And telling me the sov'reign'st thing on earthWas parmacity for an inward bruise.Shakspeare.-Henry IV. Part I. Act 1 [Sc. 3, v. 58].
And telling me the sov'reign'st thing on earth
Was parmacity for an inward bruise.
Shakspeare.-Henry IV. Part I. Act 1 [Sc. 3, v. 58].
So gentle, yet so brisk, so wond'rous sweet,So fit to prattle at a lady's feet.Churchill[,The Author].
So gentle, yet so brisk, so wond'rous sweet,
So fit to prattle at a lady's feet.
Churchill[,The Author].
Much are the precious hours of youth mispentIn climbing learning's rugged, steep ascent:When to the top the bold adventurer's got,He reigns, vain monarch[, o'er] a barren spot;[Whilst] in the vale of ignorance belowFolly and vice to rank luxuriance grow;Honours and wealth pour in on every side,And proud preferment rolls her golden tide.Churchill[,The Author].
Much are the precious hours of youth mispent
In climbing learning's rugged, steep ascent:
When to the top the bold adventurer's got,
He reigns, vain monarch[, o'er] a barren spot;
[Whilst] in the vale of ignorance below
Folly and vice to rank luxuriance grow;
Honours and wealth pour in on every side,
And proud preferment rolls her golden tide.
Churchill[,The Author].
VICAR.
The lately departed Minister of the Borough—His soothing and supplicatory Manners—His cool and timid Affections—No Praise due to such negative Virtue—Address to Characters of this Kind—The Vicar's Employments—His Talents and moderate Ambition—His Dislike of Innovation—His mild but ineffectual Benevolence—A Summary of his Character.
CURATE.
Mode of paying the Borough-Minister—The Curate has no such Resources—His Learning and Poverty—Erroneous Idea of his Parent—His Feelings as a Husband and Father—The dutiful Regard of his numerous Family—His Pleasure as a Writer, how interrupted—No Resource in the Press—Vulgar Insult—His Account of a Literary Society, and a Fund for the Relief of indigent Authors, &c.
LETTER III.
THE VICAR—THE CURATE, &c.
Where ends our chancel in a vaulted space,Sleep the departed vicars of the place;Of most, all mention, memory, thought arepast—But take a slight memorial of the last.To what famed college we our Vicar owe,To what fair county, let historians show.Few now remember when the mild young man,Ruddy and fair, his Sunday-task began;Few live to speak of that soft soothing look10He cast around, as he prepared his book;It was a kind of supplicating smile,But nothing hopeless of applause, the while;And when he finish'd, his corrected prideFelt the desert, and yet the praise denied.Thus he his race began, and to the endHis constant care was, no man to offend;No haughty virtues stirr'd his peaceful mind,Nor urged the priest to leave the flock behind;He was his Master's soldier, but not one20To lead an army of his martyrs on:Fear was his ruling passion; yet was love,Of timid kind, once known his heart to move;It led his patient spirit where it paidIts languid offerings to a listening maid;She, with her widow'd mother, heard him speak,And sought awhile to find what he would seek.Smiling he came, he smiled when he withdrew,And paid the same attention to the two;Meeting and parting without joy or pain,30He seem'd to come that he might go again.The wondering girl, no prude, but something nice,At length was chill'd by his unmelting ice;She found her tortoise held such sluggish pace,That she must turn and meet him in the chase.This not approving, she withdrew till oneCame who appeared with livelier hope to run;Who sought a readier way the heart to move,Than by faint dalliance of unfixing love.Accuse me not that I approving paint40Impatient hope or love without restraint;Or think the passions, a tumultuous throng,Strong as they are, ungovernably strong:But is the laurel to the soldier due,Who cautious comes not into danger's view?What worth has virtue by desire untried,When Nature's self enlists on duty's side?The married dame in vain assail'd the truthAnd guarded bosom of the Hebrew youth;But with the daughter of the Priest of On50The love was lawful, and the guard was gone;But Joseph's fame had lessen'd in our view,Had he, refusing, fled the maiden too.Yet our good priest to Joseph's praise aspired,As once rejecting what his heart desired;"I am escaped," he said, when none pursued;When none attack'd him, "I am unsubdued;""Oh pleasing pangs of love," he sang again,Cold to the joy, and stranger to the pain.Ev'n in his age would he address the young,60"I too have felt these fires, and they are strong;"But from the time he left his favourite maid,To ancient females his devoirs were paid;And still they miss him after morning prayer;Nor yet successor fills the Vicar's chair,Where kindred spirits in his praise agree,A happy few, as mild and cool ashe—The easy followers in the female train,Led without love, and captives without chain.Ye lilies male! think (as your tea you sip,70While the town small-talk flows from lip to lip;Intrigues half-gather'd, conversation-scraps,Kitchen-cabals, and nursery-mishaps)If the vast world may not some scene produce,Some state, where your small talents might have use.Within seraglios you might harmless move,'Mid ranks of beauty, and in haunts of love;There from too daring man the treasures guard,An easy