From LOVE OF FAME
Such blessings Nature pours,O'erstocked mankind enjoy but half her stores:In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen,She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green:Pure, gurgling rills the lonely desert trace,And waste their music on the savage race.Is Nature then a niggard of her bliss?Repine we guiltless in a world like this?But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse,And painted art's depraved allurements choose.Such Fulvia's passion for the town; fresh air(An odd effect!) gives vapours to the fair;Green fields, and shady groves, and crystal springs,And larks, and nightingales, are odious things;But smoke, and dust, and noise, and crowds, delight;And to be pressed to death, transports her quite:Where silver rivulets play through flowery meads,And woodbines give their sweets, and limes their shades,Black kennels' absent odours she regrets,And stops her nose at beds of violets.
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Few to good-breeding make a just pretense;Good-breeding is the blossom of good-sense;The last result of an accomplished mind,With outward grace, the body's virtue, joined.A violated decency now reigns;And nymphs for failings take peculiar pains.With Chinese painters modern toasts agree,The point they aim at is deformity:They throw their persons with a hoyden airAcross the room, and toss into the chair.So far their commerce with mankind is gone,They, for our manners, have exchanged their own.
The modest look, the castigated grace,The gentle movement, and slow-measured pace,For which her lovers died, her parents prayed,Are indecorums with the modern maid.
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What swarms of amorous grandmothers I see!And misses, ancient in iniquity!What blasting whispers, and what loud declaiming!What lying, drinking, bawding, swearing, gaming!Friendship so cold, such warm incontinence;Such griping avarice, such profuse expense;Such dead devotion, such a zeal for crimes;Such licensed ill, such masquerading times;Such venal faith, such misapplied applause;Such flattered guilt, and such inverted laws!
Such dissolution through the whole I find,'Tis not a world, but chaos of mankind.Since Sundays have no balls, the well-dressed belleShines in the pew, but smiles to hear of Hell;And casts an eye of sweet disdain on allWho listen less to Collins than St. Paul.Atheists have been but rare; since Nature's birthTill now, she-atheists ne'er appeared on earth.Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springsThis daring character, in timorous things?Who start at feathers, from an insect fly,A match for nothing—but the Deity.But, not to wrong the fair, the Muse must ownIn this pursuit they court not fame alone;But join to that a more substantial view,'From thinking free, to be free agents, too.'
They strive with their own hearts, and keep them down,In complaisance to all the fools in town.O how they tremble at the name of prude!And die with shame at thought of being good!For, what will Artimis, the rich and gay,What will the wits, that is, the coxcombs, say?They Heaven defy, to earth's vile dregs a slave;Through cowardice, most execrably brave.With our own judgments durst we to comply,In virtue should we live, in glory die.
Rise then, my Muse, In honest fury rise;They dread a satire who defy the skies.
Atheists are few: most nymphs a Godhead own;And nothing but his attributes dethrone.From atheists far, they steadfastly believeGod is, and is almighty—to forgive,His other excellence they'll not dispute;But mercy, sure, is his chief attribute.Shall pleasures of a short duration chainA lady's soul in everlasting pain?Will the great Author us poor worms destroy,For now and then a sip of transient joy?No; he's forever in a smiling mood;He's like themselves; or how could he be good?And they blaspheme, who blacker schemes suppose.Devoutly, thus, Jehovah they depose,The pure! the just! and set up, in his stead,A deity that's perfectly well bred.
'Dear Tillotson! be sure the best of men;Nor thought he more than thought great Origen.Though once upon a time he misbehaved,Poor Satan! doubtless, he'll at length be saved.Let priests do something for their one in ten;It is their trade; so far they're honest men.Let them cant on, since they have got the knack,And dress their notions, like themselves, in black;Fright us, with terrors of a world unknown,From joys of this, to keep them all their own.Of earth's fair fruits, indeed, they claim a fee;But then they leave our untithed virtue free.Virtue's a pretty thing to make a show:Did ever mortal write like Rochefoucauld?Thus pleads the Devil's fair apologist,And, pleading, safely enters on his list.
How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,How complicate, how wonderful is man!How passing wonder He who made him such,Who centred in our make such strange extremes!From different natures marvellously mixed,Connection exquisite of distant worlds!Distinguished link in being's endless chain!Midway from nothing to the Deity!A beam ethereal, sullied and absorbed!Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine!Dim miniature of greatness absolute!An heir of glory! A frail child of dust!Helpless immortal! insect infinite!A worm! A god!—I tremble at myself,And in myself am lost. At home a stranger,Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghastAnd wondering at her own. How reason reels!O what a miracle to man is man,Triumphantly distressed; what joy! what dread!Alternately transported and alarmed!What can preserve my life? or what destroy?An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave;Legions of angels can't confine me there.
Live ever here, Lorenzo? Shocking thought!So shocking, they who wish disown it, too;Disown from shame what they from folly crave.Live ever in the womb nor see the light?For what live ever here? With labouring stepTo tread our former footsteps? pace the roundEternal? to climb life's worn, heavy wheel,Which draws up nothing new? to beat, and beatThe beaten track? to bid each wretched dayThe former mock? to surfeit on the same,And yawn our joys? or thank a miseryFor change, though sad? to see what we have seen;Hear, till unheard, the same old slabbered tale?To taste the tasted, and at each returnLess tasteful? o'er our palates to decantAnother vintage? strain a flatter year,Through loaded vessels and a laxer tone?Crazy machines, to grind earth's wasted fruits!
Thou most indulgent, most tremendous Power!Still more tremendous for thy wondrous love!That arms, with awe more awful, thy commands;And foul transgression dips in sevenfold guilt!How our hearts tremble at thy love immense!In love immense, inviolably just!Thou, rather than thy justice should be stained,Didst stain the cross; and, work of wonders farThe greatest, that thy dearest far might bleed.
