The fix’d fee-simple of the vain and light ? 
 
 Can hopes of Heav’n, bright prospects of an hour, 
 That come to waft us out of Sorrow’s pow’r, 
 Obscure or quench a faculty, that finds 
 Its happiest soil in the serenest minds? 
 
 Religion curbs indeed its wanton play, 
 
 And brings the trifler under rig’rous sway, 
 
 But gives it usefulness unknown before, 
 
 And, purifying, makes it shine the more. 
 
 A Christian’s wit is inoffensive light, 
 
 A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight ; 
 Vig’rous in age as in the flush of youth, 
 
 ’Tis always active on the side of truth ; 
 Temp’rance and peace insure its healthful state, 
 And make it brightest at its latest date. 
 
 Oh I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain, 
 
 Ere life go down, to see such sights again) 
 
 A vet’ran warrior in the Christian field, 
 
 Who never saw the sword he could not wield ; 
 Grave without d ulness, learned without pride, 
 Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen ey’d ; 
 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 
 W ith strains it was a privilege to hear; 
 
166 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 Yet above all his luxury supreme, 
 
 And his chief glory, was the Gospel theme ; 
 
 There he was copious as old Greece or Rome, 
 
 His happy eloquence seem’d there at home, 
 Ambitious not to shine or to excel, 
 
 But to treat justly what he lov’d so well. 
 
 It moves me more perhaps than folly ought, 
 When some green heads, as void of wit as thought, 
 Suppose themselves monopolists of sense, 
 
 And wiser men’s ability pretence. 
 
 Though time will wear us, and we must grow old, 
 Such men are not forgot as soon as cold, 
 
 Their fragrant mem’ry 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 rev’rence in its short’ning day, 
 
 That ’tis an honour and a joy to pay. 
 
 The fruits of age, less fair, are yet more sound 
 Than those a brighter season pours around ; 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 1G7 
 
 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 dang’rous, and approve your fear, 
 
 That fire is catching if you draw too near; 
 
 But sage observers oft mistake the flame, 
 
 And give true piety that odious name. 
 
 To tremble (as the creature of an hour 
 Ought at the view of an almighty pow’r) 
 
 Before his presence, at whose awful throne 
 All tremble in all worlds, except our own, 
 
 To supplicate his mercy, love his ways, 
 
 And prize them above pleasure, wealth, or praise, 
 Though common sense, allow’d a casting voice, 
 And free from bias, must approve the choice, 
 Convicts a man fanatic in th’ extreme, 
 
 And wild as madness in the World’s esteem. 
 
 But that disease, when soberly defin’d, 
 
 Is the false fire of an o’erheated mind ; 
 
 It view s 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 fav’rile 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. 
 
168 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 True bliss, if man may reach it, is compos’d 
 Of hearts in union mutually disclos’d ; 
 
 And, farewell else all hope of pure delight, 
 
 Those hearts should lie reclaim’d, renew’d, upright 
 Bad men, profaning friendship’s hallow’d name, 
 Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame. 
 
 A dark confed’racy against the laws 
 Of virtue, and religion’s glorious cause : 
 
 They build each other up with dreadful skill, 
 
 As bastions set point, blank against God's will ; 
 Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt, 
 
 Deeply resolv’d to shut a Saviour out ; 
 
 Call legions up from Hell to back the deed ; 
 
 And, curs’d with conquest, finally succeed. 
 
 But souls, that carry on a blest exchange 
 Of joys, they meet with in their heav’nly range, 
 And with a fearless confideuce 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 int’rest, 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 show’rs, 
 Not as if rais’d by mere mechanic pow’rs. 
 
 The Christian, in whose soul, though now distress’ 
 Lives the dear thought of joys he once possess’d, 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 1G0 
 
 When all his glowing language issu’d 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 on Earth, 
 Partakers of a new ethereal birth, 
 
 Their hopes, desires, and purposes estrang’d 
 From things terrestrial, and divinely chang’d, 
 
 : Their very language of a kind, that speaks 
 The soul’s sure int’rest in the good she seeks, 
 Who deal with Scripture, its importance felt, 
 AsTully with philosophy once dealt, 
 
 And in the silent watches of the night, 
 
 And through the scenes of toil-renewing light, 
 The social w r alk, 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 ; 
 
170 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 But veneration or respect finds none, 
 
 Save from the subjects of that work alone. 
 