duty, and its own reward;Nature's soft substitutes, you there might save80From crime the tyrant, and from wrong the slave.But let applause be dealt in all we may:Our priest was cheerful, and in season gay;His frequent visits seldom fail'd to please;Easy himself, he sought his neighbour's ease.To a small garden with delight he came,And gave successive flowers a summer's fame;These he presented with a grace his ownTo his fair friends, and made their beauties known,Not without moral compliment: how they90"Like flowers were sweet, and must like flowers decay."Simple he was, and loved the simple truth,Yet had some useful cunning from his youth;A cunning never to dishonour lent,And rather for defence than conquest meant;'Twas fear of power, with some desire to rise,But not enough to make him enemies;He ever aim'd to please; and to offendWas ever cautious; for he sought a friend;}Yet for the friendship never much would pay,100}Content to bow, be silent, and obey,}And by a soothing suff'rance find his way.Fiddling and fishing were his arts; at timesHe alter'd sermons, and he aim'd at rhymes;And his fair friends, not yet intent on cards,Oft he amused with riddles and charades.Mild were his doctrines, and not one discourseBut gain'd in softness what it lost in force:Kind his opinions; he would not receiveAn ill report, nor evil act believe;110"If true, 'twas wrong; but blemish great or smallHave all mankind; yea, sinners are we all."If ever fretful thought disturbed his breast,If aught of gloom that cheerful mind oppress'd,It sprang from innovation; it was thenHe spake of mischief made by restless men,Not by new doctrines: never in his lifeWould he attend to controversial strife;For sects he cared not; "They are not of us,Nor need we, brethren, their concerns discuss;120But 'tis the change, the schism at home I feel;Ills few perceive, and none have skill to heal:Not at the altar our young brethren read(Facing their flock) the decalogue and creed;But at their duty, in their desks they stand,With naked surplice, lacking hood and band:Churches are now of holy song bereft,And half our ancient customs changed or left;Few sprigs of ivy are at Christmas seen,Nor crimson berry tips the holly's green;130Mistaken choirs refuse the solemn strainOf ancient Sternhold, which from ours amain[Comes] flying forth, from aile to aile about,Sweet links of harmony and long drawn out."These were to him essentials, all things newHe deem'd superfluous, useless, or untrue;To all beside indifferent, easy, cold,Here the fire kindled, and the wo was told.Habit with him was all the test of truth,"It must be right: I've done it from my youth."140Questions he answer'd in as brief a way,"It must be wrong—it was of yesterday."Though mild benevolence our priest possess'd,'Twas but by wishes or by words express'd:Circles in water, as they wider flow,The less conspicuous, in their progress grow;And when at last they touch upon the shore,Distinction ceases, and they're view'd no more.His love, like that last circle, all embraced,But with effect that never could be traced.150Now rests our Vicar. They who knew him bestProclaim his life t' have been entirelyrest—Free from all evils which disturb his mindWhom studies vex and controversies blind.The rich approved—of them in awe he stood;The poor admired—they all believed him good;The old and serious of his habits spoke;The frank and youthful loved his pleasant joke;Mothers approved a safe contented guest,And daughters one who back'd each small request:160In him his flock found nothing to condemn;Him sectaries liked—he never troubled them;No trifles fail'd his yielding mind to please,And all his passions sunk in early ease;Nor one so old has left this world of sin,More like the being that he entered in.
Where ends our chancel in a vaulted space,
Sleep the departed vicars of the place;
Of most, all mention, memory, thought arepast—
But take a slight memorial of the last.
To what famed college we our Vicar owe,
To what fair county, let historians show.
Few now remember when the mild young man,
Ruddy and fair, his Sunday-task began;
Few live to speak of that soft soothing look
10
He cast around, as he prepared his book;
It was a kind of supplicating smile,
But nothing hopeless of applause, the while;
And when he finish'd, his corrected pride
Felt the desert, and yet the praise denied.
Thus he his race began, and to the end
His constant care was, no man to offend;
No haughty virtues stirr'd his peaceful mind,
Nor urged the priest to leave the flock behind;
He was his Master's soldier, but not one
20
To lead an army of his martyrs on:
Fear was his ruling passion; yet was love,
Of timid kind, once known his heart to move;
It led his patient spirit where it paid
Its languid offerings to a listening maid;
She, with her widow'd mother, heard him speak,
And sought awhile to find what he would seek.
Smiling he came, he smiled when he withdrew,
And paid the same attention to the two;
Meeting and parting without joy or pain,
30
He seem'd to come that he might go again.
The wondering girl, no prude, but something nice,
At length was chill'd by his unmelting ice;
She found her tortoise held such sluggish pace,
That she must turn and meet him in the chase.