Bold thought! shall I dare speak it, or repress?Should man more execrate, or boast, the guiltWhich roused such vengeance? which such love inflamed?Our guilt (how mountainous!) with outstretched arms,Stern justice and soft-smiling love embrace,Supporting, in full majesty, thy throne,When seemed its majesty to need support,Or that, or man, inevitably lost;What, but the fathomless of thought divine,Could labour such expedient from despair,And rescue both? both rescue! both exalt!O how are both exalted by the deed!The wondrous deed! or shall I call it moreA wonder in Omnipotence itself!A mystery no less to gods than men!
Not thus our infidels th' Eternal draw,—A God all o'er, consummate, absolute,Full-orbed, in his whole round of rays complete.They set at odds Heaven's jarring attributes,And, with one excellence, another wound;Maim Heaven's perfection, break its equal beams,Bid mercy triumph over—God himself,Undeified by their opprobrious praise;A God all mercy, is a God unjust.
In man, the more we dive, the more we seeHeaven's signet stamping an immortal make.Dive to the bottom of the soul, the baseSustaining all, what find we? Knowledge, love.As light and heat essential to the sun,These to the soul. And why, if souls expire?How little lovely here! How little known!Small knowledge we dig up with endless toil;And love unfeigned may purchase perfect hate.Why starved on earth our angel appetites,While brutal are indulged their fulsome fill?Were then capacities divine conferredAs a mock diadem, in savage sport,Rank insult of our pompous poverty,Which reaps but pain from seeming claims so fair?In future age lies no redress? And shutsEternity the door on our complaint?If so, for what strange ends were mortals made!The worst to wallow, and the best to weep;The man who merits most, must most complain:Can we conceive a disregard in HeavenWhat the worst perpetrate or best endure?
This cannot be. To love, and know, in manIs boundless appetite, and boundless power:And these demonstrate boundless objects, too.Objects, powers, appetites, Heaven suits in all;Nor, nature through, e'er violates this sweetEternal concord, on her tuneful string.Is man the sole exception from her laws?Eternity struck off from human hope,(I speak with truth, but veneration too)Man is a monster, the reproach of Heaven,A stain, a dark impenetrable cloudOn Nature's beauteous aspect; and deforms(Amazing blot!) deforms her with her lordIf such is man's allotment, what is Heaven?Or own the soul immortal, or blaspheme.
Or own the soul immortal, or invertAll order. Go, mock-majesty! go, man!And bow to thy superiors of the stall;
Through every scene of sense superior far:They graze the turf untilled; they drink the streamUnbrewed, and ever full, and unembitteredWith doubts, fears, fruitless hopes, regrets, despair.Mankind's peculiar! reason's precious dower!No foreign clime they ransack for their robes,No brother cite to the litigious bar.Their good is good entire, unmixed, unmarred;They find a paradise in every field,On boughs forbidden, where no curses hang:Their ill no more than strikes the sense, unstretchedBy previous dread or murmur in the rear;When the worst comes, it comes unfeared; one strokeBegins and ends their woe: they die but once;Blessed incommunicable privilege! for whichProud man, who rules the globe and reads the stars,Philosopher or hero, sighs in vain.Account for this prerogative in brutes:No day, no glimpse of day, to solve the knotBut what beams on it from eternity.O sole and sweet solution! that untiesThe difficult, and softens the severe;The cloud on Nature's beauteous face dispels,Restores bright order, easts the brute beneath,And re-enthrones us in supremacyOf joy, e'en here. Admit immortal life,And virtue is knight-errantry no more:Each virtue brings in hand a golden dowerFar richer in reversion: Hope exults,And, though much bitter in our cup is thrown,Predominates and gives the taste of Heaven.
Oh, happy he who never saw the faceOf man, nor heard the sound of human voice!But soon as born was carried and exposedIn some vast desert, suckled by the wolfOr shaggy bear, more kind than our fell race;Who with his fellow brutes can range aroundThe echoing forest. His rude artless mindUncultivated as the soil, he joinsThe dreadful harmony of howling wolves,And the fierce lion's roar; while far awayTh' affrighted traveller retires and trembles.Happy the lonely savage! nor deceived,Nor vexed, nor grieved; in every darksome cave,Under each verdant shade, he takes repose.Sweet are his slumbers: of all human artsHappily ignorant, nor taught by wisdomNumberless woes, nor polished into torment.
From AN ESSAY ON VIRTUE
Were once these maxims fixed, that God's our friend,Virtue our good, and happiness our end.How soon must reason o'er the world prevail,And error, fraud, and superstition fail!None would hereafter then with groundless fearDescribe th' Almighty cruel and severe,Predestinating some without pretenceTo Heaven, and some to Hell for no offence;Inflicting endless pains for transient crimes,And favouring sects or nations, men or times.
To please him none would foolishly forbearOr food, or rest, or itch in shirts of hair,Or deem it merit to believe or teachWhat reason contradicts, within its reach;None would fierce zeal for piety mistake,Or malice for whatever tenet's sake,Or think salvation to one sect confined,And Heaven too narrow to contain mankind.
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No servile tenets would admittance findDestructive of the rights of humankind;Of power divine, hereditary right,And non-resistance to a tyrant's might.For sure that all should thus for one be cursed,Is but great nature's edict just reversed.No moralists then, righteous to excess,Would show fair Virtue in so black a dress,That they, like boys, who some feigned sprite array,First from the spectre fly themselves away:No preachers in the terrible delight,But choose to win by reason, not affright;Not, conjurors like, in fire and brimstone dwell,And draw each moving argument from Hell.