 The World grown old, her deep discernment show 
 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 constrain!, 
 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 flow’rs of Eden felt the blast, 
 
 That after man’s defection laid all waste, 
 
 Sincerity tow’rds the heart-searching God 
 Has made the new-born creature her abode, 
 
 Nor shall be found in unregen’rate souls, 
 
 Till the last fire burn all between the poles. 
 Sincerity ! Why ’tis his only pride, 
 
 Weak and imperfect in all grace beside, 
 
 He knows that God demands his heart entire. 
 
 And gives him all his just demands require. 
 Without it his pretensions were as vain, 
 
 As having it he deems the World’s disdain ; 
 
 That great defect would cost him not alone 
 Man’s favourable judgment, but his own : 
 
 His birthright shaken, and no longer clear, 
 
 Than while his conduct proves his heart sincere. 
 Betort the charge, and let the World be told 
 She boasts a confidence she does not hold ; 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 J71 
 
 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; 
 
 lhat sick she trembles, knowing she must die, 
 
 Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie ; 
 
 1 hat 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; 
 lhat 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 canvass, painted flame. 
 
 Tell her again, the sneer upon her face. 
 
 And all liei censures of the work of grace, 
 
 Are insincere, meant only to conceal 
 A dread she would not, yet is forc’d to feel ; 
 
 1 hat in her heart the C hristian 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 tli’ example of our sires digress, 
 
 And claim a right to scamper and run wide, 
 Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide. 
 
 The World and I fortuitously met, 
 
 I ow’d a trifle, and have paid the debt ; 
 
 She did me wrong, I recompens’d the deed, 
 
 And, having struck the balance, now proceed. 
 
172 
 
 conversation. 
 
 Perhaps however as some years have pass’d, 
 
 Since she and I convers'd together last, 
 
 And I have liv’d recluse in rural shades, 
 
 Which seldom a distinct report pervades, 
 
 Great changes and new manners have occurr’d. 
 And blest reforms, that I have never heard, 
 
 And she may now be as discreet and wise, 
 
 As once absurd in all discerning eyes. 
 
 Sobriety perhaps may now be found, 
 
 Where once Intoxication press’d the ground ; 
 
 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 list ; 
 
 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, 
 Flow credibly, ’tis hard for me to state) 
 
 That fables old, that see'm’d for ever mute, 
 Reviv’d are hast’ning into fresh repute. 
 
 And gods and goddesses discarded long 
 Like useless lumber, or a stroller’s 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 : 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 1 ? 
 
 That having prov’d 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 palaestra 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 stand 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 ; 
 
m 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 As mendicants, whose business is to roam. 
 
 Make ev’ry parish but their own their home. 
 Though such continual zigzags in a book, 
 
 Such drunken reelings have an awkward look. 
 
 And I had rather creep to what is true, 
 
 Than rove and stagger with no mark in view; 
 i et to consult a little, seem’d no crime, 
 lhe freakish humour of the present time: 
 
 Eut now to gather up what seems dispers’d, 
 
 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 ev’ry social scene, 
 
 And give good company a face severe. 
 
 As if they met around a father’s bier; 
 
 For tell some men, that pleasure all their bent, 
 
 And laughter all their work, is life mispent, 
 
 Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply, 
 
 I hen mil tli is sin, and we should always cry. 
 
 To find the medium asks some share of wit, 
 
 And therefore ’lis 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 op’ning shades, 
 And, while it shows the land the soul desires, 
 
 1 he language ol the land she seeks inspires. 
 
 Ihus touch’d, the tongue receives a sacred cure 
 Of all that was absurd, profane, impure; 
 
CONVERSATION. 
 
 175 
 
 Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech 
 Pursues the course, that Truth and Nature teach; 
 
 No longer labours merely to produce 
 The pomp of sound, or tinkle without use : 
 
 Where’er it winds, the salutary stream, 
 
 Sprightly and fresh, enriches ev’ry theme, 
 
 While all the happy man possess’d before, 
 
 The gift of nature, or the classic store, 
 
 Is made subservient to the grand design, 
 
 For which Heav’n form’d the faculty divine. 
 
 So should an 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 seem’d as it complain’d 
 Of the rude injuries it late sustain’d, 
 
 Till tun’d at length to some immortal song, 
 
 It sounds Jehovah’s name, and pours his praise along. 
 

 
 . 
 