This not approving, she withdrew till one
Came who appeared with livelier hope to run;
Who sought a readier way the heart to move,
Than by faint dalliance of unfixing love.
Accuse me not that I approving paint
40
Impatient hope or love without restraint;
Or think the passions, a tumultuous throng,
Strong as they are, ungovernably strong:
But is the laurel to the soldier due,
Who cautious comes not into danger's view?
What worth has virtue by desire untried,
When Nature's self enlists on duty's side?
The married dame in vain assail'd the truth
And guarded bosom of the Hebrew youth;
But with the daughter of the Priest of On
50
The love was lawful, and the guard was gone;
But Joseph's fame had lessen'd in our view,
Had he, refusing, fled the maiden too.
Yet our good priest to Joseph's praise aspired,
As once rejecting what his heart desired;
"I am escaped," he said, when none pursued;
When none attack'd him, "I am unsubdued;"
"Oh pleasing pangs of love," he sang again,
Cold to the joy, and stranger to the pain.
Ev'n in his age would he address the young,
60
"I too have felt these fires, and they are strong;"
But from the time he left his favourite maid,
To ancient females his devoirs were paid;
And still they miss him after morning prayer;
Nor yet successor fills the Vicar's chair,
Where kindred spirits in his praise agree,
A happy few, as mild and cool ashe—
The easy followers in the female train,
Led without love, and captives without chain.
Ye lilies male! think (as your tea you sip,
70
While the town small-talk flows from lip to lip;
Intrigues half-gather'd, conversation-scraps,
Kitchen-cabals, and nursery-mishaps)
If the vast world may not some scene produce,
Some state, where your small talents might have use.
Within seraglios you might harmless move,
'Mid ranks of beauty, and in haunts of love;
There from too daring man the treasures guard,
An easy duty, and its own reward;
Nature's soft substitutes, you there might save
80
From crime the tyrant, and from wrong the slave.
But let applause be dealt in all we may:
Our priest was cheerful, and in season gay;
His frequent visits seldom fail'd to please;
Easy himself, he sought his neighbour's ease.
To a small garden with delight he came,
And gave successive flowers a summer's fame;
These he presented with a grace his own
To his fair friends, and made their beauties known,
Not without moral compliment: how they
90
"Like flowers were sweet, and must like flowers decay."
Simple he was, and loved the simple truth,
Yet had some useful cunning from his youth;
A cunning never to dishonour lent,
And rather for defence than conquest meant;
'Twas fear of power, with some desire to rise,
But not enough to make him enemies;
He ever aim'd to please; and to offend
Was ever cautious; for he sought a friend;
}
Yet for the friendship never much would pay,
100
}
Content to bow, be silent, and obey,
}
And by a soothing suff'rance find his way.
Fiddling and fishing were his arts; at times
He alter'd sermons, and he aim'd at rhymes;
And his fair friends, not yet intent on cards,
Oft he amused with riddles and charades.
Mild were his doctrines, and not one discourse
But gain'd in softness what it lost in force:
Kind his opinions; he would not receive
An ill report, nor evil act believe;
110
"If true, 'twas wrong; but blemish great or small
Have all mankind; yea, sinners are we all."
If ever fretful thought disturbed his breast,
If aught of gloom that cheerful mind oppress'd,
It sprang from innovation; it was then
He spake of mischief made by restless men,
Not by new doctrines: never in his life
Would he attend to controversial strife;
For sects he cared not; "They are not of us,
Nor need we, brethren, their concerns discuss;
120
But 'tis the change, the schism at home I feel;
Ills few perceive, and none have skill to heal:
Not at the altar our young brethren read
(Facing their flock) the decalogue and creed;
But at their duty, in their desks they stand,
With naked surplice, lacking hood and band:
Churches are now of holy song bereft,
And half our ancient customs changed or left;
Few sprigs of ivy are at Christmas seen,
Nor crimson berry tips the holly's green;
130
Mistaken choirs refuse the solemn strain
Of ancient Sternhold, which from ours amain
[Comes] flying forth, from aile to aile about,
Sweet links of harmony and long drawn out."
These were to him essentials, all things new
He deem'd superfluous, useless, or untrue;
To all beside indifferent, easy, cold,
Here the fire kindled, and the wo was told.
Habit with him was all the test of truth,
"It must be right: I've done it from my youth."
140
Questions he answer'd in as brief a way,
"It must be wrong—it was of yesterday."
Though mild benevolence our priest possess'd,
'Twas but by wishes or by words express'd:
Circles in water, as they wider flow,
The less conspicuous, in their progress grow;
And when at last they touch upon the shore,
Distinction ceases, and they're view'd no more.
His love, like that last circle, all embraced,
But with effect that never could be traced.
150
Now rests our Vicar. They who knew him best
Proclaim his life t' have been entirelyrest—
Free from all evils which disturb his mind
Whom studies vex and controversies blind.