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No more applause would on ambition wait,And laying waste the world be counted great,But one good-natured act more praises gain,Than armies overthrown, and thousands slain;No more would brutal rage disturb our peace,But envy, hatred, war, and discord cease;Our own and others' good each hour employ,And all things smile with universal joy;Virtue with Happiness, her consort, joined,Would regulate and bless each human mind,And man be what his Maker first designed.
Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell,With all your feeble light;Farewell, thou ever-changing moon,Pale empress of the night.
And thou refulgent orb of day,In brighter flames arrayed;My soul that springs beyond thy sphere,No more demands thine aid.
Ye stars are but the shining dustOf my divine abode,The pavement of those heavenly courtsWhere I shall reign with God.
The Father of eternal lightShall there His beams display;Nor shall one moment's darkness mixWith that unvaried day.
No more the drops of piercing griefShall swell into mine eyes;Nor the meridian sun declineAmidst those brighter skies.
Here on this verdant spot, where nature kind,With double blessings crowns the farmer's hopes;Where flowers autumnal spring, and the rank meadAffords the wandering hares a rich repast;Throw off thy ready pack. See, where they spreadAnd range around, and dash the glittering dew.If some staunch hound, with his authentic voice,Avow the recent trail, the justling tribeAttend his call, then with one mutual cry,The welcome news confirm, and echoing hillsRepeat the pleasing tale. See how they threadThe brakes, and up yon furrow drive along!But quick they back recoil, and wisely checkTheir eager haste; then o'er the fallowed groundHow leisurely they work, and many a pauseTh' harmonious concert breaks; till more assuredWith joy redoubled the low valleys ring.What artful labyrinths perplex their way!Ah! there she lies; how close! she pants, she doubtsIf now she lives; she trembles as she sits,With horror seized. The withered grass that clingsAround her head of the same russet hueAlmost deceived my sight, had not her eyesWith life full-beaming her vain wiles betrayed.At distance draw thy pack, let all be hushed,No clamour loud, no frantic joy be heard,Lest the wild hound run gadding o'er the plainUntractable, nor hear thy chiding voice.Now gently put her off; see how directTo her known mew she flies! Here, huntsman, bring(But without hurry) all thy jolly hounds,And calmly lay them in. How low they stoop,And seem to plough the ground! then all at onceWith greedy nostrils snuff the fuming steamThat glads their fluttering hearts. As winds let looseFrom the dark caverns of the blustering god,They burst away, and sweep the dewy lawn.Hope gives them wings, while she's spurred on by fear;The welkin rings; men, dogs, hills, racks, and woodsIn the full concert join. Now, my brave youths,Stripped for the chase, give all your souls to joy!See how their coursers, than the mountain roeMore fleet, the verdant carpet skim; thick cloudsSnorting they breathe; their shining hoofs scarce printThe grass unbruised; when emulation fired,They strain, to lead the field, top the barred gate,O'er the deep ditch exulting bound, and brushThe thorny-twining hedge; the riders bendO'er their arched necks; with steady hands, by turnsIndulge their speed, or moderate their rage.Where are their sorrows, disappointments, wrongs,Vexations, sickness, cares? All, all are gone,And with the panting winds lag far behind.
Thus beauty, mimicked in our humbler strains,Illustrious through the world's great poem reigns!The One grows sundry by creative power,Th' eternal's found in each revolving hour;Th' immense appears in every point of space,Th' unchangeable in nature's varying face;Th' invisible conspicuous to our mind,And Deity in every atom shrined.
O Nature, whom the song aspires to scan!O Beauty, trod by proud insulting man,This boasted tyrant of thy wondrous ball,This mighty, haughty, little lord of all;This king o'er reason, but this slave to sense,Of wisdom careless, but of whim immense;Towards thee incurious, ignorant, profane,But of his own, dear, strange productions vain!Then with this champion let the field be fought,And nature's simplest arts 'gainst human wisdom brought.Let elegance and bounty here unite—There kings beneficent and courts polite;Here nature's wealth—there chemist's golden dreams;Her texture here—and there the statesman's schemes;Conspicuous here let sacred truth appear—The courtier's word, and lordling's honour, there;Here native sweets in boon profusion flow—There smells that scented nothing of a beau;Let justice here unequal combat wage—Nor poise the judgment of the law-learned sage;Though all-proportioned with exactest skill,Yet gay as woman's wish, and various as her will.O say ye pitied, envied, wretched great,Who veil pernicion with the mask of state!Whence are those domes that reach the mocking skies,And vainly emulous of nature rise?Behold the swain projected o'er the vale!See slumbering peace his rural eyelids seal;Earth's flowery lap supports his vacant head,Beneath his limbs her broidered garments spread;Aloft her elegant pavilion bends,And living shade of vegetation lends,With ever propagated bounty blessed,And hospitably spread for every guest:No tinsel here adorns a tawdry woof,Nor lying wash besmears a varnished roof;With native mode the vivid colours shine,And Heaven's own loom has wrought the weft divine,Where art veils art, and beauties' beauties close,While central grace diffused throughout the system flows.
Gemmed o'er their heads the mines of India gleam,And heaven's own wardrobe has arrayed their frame;Each spangled back bright sprinkling specks adorn,Each plume imbibes the rosy-tinctured morn;Spread on each wing, the florid seasons glow,Shaded and verged with the celestial bow,Where colours blend an ever-varying dye,And wanton in their gay exchanges vie.Not all the glitter fops and fair ones prize,The pride of fools, and pity of the wise;Not all the show and mockery of state,The little, low, fine follies of the great;Not all the wealth which eastern pageants wore,What still our idolizing worlds adore;Can boast the least inimitable graceWhich decks profusive this illustrious race.