 ' • 
 
 - 
 
 , ' 
 
1 .or. with ill-fashion'd hook, 
 
 To draw th' incauxiotLs minnow from the hrook, 
 Are life's prime pleasures in his simple ^iew, 
 
 DRAWN BY RICHARD WES TALL R A. ENGRAVED BY WILLIAM FIN DEN; 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY ; 
 
 OCT. 1.1817. 
 
RETIREMENT, 
 
 studiis fiorcns ignobilis ol5. 
 
 Virg. Georg. Lib. t. 
 
 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 give o’er, 
 
 And add a smile to what was sweet before, 
 
 He may possess the joys he thinks ho 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 Heav’n’s high purposes, and not his own, 
 
 I 3 
 
178 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 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 wo, 
 
 Traces of Eden are still seen below, 
 
 Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove, 
 Remind him of his Maker’s pow’r<and love. 
 
 ’Tis w r ell 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 despis’d their heav’nly birth, 
 Their wishes all impregnated with Earth, 
 
 For threescore years employ’d with ceaseless care, 
 In catching smoke and feeding upon air, 
 Conversant only w ith the ways of men, 
 
 Rarely redeem the short remaining ten. 
 
 Invet’rate habits choke th ; unfruitful heart, 
 
 Their fibres penetrate its tend’rest part, 
 
 And, draining its nutricious pow’rs to feed 
 Their noxious growth, starve ev’ry better seed. 
 
 Happy, if full of days — but happier far, 
 
 If, ere we yet discern life’s ev’ning star, 
 
 Sick of the service of a world, that feeds 
 Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds, 
 
retirement. 
 
 179 
 
 We can escape from Custom’s idiot sway, 
 
 To serve the Sov’reign 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 pow’r divine, 
 Contrivance intricate, express'd with ease, 
 
 Where unassisted sight no beauty sees, 
 
 The shapely limb and lubricated joint. 
 
 Within the small dimensions of a point, 
 
 Muscle and nerve miraculously spun, 
 
 His mighty work, who speaks and it is done, 
 
 Th’ invisible in things scarce seen reveal’d, 
 
 To whom an atom is an ample field ; 
 
 To wonder at a thousand insect forms, 
 
 These hatch'd, and those resuscitated worms, 
 
 New life ordain’d and brighter scenes to share, 
 
 Once prone on earth, now buoyant upon air, 
 
 Whose shape would make them, had they bulk and 
 More hideous foes than fancy can devise; [size, 
 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 ev’ry land : 
 
 This like a deluge with impetuous force, 
 
 Those winding modestly a silent course ; 
 
180 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 * 
 
 The cloud surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales ; 
 Seas, on which ev’ry nation spreads her sails ; 
 
 The sun, a world whence other worlds drink light, 
 The crescent moon, the diadem of night: 
 
 Stars countless, each in his appointed place, 
 
 Fast anchor’d in the deep abyss of space — 
 
 At such a sight to catch the poet’s flame. 
 
 And with a rapture like his own exclaim, 
 
 These are thy glorious works, thou Source of good, 
 How dimly seen, how faintly understood ! 
 
 Thine, and upheld by thy paternal care, 
 
 This universal frame, thus wondrous fair; 
 
 Thy pow’r divine, and bounty beyond thought 
 Ador’d and prais’d in all that thou hast wrought. 
 Absorb’d in that immensity I see, 
 
 I shrink abas’d, and yet aspire to thee ; 
 
 Instruct me, guide me to that heav’nly day 
 Thy words, more clearly than thy works, display, 
 That, while thy truths my grosser thoughts refine, 
 I may resemble thee and call thee mine. 
 
 O blest proficiency ! surpassing all 
 That men erroneously their glory call, 
 
 The recompense that arts or arms can yield, 
 
 The bar, the senate, or the tented field. 
 
 Compar’d with this sublimest life below, 
 
 Ye kings and rulers, what have courts to show? 
 Thus studied, used and consecrated thus, 
 
 On Earth what is, seems form’d indeed for us ; 
 
 Not as the plaything of a froward child, 
 
 Fretful unless diverted and beguil’d, 
 
RETIREMENT. 
 
 Much less to feed and fan the fatal fires 
 1 Of pride, ambition, or impure desires, 
 
 But as a scale, by which the soul ascends 
 From mighty means to more important ends, 
 Securely, though by steps but rarely trod, 
 Mounts from inferior beings up to God, 
 
 And sees, by no fallacious light or dim, 
 
 Earth made for man, and man himself for him. 
 