The rich approved—of them in awe he stood;
The poor admired—they all believed him good;
The old and serious of his habits spoke;
The frank and youthful loved his pleasant joke;
Mothers approved a safe contented guest,
And daughters one who back'd each small request:
160
In him his flock found nothing to condemn;
Him sectaries liked—he never troubled them;
No trifles fail'd his yielding mind to please,
And all his passions sunk in early ease;
Nor one so old has left this world of sin,
More like the being that he entered in.
THE CURATE.
Ask you what lands our pastor tithes?—Alas!But few our acres, and but short our grass:In some fat pastures of the rich, indeed,May roll the single cow or favourite steed,170Who, stable-fed, is here for pleasure seen,His sleek sides bathing in the dewy green:But these, our hilly heath and common wide,Yield a slight portion for the parish-guide;No crops luxuriant in our borders stand,For here we plough the ocean, not the land;Still reason wills that we our pastor pay,And custom does it on a certain day.Much is the duty, small the legal due,And this with grateful minds we keep in view;180Each makes his off'ring, some by habit led,Some by the thought, that all men must be fed;Duty and love, and piety and pride,have each their force, and for the priest provide.Not thus our Curate, one whom all believePious and just, and for whose fate they grieve;All see him poor, but ev'n the vulgar knowHe merits love, and their respect bestow.A man so learn'd you shall but seldom see,Nor one so honour'd, so aggrieved ashe—190Not grieved by years alone; though his appearDark and more dark, severer on severe:Not in his need,—and yet we all must grantHow painful 'tis for feeling age to want;Nor in his body's sufferings—yet we knowWhere time has plough'd, there misery loves to sow:But in the wearied mind, that all in vainWars with distress, and struggles with its pain.His father saw his powers—"I'll give," quoth he,"My first-born learning; 'twill a portion be."200Unhappy gift! a portion for a son!But all he had:—he learn'd, and was undone!Better, apprenticed to an humble trade,Had he the cassock for the priesthood made,Or thrown the shuttle, or the saddle shaped,And all these pangs of feeling souls escaped.He once had hope—hope ardent, lively, light;His feelings pleasant, and his prospects bright:Eager of fame, he read, he thought, he wrote,Weigh'd the Greek page, and added note on note;210At morn, at evening at his work was he,And dream'd what his Euripides would be.Then care began;—he loved, he woo'd, he wed;Hope cheer'd him still, and Hymen bless'd hisbed—A Curate's bed! then came the woful years,The husband's terrors, and the father's tears;A wife grown feeble, mourning, pining, vex'd,With wants and woes—by daily cares perplex'd;No more a help, a smiling, soothing aid,But boding, drooping, sickly, and afraid.220A kind physician and without a fee,Gave his opinion—"Send her to the sea.""Alas!" the good man answer'd, "can I sendA friendless woman? Can I find a friend?No; I must with her, in her need, repairTo that new place; the poor lieeverywhere;—Some priest will pay me for my piouspains:"—He said, he came, and here he yet remains.Behold his dwelling; this poor hut he hires,Where he from view, though not from want, retires;230Where four fair daughters, and five sorrowing sons,Partake his sufferings, and dismiss his duns.All join their efforts, and in patience learnTo want the comforts they aspire to earn;For the sick mother something they'd obtain,To soothe her grief and mitigate her pain;For the sad father something they'd procure,To ease the burthen they themselves endure.Virtues like these at once delight and pressOn the fond father with a proud distress;240On all around he looks with care and love,Grieved to behold, but happy to approve.Then from his care, his love, his grief he steals,And by himself an author's pleasure feels;Each line detains him, he omits not one,And all the sorrows of his state aregone.—Alas! ev'n then, in that delicious hour,He feels his fortune, and laments its power.Some tradesman's bill his wandering eyes engage,Some scrawl for payment, thrust 'twixt page and page;}250Some bold, loud rapping at his humble door,}Some surly message he has heard before,}Awake, alarm, and tell him he is poor.An angry dealer, vulgar, rich, and proud,Thinks of his bill, and passing, raps aloud;The elder daughter meekly makes himway—"I want my money, and I cannot stay:My mill is stopp'd; what, Miss! I cannot grind;Go tell your father he must raise the wind."Still trembling, troubled, the dejected maid260Says, "Sir! my father!—" and then steps afraid:Ev'n his hard heart is soften'd, and he hearsHer voice with pity; he respects her tears;His stubborn features half admit a smile,And his tone softens—"Well! I'll wait awhile."Pity, a man so good, so mild, so meek,At such an age, should have his bread to seek;And all those rude and fierce attacks to dread,That are more harrowing than the want of bread;Ah! who shall whisper to that misery peace,270And say that want and insolence shall cease?"But why not publish?"