Ye self-sufficient sons of reasoning pride,Too wise to take Omniscience for your guide,Those rules from insects, birds, and brutes discernWhich from the Maker you disdain to learn!The social friendship, and the firm ally,The filial sanctitude, and nuptial tie,Patience in want, and faith to persevere,Th' endearing sentiment, and tender care,Courage o'er private interest to prevail,And die all Decii for the public weal.
Dispersed through every copse or marshy plain,Where hunts the woodcock or the annual crane,Where else encamped the feathered legions spreadOr bathe incumbent on their oozy bed,The brimming lake thy smiling presence fills,And waves the banners of a thousand hills.Thou speed'st the summons of thy warning voice:Winged at thy word, the distant troops rejoice,From every quarter scour the fields of air,And to the general rendezvous repair;Each from the mingled rout disporting turns,And with the love of kindred plumage burns.Thy potent will instinctive bosoms feel,And here arranging semilunar, wheel;Or marshalled here the painted rhomb displayOr point the wedge that cleaves th' aërial way:Uplifted on thy wafting breath they rise;Thou pav'st the regions of the pathless skies,Through boundless tracts support'st the journeyed hostAnd point'st the voyage to the certain coast,—Thou the sure compass and the sea they sail,The chart, the port, the steerage, and the gale!
Britons! this night presents a state distressed:Though brave, yet vanquished; and though great, oppressed.Vice, ravening vulture, on her vitals preyed;Her peers, her prelates, fell corruption swayed:Their rights, for power, the ambitious weakly sold:The wealthy, poorly, for superfluous gold,Hence wasting ills, hence severing factions rose,And gave large entrance to invading foes:Truth, justice, honour, fled th' infected shore;For freedom, sacred freedom, was no more.Then, greatly rising in his country's right,Her hero, her deliverer sprung to light:A race of hardy northern sons he led,Guiltless of courts, untainted and unread;Whose inborn spirit spurned the ignoble fee,Whose hands scorned bondage, for their hearts were free.Ask ye what law their conquering cause confessed?—Great Nature's law, the law within the breast:Formed by no art, and to no sect confined,But stamped by Heaven upon th' unlettered mind.Such, such of old, the first born natives wereWho breathed the virtues of Britannia's air,Their realm when mighty Caesar vainly sought,For mightier freedom against Caesar fought,And rudely drove the famed invader home,To tyrannize o'er polished—venal Rome.Our bard, exalted in a freeborn flame,To every nation would transfer this claim:He to no state, no climate, bounds his page,But bids the moral beam through every age.Then be your judgment generous as his plan;Ye sons of freedom! save the friend of man.
From CONRADE, A FRAGMENT
What do I love—what is it that mine eyesTurn round in search of—that my soul longs after,But cannot quench her thirst?—'Tis Beauty, Phelin!I see it wide beneath the arch of heaven,When the stars peep upon their evening hour,And the moon rises on the eastern wave,Housed in a cloud of gold! I see it wideIn earth's autumnal taints of various landscapeWhen the first ray of morning tips the trees,And fires the distant rock! I hear its voiceWhen thy hand sends the sound along the gale,Swept from the silver strings or on mine earDrops the sweet sadness! At my heart I feelIts potent grasp, I melt beneath the touch,When the tale pours upon my sense humaneThe woes of other times! What art thou, Beauty?Thou art not colour, fancy, sound, nor form—These but the conduits are, whence the soul quaffsThe liquor of its heaven. Whate'er thou art,Nature, or Nature's spirit, thou art allI long for! Oh, descend upon my thoughts!To thine own music tune, thou power of grace,The cordage of my heart! Fill every shapeThat rises to my dream or wakes to vision;And touch the threads of every mental nerve,With all thy sacred feelings!
To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleenSome recommend the bowling-green;Some, hilly walks; all, exercise;Fling but a stone, the giant dies.Laugh and be well. Monkeys have beenExtreme good doctors for the spleen;And kitten, if the humour hit,Has harlequined away the fit.
Since mirth is good in this behalf,At some particulars let us laugh:Witlings, brisk fools, cursed with half-sense,That stimulates their impotence;Who buzz in rhyme, and, like blind flies,Err with their wings for want of eyes;Poor authors worshipping a calf,Deep tragedies that make us laugh,A strict dissenter saying grace,A lecturer preaching for a place,Folks, things prophetic to dispense,Making the past the future tense,The popish dubbing of a priest,Fine epitaphs on knaves deceased.
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Forced by soft violence of prayer,The blithesome goddess soothes my care,I feel the deity inspire,And thus she models my desire.Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid,Annuity securely made,A farm some twenty miles from town,Small, tight, salubrious, and my own;Two maids, that never saw the town,A serving-man not quite a clown,A boy to help to tread the mow,And drive, while t'other holds the plough;A chief, of temper formed to please,Fit to converse, and keep the keys;And better to preserve the peace,Commissioned by the name of niece;With understandings of a sizeTo think their master very wise.
Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,Emblem right meet of decency does yield:Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow,As is the harebell that adorns the field;
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wieldTway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined,With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled;And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined,And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind.
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A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown;A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air;'Twas simple russet, but it was her own;'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair!'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare;And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around,Through pious awe, did term it passing rare;For they in gaping wonderment abound,And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground.
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Lo, now with state she utters the command!Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair;Their books of stature small they take in hand,Which with pellucid horn securèd are;To save from finger wet the letters fair:The work so gay, that on their back is seen,St. George's high achievements does declare;On which thilk wight that has y-gazing beenKens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween!