 Not that I mean t’ approve, or would 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 pow’rs, 
 And in a world where, other ills apart, 
 
 The roving eye misleads the careless heart, 
 
 To limit Thought, by nature prone to stray 
 Wherever freakish Fancy points the way ; 
 
 To bid the pleadings of Self-love be still. 
 
 Resign our own and seek our Maker’s will; 
 
 To spread the page of Scripture, and compare 
 Our conduct with the laws engraven there ; 
 
 To measure all that passes in the breast, 
 Faithfully, fairly, by that sacred test ; 
 
 To dive into the secret deeps within, 
 
 To spare no passion and no fav’rite sin, 
 
 And search the themes, important above all, 
 Ourselves and our recov’ry from our fall. 
 
182 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 But leisure, silence, and a mind releas’d 
 
 From anxious thoughts how wealth may be increas’d. 
 
 How to secure, in some propitious hour, 
 
 The point ofint’rest, or the post of pow’r, 
 
 A soul serene, and equally retir’d 
 From objects too much dreaded or desir’d, 
 
 Safe from the clamours of perverse dispute, 
 
 At least are friendly to the great pursuit. 
 
 Op’ning the map of God’s extensive plan. 
 
 We find a little isle, this life of man; 
 
 Eternity’s unknown expanse appears 
 Circling around and limiting his years. 
 
 The busy race examine and explore 
 
 Each creek and cavern of the dang'rous shore, 
 
 With care collect, what in their eyes 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 ev’ry 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 Heav'n, and gain a real prize, 
 
 Truth, wisdom, grace, and peace like that above, 
 Seal’d with his signet, whom they serve and love ; 
 Scorn’d by the rest, with patient hope they wait 
 A kind release from their imperfect state, 
 
 And unregretted are soon snatch’d away 
 From scenes of sorrow into glorious day. 
 
RETIREMENT. 
 
 183 
 
 Now these alone prefer a life recluse, 
 
 Who seek retirement for its proper use ; 
 
 The love of change, that lives in ev’ry breast, 
 Genius, and temper, and desire of rest, 
 
 Discordant motives in one centre meet, 
 
 And each inclines its vot’ry to retreat. 
 
 Some minds by nature are averse to noise. 
 
 And hate the tumult half the world enjoys, 
 
 The lure of av’rice, or the pompous prize, 
 
 That courts display before ambitious eyes ; 
 
 The fruits, that hang on Pleasure’s flow’ry stem, 
 Whate’er enchants them, are no snares to them. 
 
 To them the deep recess of dusky groves, 
 
 Or forest, where the deer securely roves. 
 
 The fall of waters, and the song of birds, 
 
 And hills, that echo to the distant herds, 
 
 Are luxuries excelling all the glare 
 
 The World can boast, and her chief fav’rites share. 
 
 With eager step, and carelessly array’d. 
 
 For such a cause the poet seeks the shade, 
 
 From all he sees he catches new delight, 
 
 Pleas’d Fancy claps her pinions at the sight, 
 
 The rising or the setting orb of day, 
 
 The clouds that flit, or slowly float away, 
 
 Nature in all the various shapes she w r ears, 
 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. 
 
184 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 O Nature! whose Elysian scenes disclose 
 His bright perfections, at whose word they rose r 
 Next to that pow’r, who form’d thee and sustains, 
 Be thou the great inspirer of my strains. 
 
 Still, as I touch the lyre, do thou expand 
 Thy genuine charms, and guide an artless hand, 
 That I may catch a tire but rarely known, 
 
 Give useful light, though I should miss renown, 
 And, poring on thy page, whose ev’ry line 
 Bears proof of an intelligence divine, 
 
 May feel a heart enrich’d by w hat it pays, 
 
 That builds its glory on its Maker’s praise. 
 
 Wo to the man, whose wit disclaims its use, 
 Glitt’ring in vain, or only to seduce, 
 
 Who studies nature with a wanton eye, 
 
 Admires the work, but slips the lesson by; 
 
 His hours of leisure and recess employs 
 In drawing pictures of forbidden joys, 
 
 Retires to blazon his own worthless name. 
 
 Or shoot the careless with a surer aim. 
 
 The lover too shuns business and alarms, 
 Tender idolater of absent charms. 
 
 Saints offer nothing in their warmest pray’rs, 
 
 That he devotes not with a zeal like theirs ; 
 
 ’Tis consecration of his heart, soul, time, 
 
 And cv’ry 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. 
 