—those who know too well,Dealers in Greek, are fearful 'twill not sell;Then he himself is timid, troubled, slow,Nor likes his labours nor his griefs to show;The hope of fame may in his heart have place,But he has dread and horror of disgrace;Nor has he that confiding, easy way,That might his learning and himself display;But to his work he from the world retreats,280And frets and glories o'er the favourite sheets.But see the man himself; and sure I traceSigns of new joy exulting in that faceO'er care that sleeps—we err, or we discernLife in thy looks—the reason may we learn?"Yes," he replied, "I'm happy, I confess,To learn that some are pleased with happiness}Which others feel—there are who now combine}The worthiest natures in the best design,}To aid the letter'd poor, and soothe such ills as mine:290We who more keenly feel the world's contempt,And from its miseries are the least exempt;Now hope shall whisper to the wounded breast,And grief, in soothing expectation, rest.Yes, I am taught that men who think, who feel,Unite the pains of thoughtful men to heal;Not with disdainful pride, whose bounties makeThe needy curse the benefits they take;Not with the idle vanity that knowsOnly a selfish joy when it bestows;300Not with o'erbearing wealth, that, in disdain,Hurls the superfluous bliss at groaning pain;But these are men who yield such bless'd reliefThat with the grievance they destroy the grief;Their timely aid the needy sufferers find,Their generous manner soothes the suffering mind;Theirs is a gracious bounty, form'd to raiseHim whom it aids; their charity is praise;A common bounty may relieve distress,But whom the vulgar succour, they oppress;310This, though a favour, is an honour too;Though mercy's duty, yet 'tis merit's due:When our relief from such resources rise,All painful sense of obligation dies;And grateful feelings in the bosom wake,For 'tis their offerings, not their alms, we take.Long may these founts of charity remain,And never shrink but to be fill'd again;}True! to the author they are now confined,}To him who gave the treasure of his mind,}320His time, his health, and thankless found mankind:But there is hope that from these founts may flowA sideway stream, and equal goodbestow—Good that may reach us, whom the day's distressKeeps from the fame and perils of the press;Whom study beckons from the ills of life,And they from study—melancholy strife!Who then can say but bounty now so free,And so diffused, may find its way to me?Yes! I may see my decent table yet330Cheer'd with the meal that adds not to my debt;May talk of those to whom so much we owe,And guess their names whom yet we may not know;Bless'd we shall say are those who thus can give,And next who thus upon the bounty live;Then shall I close with thanks my humble meal,And feel so well—Oh! God! how I shall feel!"
Ask you what lands our pastor tithes?—Alas!
But few our acres, and but short our grass:
In some fat pastures of the rich, indeed,
May roll the single cow or favourite steed,
170
Who, stable-fed, is here for pleasure seen,
His sleek sides bathing in the dewy green:
But these, our hilly heath and common wide,
Yield a slight portion for the parish-guide;
No crops luxuriant in our borders stand,
For here we plough the ocean, not the land;
Still reason wills that we our pastor pay,
And custom does it on a certain day.
Much is the duty, small the legal due,
And this with grateful minds we keep in view;
180
Each makes his off'ring, some by habit led,
Some by the thought, that all men must be fed;
Duty and love, and piety and pride,
have each their force, and for the priest provide.
Not thus our Curate, one whom all believe
Pious and just, and for whose fate they grieve;
All see him poor, but ev'n the vulgar know
He merits love, and their respect bestow.
A man so learn'd you shall but seldom see,
Nor one so honour'd, so aggrieved ashe—
190
Not grieved by years alone; though his appear
Dark and more dark, severer on severe:
Not in his need,—and yet we all must grant
How painful 'tis for feeling age to want;
Nor in his body's sufferings—yet we know
Where time has plough'd, there misery loves to sow:
But in the wearied mind, that all in vain
Wars with distress, and struggles with its pain.
His father saw his powers—"I'll give," quoth he,
"My first-born learning; 'twill a portion be."
200
Unhappy gift! a portion for a son!
But all he had:—he learn'd, and was undone!
Better, apprenticed to an humble trade,
Had he the cassock for the priesthood made,
Or thrown the shuttle, or the saddle shaped,
And all these pangs of feeling souls escaped.
He once had hope—hope ardent, lively, light;
His feelings pleasant, and his prospects bright:
Eager of fame, he read, he thought, he wrote,
Weigh'd the Greek page, and added note on note;
210
At morn, at evening at his work was he,
And dream'd what his Euripides would be.
Then care began;—he loved, he woo'd, he wed;
Hope cheer'd him still, and Hymen bless'd hisbed—
A Curate's bed! then came the woful years,
The husband's terrors, and the father's tears;
A wife grown feeble, mourning, pining, vex'd,
With wants and woes—by daily cares perplex'd;
No more a help, a smiling, soothing aid,
But boding, drooping, sickly, and afraid.