Ah, luckless he, and born beneath the beamOf evil star! it irks me whilst I write!As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream,Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight,Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite.For brandishing the rod, she doth beginTo loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight!And down they drop; appears his dainty skin,Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin.
O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure,His little sister doth his peril see:All playful as she sate, she grows demure;She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee;She meditates a prayer to set him free:Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny,(If gentle pardon could with dames agree)To her sad grief that swells in either eye,And wrings her so that all for pity she could die.
The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay,Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle care:By turns, astonied, every twig survey,And, from their fellow's hateful wounds, beware;Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share;Till fear has taught them a performance meet,And to the well-known chest the dame repairs;Whence oft with sugared cates she doth 'em greet,And ginger-bread y-rare; now, certes, doubly sweet!
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Yet nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear!Even now sagacious foresight points to showA little bench of heedless bishops here,And there a chancellor in embryo,Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so,As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er shall die!Though now he crawl along the ground so low,Nor weeting how the muse should soar on high,Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite may fly.
To thee, fair freedom! I retireFrom flattery, cards, and dice, and din;Nor art thou found in mansions higherThan the low cot, or humble inn.
'Tis here with boundless power I reign;And every health which I begin,Converts dull port to bright champagne;Such freedom crowns it, at an inn.
I fly from pomp, I fly from plate!I fly from falsehood's specious grin!Freedom I love, and form I hate,And choose my lodgings at an inn.
Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,Which lacqueys else might hope to win;It buys, what courts have not in store;It buys me freedom, at an inn.
Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,Where'er his stages may have been,May sigh to think he still has foundThe warmest welcome at an inn.
When beasts could speak, (the learned sayThey still can do so every day,)It seems they had religion then,As much as now we find in men.It happened, when a plague broke out,(Which therefore made them more devout,)The king of brutes (to make it plain,Of quadrupeds I only mean)By proclamation gave commandThat every subject in the landShould to the priest confess their sins;And thus the pious Wolf begins:—'Good father, I must own with shame,That often I have been to blame:I must confess, on Friday last,Wretch that I was! I broke my fast:But I defy the basest tongueTo prove I did my neighbour wrong;Or ever went to seek my food,By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.'
The Ass approaching next, confessedThat in his heart he loved a jest:A wag he was, he needs must own,And could not let a dunce alone:
Sometimes his friend he would not spare,And might perhaps be too severe:But yet the worst that could be said,He was a wit both born and bred;And, if it be a sin and shame,Nature alone must bear the blame:One fault he has, is sorry for't,His ears are half a foot too short;Which could he to the standard bring,He'd show his face before the king:Then for his voice, there's none disputesThat he's the nightingale of brutes.
The Swine with contrite heart allowedHis shape and beauty made him proud:In diet was perhaps too nice,But gluttony was ne'er his vice:In every turn of life content,And meekly took what fortune sent;Inquire through all the parish round,A better neighbour ne'er was found;His vigilance might some displease;'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease.
The mimic Ape began his chatter,How evil tongues his life bespatter;Much of the censuring world complained,Who said, his gravity was feigned:Indeed, the strictness of his moralsEngaged him in a hundred quarrels:He saw, and he was grieved to see 't,His zeal was sometimes indiscreet:He found his virtues too severeFor our corrupted times to bear;Yet such a lewd licentious ageMight well excuse a stoic's rage.
The Goat advanced with decent pace,And first excused his youthful face;Forgiveness begged that he appeared('Twas Nature's fault) without a beard.'Tis true, he was not much inclinedTo fondness for the female kind:Not, as his enemies object,From chance, or natural defect;
Not by his frigid constitution;But through a pious resolution:For he had made a holy vowOf chastity, as monks do now:Which he resolved to keep for ever henceAnd strictly too, as doth his reverence.
Apply the tale, and you shall find,How just it suits with human kind.Some faults we own; but can you guess?—Why, virtues carried to excess,Wherewith our vanity endows us,Though neither foe nor friend allows us.
The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't)He never squeezed a needy client;And this he makes his constant rule,For which his brethren call him fool;His conscience always was so nice,He freely gave the poor advice;By which he lost, he may affirm,A hundred fees last Easter term;While others of the learned robe,Would break the patience of a Job.No pleader at the bar could matchHis diligence and quick dispatch;Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast,Above a term or two at most.
The cringing Knave, who seeks a placeWithout success, thus tells his case:Why should he longer mince the matter?He failed, because he could not flatter;He had not learned to turn his coat,Nor for a party give his vote:His crime he quickly understood;Too zealous for the nation's good:He found the ministers resent it,Yet could not for his heart repent it.
The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn,Though it would raise him to the lawn:He passed his hours among his books;You find it in his meagre looks:He might, if he were worldly wise,Preferment get, and spare his eyes;But owns he had a stubborn spirit,That made him trust alone to merit;Would rise by merit to promotion;Alas! a mere chimeric notion.
The Doctor, if you will believe him,Confessed a sin; (and God forgive him!)Called up at midnight, ran to saveA blind old beggar from the grave:But see how Satan spreads his snares;He quite forgot to say his prayers.He cannot help it, for his heart,Sometimes to act the parson's part:Quotes from the Bible many a sentence,That moves his patients to repentance;And, when his medicines do no good,Supports their minds with heavenly food:At which, however well intended.He hears the clergy are offended;And grown so bold behind his back,To call him hypocrite and quack.