RETIREMENT. 
 
 185 
 
 Vs woodbine weds the plant within her reach, 
 Hough 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, 
 Strait’ning its growth by such a strict embrace ; 
 
 So Love, that clings around the noblest minds. 
 Forbids th" advancement of the soul he binds; 
 
 The suitor's air indeed he soon improves, 
 
 And forms it to the taste of her he loves, 
 
 Teaches his eyes a language, and no less 
 Refines his speech, and fashions his address ; 
 
 But farewell promises of happier fruits, 
 
 Manly designs, and learning's grave pursuits; 
 
 Girt with a chain he cannot wish to break, 
 
 His only bliss is sorrow for her sake ; 
 
 Who will may pant for glory and 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 w ild, 
 
 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, 
 
180 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 Sweet birds in concei t with harmonious streams, 
 Soft airs, nocturnal vigils, and day dreams, 
 
 Are all enchantments in a case like thine, 
 Conspire against thy peace with one design, 
 Sooth thee to make thee but a surer prey, 
 
 And feed the fire, that wastes thy pow’rs away. 
 Up — God has form’d 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 w ould bestow 
 When he design’d a Paradise below, 
 
 The richest earthly boon his hands afford, 
 Deserves to be belov’d, but not ador’d. 
 
 Post away swiftly to more, active scenes, 
 
 Collect the scatter’d truths that study gleans, 
 Mix with 1 lie world, 'out 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 where he comes — in this embow’r’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. 
 
RETIREMENT. 
 
 107 
 
 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. 
 Renounc’d 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 pass’d away. 
 
 This is a sight for Pity to peruse, 
 
 Till she resemble faintly what she views, 
 
 Till Sympathy contract a kindred pain. 
 
 Pierc’d 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 lor 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 sov’reign nostrum is a clumsy joke 
 On pangs enforc’d with God s severest stroke. 
 But with a soul, that ever felt the sting 
 Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing : 
 
 Not to molest, or irritate, or raise 
 A laugh at his expense, is slender praise; 
 
183 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 He, that has not usurp’d the name of man. 
 
 Does all, and deems too little all, he can, 
 
 T’ assuage the throbbings of the fester’d part, 
 
 And stanch the bleedings of a broken heart. 
 
 ’Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, 
 
 Forg’ry of fancy, and a dream of woes ; 
 
 Man is a harp, whose chords elude the sight, 
 
 Each yielding harmony dispos’d aright ; 
 
 The screws revers’d (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 pow’r and use. 
 Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair 
 As ever recompens’d the peasant’s care, 
 
 Nor soft declivities with tufted lulls, 
 
 Nor view of waters turning busy mills, 
 
 Parks in which Art preceptress Nature weds, 
 
 Nor gardens interspers’d with flow’ry beds, 
 
 Nor gales, that catch the scent of blooming groves, 
 And waft it to the mourner as he roves. 
 
 Can call up life into his faded eye, 
 
 That passes all he sees unheeded by : 
 
 No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels, 
 
 No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals 
 And thou, sad suff’rer under nameless ill, 
 
 That yields not to the touch of human skill, 
 Improve the kind occasion, understand 
 A Father’s frown, and kiss his chast’ning hand t 
 To thee the daystring and the blaze of noon, 
 
 The purple ev’ning and resplendent moon, 
 
RETIREMENT. , 
 
 189 
 
 The stars, that, sprinkled o’er the vault of uiglit, 
 Seem drops descending in a sliowT of light, 
 
 Shine not, or undesir’d and haled shine, 
 
 Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine: 
 
 Y et seek him, in his favour life is found, 
 
 All bliss beside a shadow or a sound : 
 
 Then Heav’n, eclips’d so long, and this dull Earth, 
 Shall seem to start into a second birth ! 
 
 Nature, assuming a more lovely face, 
 
 Borr’wing a beauty from the works of grace, 
 
 Shall be despis'd 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 (tire statesman at his desk exclaims, 
 Sick of a thousand disappointed aims,) 
 
 My patrimonial treasure and my pride. 
 
 Beneath your shades your gray possessor hide, 
 Receive me languishing for that repose 
 The servant of the public never knows. 
 