220
A kind physician and without a fee,
Gave his opinion—"Send her to the sea."
"Alas!" the good man answer'd, "can I send
A friendless woman? Can I find a friend?
No; I must with her, in her need, repair
To that new place; the poor lieeverywhere;—
Some priest will pay me for my piouspains:"—
He said, he came, and here he yet remains.
Behold his dwelling; this poor hut he hires,
Where he from view, though not from want, retires;
230
Where four fair daughters, and five sorrowing sons,
Partake his sufferings, and dismiss his duns.
All join their efforts, and in patience learn
To want the comforts they aspire to earn;
For the sick mother something they'd obtain,
To soothe her grief and mitigate her pain;
For the sad father something they'd procure,
To ease the burthen they themselves endure.
Virtues like these at once delight and press
On the fond father with a proud distress;
240
On all around he looks with care and love,
Grieved to behold, but happy to approve.
Then from his care, his love, his grief he steals,
And by himself an author's pleasure feels;
Each line detains him, he omits not one,
And all the sorrows of his state aregone.—
Alas! ev'n then, in that delicious hour,
He feels his fortune, and laments its power.
Some tradesman's bill his wandering eyes engage,
Some scrawl for payment, thrust 'twixt page and page;
}
250
Some bold, loud rapping at his humble door,
}
Some surly message he has heard before,
}
Awake, alarm, and tell him he is poor.
An angry dealer, vulgar, rich, and proud,
Thinks of his bill, and passing, raps aloud;
The elder daughter meekly makes himway—
"I want my money, and I cannot stay:
My mill is stopp'd; what, Miss! I cannot grind;
Go tell your father he must raise the wind."
Still trembling, troubled, the dejected maid
260
Says, "Sir! my father!—" and then steps afraid:
Ev'n his hard heart is soften'd, and he hears
Her voice with pity; he respects her tears;
His stubborn features half admit a smile,
And his tone softens—"Well! I'll wait awhile."
Pity, a man so good, so mild, so meek,
At such an age, should have his bread to seek;
And all those rude and fierce attacks to dread,
That are more harrowing than the want of bread;
Ah! who shall whisper to that misery peace,
270
And say that want and insolence shall cease?
"But why not publish?"—those who know too well,
Dealers in Greek, are fearful 'twill not sell;
Then he himself is timid, troubled, slow,
Nor likes his labours nor his griefs to show;
The hope of fame may in his heart have place,
But he has dread and horror of disgrace;
Nor has he that confiding, easy way,
That might his learning and himself display;
But to his work he from the world retreats,
280
And frets and glories o'er the favourite sheets.
But see the man himself; and sure I trace
Signs of new joy exulting in that face
O'er care that sleeps—we err, or we discern
Life in thy looks—the reason may we learn?
"Yes," he replied, "I'm happy, I confess,
To learn that some are pleased with happiness
}
Which others feel—there are who now combine
}
The worthiest natures in the best design,
}
To aid the letter'd poor, and soothe such ills as mine:
290
We who more keenly feel the world's contempt,
And from its miseries are the least exempt;
Now hope shall whisper to the wounded breast,
And grief, in soothing expectation, rest.
Yes, I am taught that men who think, who feel,
Unite the pains of thoughtful men to heal;
Not with disdainful pride, whose bounties make
The needy curse the benefits they take;
Not with the idle vanity that knows
Only a selfish joy when it bestows;
300
Not with o'erbearing wealth, that, in disdain,
Hurls the superfluous bliss at groaning pain;
But these are men who yield such bless'd relief
That with the grievance they destroy the grief;
Their timely aid the needy sufferers find,
Their generous manner soothes the suffering mind;
Theirs is a gracious bounty, form'd to raise
Him whom it aids; their charity is praise;
A common bounty may relieve distress,
But whom the vulgar succour, they oppress;
310
This, though a favour, is an honour too;
Though mercy's duty, yet 'tis merit's due:
When our relief from such resources rise,
All painful sense of obligation dies;
And grateful feelings in the bosom wake,
For 'tis their offerings, not their alms, we take.
Long may these founts of charity remain,
And never shrink but to be fill'd again;
}
True! to the author they are now confined,
}
To him who gave the treasure of his mind,
}
320
His time, his health, and thankless found mankind:
But there is hope that from these founts may flow
A sideway stream, and equal goodbestow—
Good that may reach us, whom the day's distress
Keeps from the fame and perils of the press;
Whom study beckons from the ills of life,
And they from study—melancholy strife!
Who then can say but bounty now so free,
And so diffused, may find its way to me?
Yes! I may see my decent table yet
330
Cheer'd with the meal that adds not to my debt;
May talk of those to whom so much we owe,
And guess their names whom yet we may not know;
Bless'd we shall say are those who thus can give,
And next who thus upon the bounty live;
Then shall I close with thanks my humble meal,
And feel so well—Oh! God! how I shall feel!"