* * * * *
I own the moral not exact,Besides, the tale is false, in fact;And so absurd, that could I raise up,From fields Elysian, fabling.Aesop, I would accuse him to his face,For libelling the four-foot race.Creatures of every kind but oursWell comprehend their natural powers,While we, whom reason ought to sway,Mistake our talents every day.The Ass was never known so stupidTo act the part of Tray or Cupid;Nor leaps upon his master's lap.There to be stroked, and fed with pap,As Aesop would the world persuade;He better understands his trade:Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles,But carries loads, and feeds on thistles.Our author's meaning, I presume, isA creaturebipes et implumis;
Wherein the moralist designedA compliment on human kind;For here he owns, that now and thenBeasts may degenerate into men.
Vain human kind! fantastic race!Thy various follies who can trace?Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,Their empire in our hearts divide.Give others riches, power, and station,'Tis all on me a usurpation.I have no title to aspire;Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher.In Pope I cannot read a lineBut with a sigh I wish it mine;When he can in one couplet fixMore sense than I can do in six,It gives me such a jealous fit I cry,'Pox take him and his wit!'I grieve to be outdone by GayIn my own humorous biting way.Arbuthnot is no more my friend,Who dares to irony pretend,Which I was born to introduce,Refined it first, and showed its use.St. John, as well as Pultney, knows,That I had some repute for prose;And, till they drove me out of date,Could maul a minister of state.If they havemortifiedmy pride,And made me throw my pen aside:If with such talents Heaven has blessed 'em,Have I not reason to detest 'em?
* * * * *
Suppose me dead; and then supposeA club assembled at the Rose;Where, from discourse of this and that,I grow the subject of their chat.
And while they toss my name about,With favour some, and some without,One, quite indifferent in the cause,My character impartial draws:
'The Dean, if we believe report,Was never ill-received at court.As for his works in verse and prose,I own myself no judge of those;Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em,But this I know, all people bought 'em,As with a moral view designedTo cure the vices of mankind,His vein, ironically grave,Exposed the fool, and lashed the knave.To steal a hint was never known,But what he writ was all his own.
'He never thought an honour done him,Because a duke was proud to own him;Would rather slip aside and chooseTo talk with wits in dirty shoes;Despised the fools with stars and garters,So often seen caressing Chartres.He never courted men in station,Nor persons held in admiration;Of no man's greatness was afraid,Because he sought for no man's aid.Though trusted long in great affairs,He gave himself no haughty airs.Without regarding private ends.Spent all his credit for his friends;And only chose the wise and good;No flatterers; no allies in blood:But succoured virtue in distress,And seldom failed of good success;As numbers in their hearts must own,Who, but for him, had been unknown.
* * * * *
'Perhaps I may allow the DeanHad too much satire in his vein;And seemed determined not to starve it,Because no age could more deserve it.
Yet malice never was his aim;He lashed the vice, but spared the name;No individual could resent,Where thousands equally were meant;His satire points at no defect,But what all mortals may correct;For he abhorred that senseless tribeWho call it humour when they gibe:He spared a hump, or crooked nose,Whose owners set not up for beaux.True genuine dulness moved his pity,Unless it offered to be witty.Those who their ignorance confessed,He never offended with a jest;But laughed to hear an idiot quoteA verse from Horace learned by rote.
'He knew a hundred pleasing stories,With all the turns of Whigs and Tories:Was cheerful to his dying day;And friends would let him have his way.
'He gave the little wealth he hadTo build a house for fools and mad;And showed by one satiric touch,No nation wanted it so much.'
Hark! how all the welkin rings'Glory to the King of kings!Peace on earth, and mercy mild,God and sinners reconciled!'
Joyful, all ye nations, rise,Join the triumph of the skies;Universal nature say,'Christ the Lord is born to-day!'
Christ, by highest Heaven adored;Christ, the everlasting Lord;Late in time behold Him come,Offspring of a virgin's womb!
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see;Hail, th' incarnate Deity,Pleased as man with men to appear,Jesus, our Immanuel here!
Hail! the heavenly Prince of Peace!Hail! the Sun of Righteousness!Light and life to all He brings,Risen with healing in His wings.
Mild He lays His glory by,Barn that man no more may die,Born to raise the sons of earth,Born to give them second birth.
Come, Desire of Nations, come,Fix in us Thy humble home!Rise, the Woman's conquering Seed,Bruise in us the Serpent's head!
Now display Thy saving power,Ruined nature now restore,Now in mystic union joinThine to ours, and ours to Thine!
Adam's likeness, Lord, efface;Stamp Thy image in its place;Second Adam from above,Reinstate us in Thy love!
Let us Thee, though lost, regain,Thee, the Life, the Inner Man;O! to all Thyself impart,Formed in each believing heart!
'Christ the Lord is risen to-day,'Sons of men and angels say:Raise your joys and triumphs high,Sing, ye heavens, and earth reply.
Love's redeeming work is done,Fought the fight, the battle won:Lo! our Sun's eclipse is o'er;Lo! He sets in blood no more.
Vain the stone, the watch, the seal;Christ hath burst the gates of hell!Death in vain forbids His rise;Christ hath opened Paradise!
Lives again our glorious King:Where, O Death, is now thy sting?Dying once, He all doth save:Where thy victory, O Grave?
Soar we now where Christ has led,Following our exalted Head;Made like Him, like Him we rise;Ours the Cross, the grave, the skies.
What though once we perished all,Partners in our parents' fall?Second life we all receive,In our Heavenly Adam live.
Risen with Him, we upward move;Still we seek the things above;Still pursue, and kiss the SonSeated on His Father's Throne.
Scarce on earth a thought bestow,Dead to all we leave below;Heaven our aim, and loved abode,Hid our life with Christ in God:
Hid, till Christ our Life appearGlorious in His members here;Joined to Him, we then shall shine,All immortal, all divine.