 Ye saw me once (all 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 mus’d along ; 
 
 Nor seldom, as propitious Heav'n might send, 
 What once I valu’d and could boast, a friend, 
 
190 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 Were witnesses how cordially I press’d 
 His undissembling virtue to my breast ; 
 
 Receive me now not uncorrupt as then, 
 
 Nor guiltless of corrupting other men, 
 
 But vers’d in arts, that, while they seem to stay 
 A falling empire, hasten its decay, 
 
 To the fair haven of my native home, 
 
 The wreck of what I was, fatigued I come, 
 
 For once I can approve the patriot's voice, 
 
 And make the course he recommends my choice 
 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 glitt’ring drops from ev’ry thorn, 
 Unfolds his flock, then under bank or bush 
 Sits linking cherry stones, or platting rush, 
 
 How fair is Freedom ? — he was always free : 
 
 To carve his rustic name upon a tree, 
 
 To snare the mole, or with iil-fashion’d hook 
 To draw th’ incautious minnow from the brook, 
 Are life's prime pleasures in his simple view, 
 
 His flock the chief concern he ever knew ; 
 
 She shines but little in his heedless eyes, 
 
 The good we never miss we rarely prize : 
 
 But ask the noble druge in state affairs, 
 
 Escap’d from office and its constant cares, 
 
RETIREMENT. 
 
 191 
 
 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. 
 Rever’d at home, and felt in foreign lands, 
 
 Shall own itself a stamm’rer in that cause, 
 
 Or plead its silence as its best applause. 
 
 He knows indeed, that, whether dress’d or rude, 
 Wild without art, or artfully subdu’d, 
 
 Nature in ev'ry form inspires delight, 
 
 But never mark’d her w ith 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 th’ inquiring eye, 
 
 That melt and fade into the distant sky, 
 
 Beauties he lately slighted as he pass’d, 
 
 Seem all created since he Ira veil’d last. 
 
 Master of all th’ enjoyments he design’d, 
 
 No rough annoyance rankling in his mind, 
 
 What early philosophic hours he keeps. 
 
 Flow 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 ev’ning 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; 
 
192 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 Nor yet the parson’s, who would gladly come, 
 Obsequious when abroad, though proud at home; 
 Nor can he much affect the neighboring 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 w ithdraws, 
 Speaks with reserve, and listens with applause; 
 Some plain mechanic, w ho, without pretence 
 To birth or wit, nor gives nor takes offence ; 
 
 On whom he rests well-pleas’d his weary pow’rs, 
 And talks and laughs aw r ay 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 the more for being new. 
 
 This observation, as it chanc’d, not made, 
 
 Or if the thought occurr’d, not duly weigh’d, 
 
 He sighs— for after all by slow degrees 
 The spot he lov’d has lost the pow ’r to please ; 
 
 To cross his ambling pony day by day, 
 
 Seems at the best but dreaming life away ; 
 
RETIREMENT. 
 
 1U3 
 
 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 renounc’d employs. 
 
 He chides the tardiness of ev’ry post, 
 
 Pants to be told of battles won or lost, 
 
 Blames his own indolence, observes, though late, 
 'Tis criminal to leave a sinking state, 
 
 Flies to the levee, and, receiv'd with grace, 
 
 Kneels, kisses hands, and shines again in place. 
 
 Suburban villas, highway-side retreats, 
 
 That dread th’ encroachment of oui 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 show’r approach, 
 
 You find safe shelter in the next stage coach. 
 There, prison’d in a parlour snug and small, 
 
 Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall, 
 
 The man of business and his friends compress d 
 Forget their labours, and yet find no rest ; 
 
 But still ’tis rural— trees are to be seen 
 From ev’ry window, and the fields are green ; 
 
 K 
 
194 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 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 pow’rs, 
 
 As he, that slumbers in pavilions grac’d 
 With all the charms of an accomplish’d taste. 
 
 Yet hence, alas ! insolvencies; and hence 
 Th’ unpitied victim of ill judg’d expense, 
 
 From all his wearisome engagements freed, 
 Shakes hands with business, and retires indeed. 
 Your prudent grand-mammas, ye modern belles, 
 Content with Bristol, Bath, and Tunbridge Wells, 
 When health requir’d it would consent to roam, 
 Else more attach’d to pleasures found at home. 
 But now alike, gay widow, virgin, wife, 
 
 Ingenious to diversify dull life, 
 
 In coaches, chaises, caravans, and hoys, 
 
 Fly to the coast for daily, nightly joys, 
 
 And all, impatient of dry land, agree 
 With one consent to rush into the sea. — 
 
 Ocean exhibits, fathomless and broad, 
 
 Much of the pow’r and majesty of God. 
 