SECTS AND PROFESSIONS IN RELIGION.
... But cast your eyes again,And view those errors which new sects maintain,Or which of old disturb'd the [Church's] peaceful reign:And we can point each period of the timeWhen they began and who begat the crime;Can calculate how long th' eclipse endured;Who interposed; what digits were obscured;Of all which are already pass'd away,We [know] the rise, the progress, and decay.Dryden.—Hind and Panther, Part II.
... But cast your eyes again,
And view those errors which new sects maintain,
Or which of old disturb'd the [Church's] peaceful reign:
And we can point each period of the time
When they began and who begat the crime;
Can calculate how long th' eclipse endured;
Who interposed; what digits were obscured;
Of all which are already pass'd away,
We [know] the rise, the progress, and decay.
Dryden.—Hind and Panther, Part II.
[Ah!] said the Hind, how many sons have youWho call you mother, whom you never knew?But most of them who that relation pleadAre such ungracious youths as wish you dead;They gape at rich revenues which you hold,And fain would nibble at your grandame gold.Hind and Panther[Part III].
[Ah!] said the Hind, how many sons have you
Who call you mother, whom you never knew?
But most of them who that relation plead
Are such ungracious youths as wish you dead;
They gape at rich revenues which you hold,
And fain would nibble at your grandame gold.
Hind and Panther[Part III].
Sects and Professions in Religion are numerous and successive—General Effect of false Zeal—Deists—Fanatical Idea of Church Reformers—The Church of Rome—Baptists—Swedenborgians—Universalists—Jews.
Methodists of two Kinds; Calvinistic and Arminian.
The Preaching of a Calvinistic Enthusiast—His Contempt of Learning—Dislike to sound Morality: why—His Idea of Conversion—His Success and Pretensions to Humility.
The Arminian Teacher of the older Flock—Their Notions of the Operations and Power of Satan—Description of his Devices—TheirOpinion of regular Ministers—Comparison of these with the Preacher himself—A Rebuke to his Hearers; introduces a Description of the powerful Effects of the Word in the early and awakening Days of Methodism.
LETTER IV.
SECTS AND PROFESSIONS IN RELIGION.
"Sects in Religion?"—Yes, of every raceWe nurse some portion in our favoured place;Not one warm preacher of one growing sectCan say our Borough treats him with neglect;Frequent as fashions they with us appear,And you might ask, "how think we for the year?"They come to us as riders in a trade,And with much art exhibit and persuade.Minds are for sects of various kinds decreed,10As different soils are form'd for diff'rent seed;Some, when converted, sigh in sore amaze,And some are wrapt in joy's ecstatic blaze;Others again will change to each extreme,They know not why—as hurried in a dream;Unstable they, like water, take all forms,Are quick and stagnant, have their calms and storms;}High on the hills, they in the sunbeams glow;}Then muddily they move debased and slow,}Or cold and frozen rest, and neither rise nor flow.20Yet none the cool and prudent teacher prize;On him they dote who wakes their ecstasies;With passions ready primed such guide they meet,And warm and kindle with th' imparted heat;'Tis he who wakes the nameless strong desire,The melting rapture, and the glowing fire;'Tis he who pierces deep the tortured breast,And stirs the terrors, never more to rest.Opposed to these we have a prouder kind,Rash without heat, and without raptures blind;30These ourGlad Tidingsunconcern'd peruse,Search without awe, and without fear refuse;The truths, the blessings found in Sacred Writ,Call forth their spleen, and exercise their wit;Respect from these nor saints nor martyrs gain;The zeal they scorn, and they deride the pain;And take their transient, cool, contemptuous view,Of that which must be tried, and doubtless—may be true.Friends of our faith we have, whom doubts like these,And keen remarks, and bold objections please;40They grant such doubts have weaker minds oppress'd,Till sound conviction gave the troubled rest."But still," they cry, "let none their censures spare;They but confirm the glorious hopes we share;From doubt, disdain, derision, scorn, and lies,With five-fold triumph sacred truth shall rise."Yes! I allow, so truth shall stand at last,And gain fresh glory by the conflictpast—As Solway-Moss (a barren mass and cold,Death to the seed, and poison to the fold,)50The smiling plain and fertile vale o'erlaid,Choked the green sod, and kill'd the springing blade;That, changed by culture, may in time be seen,Enrich'd by golden grain, and pasture green;And these fair acres, rented and enjoy'd,May those excel by Solway-Moss destroyed[44].Still must have mourn'd the tenant of the day,For hopes destroy'd and harvests swept away;To him the gain of future years unknown,The instant grief and suffering were his own.60So must I grieve for many a wounded heart,Chill'd by those doubts which bolder minds impart:Truth in the end shall shine divinely clear,But sad the darkness till those times appear;Contests for truth, as wars for freedom, yieldGlory and joy to those who gain the field;But still the Christian must in pity sighFor all who suffer, and uncertain die.Here are, who all the Church maintains approve,But yet the Church herself they will not love;70In angry speech, they blame the carnal tie,Which pure Religion lost her spirit by;What time from prisons, flames, and tortures led,She slumber'd careless in a royal bed;To make, they add, the Churches' glory shine.Should Diocletian reign, not Constantine."In pomp," they cry, "is England's Church array'd;Her cool reformers wrought like men afraid.We would have pull'd her gorgeous temples down,And spurn'd her mitre, and defiled her gown;80We would have trodden low both bench and stall,Nor left a tithe remaining, great or small."Let us be serious.