Hail the Lord of Earth and Heaven!Praise to Thee by both be given!Thee we greet triumphant now!Hail, the Resurrection Thou!
King of glory, Soul of bliss!Everlasting life is this,Thee to know, Thy power to prove,Thus to sing, and thus to love!
Jesu, lover of my soul,Let me to Thy bosom fly,While the nearer waters roll,While the tempest still is high!Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,Till the storm of life is past,Safe into the haven guide;O receive my soul at last!
Other refuge have I none;Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;Leave, ah! leave me not alone,Still support and comfort me!All my trust on Thee is stayed,All my help from Thee I bring:Cover my defenceless headWith the shadow of Thy wing!
Wilt Thou not regard my call?Wilt Thou not accept my prayer?Lo! I sink, I faint, I fall!Lo! on Thee I cast my care!Reach me out Thy gracious hand!While I of Thy strength receive,Hoping against hope I stand,Dying, and behold I live!
Thou, O Christ, art all I want;More than all in Thee I find:Raise the fallen, cheer the faint,Heal the sick, and lead the blind!Just and holy is Thy Name;I am all unrighteousness;False and full of sin I am,Thou art full of truth and grace.
Plenteous grace with Thee is found,Grace to cover all my sin;Let the healing streams abound;Make and keep me pure within!Thou of Life the Fountain art,Freely let me take of Thee;Spring Thou up within my heart!Rise to all eternity!
Come, O thou Traveller unknown,Whom still I hold, but cannot see;My company before is gone,And I am left alone with Thee;With Thee all night I mean to stay,And wrestle till the break of day.
I need not tell Thee who I am,My misery or sin declare;Thyself hast called me by my name;Look on Thy hands, and read it there!But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou?Tell me Thy name, and tell me now.
In vain Thou strugglest to get free,I never will unloose my hold;Art Thou the Man that died for me?The secret of Thy love unfold.
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,Till I Thy name, Thy nature know.
Wilt Thou not yet to me revealThy new, unutterable name?Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell:To know it now, resolved I am:Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,Till I Thy name, Thy nature know.
'Tis all in vain to hold Thy tongue,Or touch the hollow of my thigh;Though every sinew be unstrung,Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly;Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,Till I Thy name, Thy nature know.
What though my shrinking flesh complain,And murmur to contend so long?I rise superior to my pain;When I am weak, then I am strong:And when my all of strength shall fail,I shall with the God-Man prevail.
My strength is gone; my nature dies;I sink beneath Thy weighty hand,Faint to revive, and fall to rise;I fall, and yet by faith I stand:I stand, and will not let Thee go,Till I Thy name, Thy nature know.
Yield to me now, for I am weak,But confident in self-despair;Speak to my heart, in blessings speak,Be conquered by my instant prayer!Speak, or Thou never hence shalt move,And tell me, if Thy name is Love?
'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou diedst for me!I hear Thy whisper in my heart!The morning breaks, the shadows flee;Pure universal Love Thou art!To me, to all, Thy bowels move;Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love!
My prayer hath power with God; the graceUnspeakable I now receive;Through faith I see Thee face to face,I see Thee face to face, and live:In vain I have not wept and strove;Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love.
I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art;Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend!Nor wilt Thou with the night depart,But stay, and love me to the end!Thy mercies never shall remove,Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love!
The Sun of Righteousness on meHath rose, with healing in His wings;Withered my nature's strength, from TheeMy soul its life and succour brings;My help is all laid up above;Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love.
Contented now upon my thighI halt, till life's short journey end;All helplessness, all weakness, IOn Thee alone for strength depend;Nor have I power from Thee to move;Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love.
Lame as I am, I take the prey,Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercome;I leap for joy, pursue my way,And as a bounding hart fly home!Through all eternity to prove,Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love!
See yonder hallowed fane;—the pious workOf names once famed, now dubious or forgot,And buried midst the wreck of things which were;There lie interred the more illustrious dead.The wind is up: hark! how it howls! MethinksTill now I never heard a sound so dreary:Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird,Rooked in the spire, screams loud: the gloomy aisles,Black—plastered, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheonsAnd tattered coats of arms, send back the soundLaden with heavier airs, from the low vaults,The mansions of the dead.—Roused from their slumbers,In grim array the grisly spectres rise,Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen,Pass and repass, hushed as the foot of night.Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound!I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill.
* * * * *
Oft in the lone churchyard at night I've seenBy glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees,The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand,Whistling aloud to bear his courage up,And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones,(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown,)That tell in homely phrase who lie below.Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears,The sound of something purring at his heels;Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows;Who gather round, and wonder at the taleOf horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,That walks at dead of night, or takes his standO'er some new-opened grave; and (strange to tell!)Evanishes at crowing of the cock.
The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes spied,Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead:Listless, she crawls along in doleful black,Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either eye,Fast falling down her now untasted cheek:Prone on the lowly grave of the dear manShe drops; whilst busy, meddling memory,In barbarous succession musters upThe past endearments of their softer hours,Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinksShe sees him, and indulging the fond thought,Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf,Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way.
* * * * *
When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust,Not unattentive to the call, shall wake,And every joint possess its proper placeWith a new elegance of form unknownTo its first state. Nor shall the conscious soulMistake its partner, but, amidst the crowdSingling its other half, into its armsShall rush with all the impatience of a manThat's new come home, who having long been absentWith haste runs over every different roomIn pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting!Nor time nor death shall part them ever more.'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night,We make the grave our bed, and then are gone.
Thus at the shut of even the weary birdLeaves the wide air and, in some lonely brake,Cowers down and dozes till the dawn of day,Then claps his well-fledged wings and bears away.