 He swathes about the swelling of the deep, 
 
 That shines and rests, as infants smile and sleep ; 
 
RETIREMENT. 
 
 195 
 
 Vast as it is, it answers as it flows 
 The breathings of the lightest air that blows ; 
 Curling and whitening over all the waste, 
 
 I The rising weaves obey th’ increasing blast, 
 
 Abrupt and horrid as the tempest roars, 
 
 Thunder and flash upon the stedfast shores, 
 
 Till he, that rides the whirlwind, checks the rein, 
 
 | Then all the world of waters sleep again. — 
 
 Nereids or Dryads, as the fashion leads, 
 
 Now in the floods, now panting in the meads, 
 Vot’ries of Pleasure still, where’er she dwells, 
 
 Near barren rocks, in palaces, or cells, 
 
 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 th’ impertinence of tongue, 
 
 That, while it courts, affronts and does you wrong, 
 Mark well the finish’d plan without a fault, 
 
 The seas globose and huge, th’ o’crarching vault, 
 Earth’s millions daily fed, a world employ’d 
 In gath’ring plenty yet to be enjoy’d, 
 
 Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise 
 Of God, beneficent in all his ways : 
 
 Grac’d with such wisdom, how would beauty shine ! 
 Ye want but that to seem indeed divine. 
 
190 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 Anticipated rents, and bills unpaid, 
 
 Force many a shining youth into the shade,, 
 
 Not to redeem his time, but his estate, 
 
 And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate. 
 
 There, hid in loath'd obscurity, remov’d 
 From pleasures left, but never more belov’d, 
 
 Fie 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 arid 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 
 Fie 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 
 1 pity, and must therefore sink the name. 
 
 Liv’d in his saddle, lov’d 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 distanc’d, match’d against a peer’s. 
 Jack vanish’d, was regretted and forgot: 
 
 ’Tis wild good-nature’s never failing lot. 
 
 At lcugth, when all had long suppos’d him dead, 
 
 By cold submersion, razor, rope, or lead. 
 
 My lord, alighting at his usual place, 
 
 The Crown, took notice of an ostler’s face. 
 
 Jack knew his friend, but hop'd in that disguise 
 He might escape the most observing eyes, 
 
RETIREMENT. 
 
 197 
 
 And whistling, as if unconcern’d and gay, 
 
 Curried his nag, and look’d another way. 
 
 Convinc’d at last, upon a nearer view, 
 
 ’Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew, 
 O’erwhelm’d at once with wonder, grief, and joy, 
 
 He press’d him much to quit his base employ ; 
 
 His countenance, his purse, his heart, his hand, 
 Influence and pow’r, were all at his command: 
 
 Peers are not always gen’rous as well-bred, 
 
 But Granby was, meant truly what he said. 
 
 Jack bow’d, and was oblig’d — confess’d ’twas strange, 
 That so retir’d he should not wish a change, 
 
 But knew no medium between guzzling beer, 
 
 And his old stint — three thousand pounds a year. 
 
 Thus some retire to nourish hopeless wo ; 
 
 Some seeking happiness not found below ; 
 
 Some to comply with humour, and a mind 
 To social scenes by nature disinclin’d; 
 
 Some sway’d by fashion, some by deep disgust ; 
 Some self-impov’rish’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 pow’rs proportion’d to the post: 
 
 Give ev’n a dunce th’ employment he desires, 
 
 And he soon finds the talents it requires; 
 
 A business with an income at its heels 
 Furnishes always oil for its own wheels. 
 
 But in his arduous enterprise to close 
 His active years with indolent repose, 
 
 K 2 
 
198 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 He finds the labours of that state exceed 
 His utmost faculties, severe indeed. 
 
 ’Tis easy to resign a toilsome place, 
 
 But not to manage leisure with a grace ; 
 
 Absence of occupation is not rest, 
 
 A mind quite vacant is a mind distress’d. 
 
 The vet’ran steed, excus’d bis task at length, 
 
 In kind compassion of his failing strength, 
 
 And turn’d into the park or mead to graze, 
 Exempt from future sendee 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 had bestow’d, 
 
 He proves less happy than bis 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 ilirnsy 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. 
 
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 199 
 
 Is duty a mere sport, or an employ ? 
 
 Life an intrusted talent, or a toy ? 
 
 Is there, as reason, eonseience, Scripture, say, 
 Cause to provide for a great future day, 
 
 When, Earth’s assign’d duration at an end, 
 Man shall be summon’d and the dead attend? 
 The trumpet— will it sound ? the curtain rise ? 
 And show th’ august tribunal of the skies, 
 Where no prevarication shall avail, 
 
 Where eloquence and artifice shall fail, 
 
 The pride of arrogant distinctions fall, 
 
 And conscience and our conduct judge us all? 
 Pardon me, ye that give the midnight oil 
 To learned cares of 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 discov’ries ye have made ; 
 Yet let me stand excus’d, 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 advent’rous wings, 
 Settling at last upon eternal things, 
 
 Ear more intelligent, and better taught 
 The strenuous use of profitable thought, 
 
 Than ye, when happiest, and enlighten’d most, 
 And highest in renown, can justly boast. 
 
 A mind unnerv’d, or indispos’d to bear 
 The weight of subjects worthiest of her care, 
 
200 
 
 RETIREMENT, 
 
 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 w hen 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, th’ associate of Good Sense, 
 And such as, in the zeal of good design, 
 
 Strong Judgment lab’ring in the Scripture mine, 
 All such as manly and great souls produce, 
 Worthy to live, and of eternal use : 
 
 Behold in these w hat leisure hours demand, 
 Amusement and true knowledge hand in hand. 
 Luxury gives the mind a childish cast. 
 
 And, while she polishes, perverts the taste ; 
 
 Habits of close attention, thinking heads, 
 
 Become more rare as dissipation spreads, 
 
 Till authors hear at length one gen ial cry, 
 
 Tickle and entertain us, or we die. 
 
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 20 L 
 
 The loud demand, from year to year the same, 
 Beggars Invention, and makes Fancy lame; 
 
 Till farce itself, most mournfully jejune, 
 
 Calls for the kind assistance of a tune; 
 
 And novels (witness ev’ry month’s review) 
 
 Belie their name, and offer nothing new. 
 
 The mind, relaxing into needful sport, 
 
 Should turn to writers of an abler sort, 
 
 Whose wit well manag’d, 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 gen’rous breast 
 Will stand advanc'd a step above the rest: 
 
 Flow’rs by that name promiscuously we call, 
 
 But one, the rose, the regent of them all) — 
 
 Friends, not adopted with a schoolboy’s haste, 
 
 But chosen with a nice discerning taste, 
 
 Well-born, vvell-disciplin'd, who, plac’d apart 
 From vulgar minds, have honour much at heart, 
 And, though the world may think th’ 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. 
 
202 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 I praise the Frenchman,* his remark was shrewd — 
 How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitudei 
 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 aw ay ; 
 
 Divine communion, carefully enjoy’d, 
 
 Or sought with energy, must fill the void. 
 
 O sacred art, to which alone life owes 
 Its happiest seasons, and a peaceful close, 
 
 Scorn’d in a world, indebted to that scorn 
 For evils daily felt and hardly borne, 
 
 Not knowing thee, we reap with bleeding hands 
 Flow’rs of rank 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 wine upon the fret, 
 
 Which idleness and weariness beget ; 
 
 These, and a thousand plagues, that haunt the breast, 
 Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest, 
 
 Divine communion chases, as the day 
 Drives to their dens th’ obedient beasts of prey. 
 
 * Bruyere. 
 
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 203 
 
 See Judah’s promis’d king', bereft of all, 
 
 Driv’n out an exile from the face of Saul, 
 
 To distant caves the lonely wand’rer flies, 
 
 To seek that peace a tyrant’s frown denies. 
 
 Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice, 
 Hear him, o’erwhelm’d with sorrow, yet rejoice ; 
 No womanish or wailing grief has part, 
 
 No, not for a moment, in his royal heart; 
 
 ’Tis manly music, such as martyrs make, 
 Sulf’ring with gladness for a Saviour’s sake; 
 
 His soul exults, hope animates his lays, 
 
 The sense of mercy kindles into praise, 
 
 And wilds, familiar with 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 pursu’d ; 
 
 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 pow’r, 
 That shuts within its seed the future flow’r, 
 
 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 ; 
 
204 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 To teach the canvass innocent deceit, 
 
 Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet — 
 These, these are arts pursued without a crime 
 That leave no staiu upon the wing of tunc. 
 
 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. 
 
 FINIS- 
 
 (’, Whittingham, Printer, Chiswick* 
 

 
 
 
 
 
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