Our mirthful age, to all extremes a prey,Even, courts the lash, and laughs her pains away,Declining worth imperial wit supplies,And Momus triumphs, while Astraea flies.No truth so sacred, banter cannot hit,No fool so stupid but he aims at wit.Even those whose breasts ne'er planned one virtuous deed,Nor raised a thought beyond the earth they tread:Even those can censure, those can dare derideA Bacon's avarice, or a Tully's pride;And sneer at human checks by Nature given.To curb perfection e'er it rival Heaven:Nay, chiefly such in these low arts prevail,Whose want of talents leaves them time to raid.Born for no end, they worse than useless grow,(As waters poison, if they cease to flow;)And pests become, whom kinder fate designedBut harmless expletives of human kind.See with what zeal th' insidious task they ply!Where shall the prudent, where the virtuous fly?Lurk as ye can, if they direct the ray,The veriest atoms in the sunbeams play.No venial slip their quick attention 'scapes;They trace each Proteus through his hundred shapes;To Mirth's tribunal drag the caitiff train,Where Mercy sleeps, and Nature pleads in vain.
* * * * *
Here then we fix, and lash without controlThese mental pests, and hydras of the soul;Acquired ill-nature, ever prompt debate,A seal for slander, and deliberate hate:These court contempt, proclaim the public foe,And each, Ulysses like, should aim the blow.Yet sure, even here, our motives should be known:Rail we to check his spleen, or ease our own?
Does injured virtue every shaft supply,Arm the keen tongue, and flush th' erected eye?Or do we from ourselves ourselves disguise?And act, perhaps, the villain we chastise?Hope we to mend him? hopes, alas, how vain!He feels the lash, not listens to the rein.
'Tis dangerous too, in these licentious times,Howe'er severe the smile, to sport with crimes.Vices when ridiculed, experience says,First lose that horror which they ought to raise,Grow by degrees approved, and almost aim at praise.
* * * * *
[The] fear of man, in his most mirthful mood,May make us hypocrites, but seldom good.
* * * * *
Besides, in men have varying passions madeSuch nice confusions, blending, light with shade,That eager zeal to laugh the vice awayMay hurt some virtue's intermingling ray.
* * * * *
Then let good-nature every charm exert,And while it mends it, win th' unfolding heart.Let moral mirth a face of triumph wear,Yet smile unconscious of th' extorted tear.See with what grace instructive satire flows,Politely keen, in Olio's numbered prose!That great example should our zeal excite,And censors learn from Addison to write.So, in our age, too prone to sport with pain,Might soft humanity resume her reign;Pride without rancour feel th' objected fault,And folly blush, as willing to be taught;Critics grow mild, life's witty warfare cease,And true good-nature breathe the balm of peace.
Once—I remember well the day,'Twas ere the blooming sweets of MayHad lost their freshest hues,When every flower on every hill,In every vale, had drank its fillOf sunshine and of dews.
In short, 'twas that sweet season's primeWhen Spring gives up the reins of timeTo Summer's glowing hand,And doubting mortals hardly knowBy whose command the breezes blowWhich fan the smiling land.
'Twas then, beside a greenwood shadeWhich clothed a lawn's aspiring head,I urged my devious way,With loitering steps regardless where,So soft, so genial was the air,So wondrous bright the day.
And now my eyes with transport roveO'er all the blue expanse above,Unbroken by a cloud!And now beneath delighted pass,Where winding through the deep-green grassA full-brimmed river flowed.
I stop, I gaze; in accents rude,To thee, serenest Solitude,Bursts forth th' unbidden lay;'Begone vile world! the learned, the wise,The great, the busy, I despise,And pity even the gay.
'These, these are joys alone, I cry,'Tis here, divine Philosophy,Thou deign'st to fix thy throne!Here contemplation points the roadThrough nature's charms to nature's God!These, these are joys alone!
'Adieu, ye vain low-thoughted cares,Ye human hopes, and human fears,Ye pleasures and ye pains!'While thus I spake, o'er all my soulA philosophic calmness stole,A stoic stillness reigns.
The tyrant passions all subside,Fear, anger, pity, shame, and pride,No more my bosom move;Yet still I felt, or seemed to feelA kind of visionary zealOf universal love.
When lo! a voice, a voice I hear!'Twas Reason whispered in my earThese monitory strains;'What mean'st thou, man? wouldst thou unbindThe ties which constitute thy kind,The pleasures and the pains?
'The same Almighty Power unseen,Who spreads the gay or solemn sceneTo contemplation's eye,Fixed every movement of the soul,Taught every wish its destined goal,And quickened every joy.
'He bids the tyrant passions rage,He bids them war eternal wage,And combat each his foe:Till from dissensions concords rise,And beauties from deformities,And happiness from woe.
'Art thou not man, and dar'st thou findA bliss which leans not to mankind?Presumptuous thought and vainEach bliss unshared is unenjoyed,Each power is weak unless employedSome social good to gain.
'Shall light and shade, and warmth and air.With those exalted joys compareWhich active virtue feels,When oil she drags, as lawful prize,Contempt, and Indolence, and Vice,At her triumphant wheels?
'As rest to labour still succeeds,To man, whilst virtue's glorious deedsEmploy his toilsome day,This fair variety of thingsAre merely life's refreshing springs,To sooth him on his way.
'Enthusiast go, unstring thy lyre,In vain thou sing'st if none admire,How sweet soe'er the strain,And is not thy o'erflowing mind,Unless thou mixest with thy kind,Benevolent in vain?
'Enthusiast go, try every sense,If not thy bliss, thy excellence,Thou yet hast learned to scan;At least thy wants, thy weakness know,And see them all uniting showThat man was made for man.'