—Should such trials come,Are they themselves prepared for martyrdom?It seems to us that our reformers knewTh' important work they undertook to do;An equal priesthood they were loth to try,Lest zeal and care should with ambition die;To them it seem'd that, take the tenth away,Yet priests must eat, and you must feed or pay:90Would they indeed, who hold such pay in scorn,Put on the muzzle when they tread the corn?Would they, all gratis, watch and tend the fold,Nor take one fleece to keep them from the cold?Men are not equal, and 'tis meet and rightThat robes and titles our respect excite;Order requires it; 'tis by vulgar prideThat such regard is censured and denied,Or by that false enthusiastic zeal,That thinks the spirit will the priest reveal,100And show to all men, by their powerful speech,Who are appointed and inspired to teach.Alas! could we the dangerous rule believe,Whom for their teacher should the crowd receive?Since all the varying kinds demand respect,All press you on to join their chosen sect,Although but in this single point agreed,"Desert your churches and adopt our creed."We know full well how much our forms offendThe burthen'd Papist and the simpleFriend—110Him who new robes for every service takes,And who in drab and beaver sighs and shakes.He on the priest, whom hood and band adorn,Looks with the sleepy eye of silent scorn;But him I would not for my friend and guide,Who views such things with spleen, or wears with pride.See next our several sects—but first beholdThe Church of Rome, who here is poor and old:Use not triumphant rail'ry, or, at least,Let not thy mother be a whore and beast.120Great was her pride indeed in ancient times;Yet shall we think of nothing but her crimes?Exalted high above all earthly things,She placed her foot upon the neck of kings;But some have deeply since avenged the crown,And thrown her glory and her honours down;Nor neck nor ear can she of kings command,Nor place a foot upon her own fair land.Among her sons, with us a quiet few,Obscure themselves, her ancient state review;130And fond and melancholy glances castOn power insulted, and on triumph pass'd:They look, they can but look, with many a sigh,On sacred buildings doom'd in dust to lie;"On seats," they tell, "where priests 'mid tapers dimBreathed the warm prayer, or tuned the midnight hymn;Where trembling penitents their guilt confess'd;Where want had succour, and contrition rest.There weary men from trouble found relief,There men in sorrow found repose from grief;140To scenes like these the fainting soul retired;Revenge and anger in these cells expired;By pity soothed, remorse lost half her fears,And soften'd pride dropp'd penitential tears.Then convent-walls and nunnery-spires arose,In pleasant spots which monk or abbot chose;When counts and barons saints devoted fed,And, making cheap exchange, had pray'r for bread.Now all is lost; the earth where abbeys stoodIs layman's land, the glebe, the stream, the wood;150His oxen low where monks retired to eat;His cows repose upon the prior's seat;And wanton doves within the cloisters bill,Where the chaste votary warr'd with wanton will."Such is the change they mourn, but they restrainThe rage of grief, and passively complain.We've Baptists old and new; forbear to askWhat the distinction—I decline the task.This I perceive, that, when a sect grows old,Converts are few, and the converted cold:160First comes the hot-bed heat, and, while it glows,The plants spring up, and each with vigour grows;Then comes the cooler day, and, though awhileThe verdure prospers and the blossoms smile,Yet poor the fruit, and form'd by long delay,Nor will the profits for the culture pay;The skilful gard'ner then no longer stops,But turns to other beds for bearing crops.Some Swedenborgians in our streets are found,Those wandering walkers on enchanted ground;170Who in our world can other worlds survey,And speak with spirits, though confined in clay:Of Bible-mysteries they the keys possess,Assured themselves, where wiser men but guess:'Tis theirs to see—around, about,above—How spirits mingle thoughts, and angels move;Those whom our grosser views from us exclude,To them appear a heavenly multitude;While the dark sayings, seal'd to men like us,Their priests interpret, and their flocks discuss.180But while these gifted men, a favoured fold,New powers exhibit and new worlds behold;Is there not danger lest their minds confoundThe pure above them with the gross around?May not these Phaetons, who thus contrive'Twixt heaven above and earth beneath to drive,When from their flaming chariots they descend,The worlds they visit in their fancies blend?Alas! too sure on both they bring disgrace;Their earth is crazy, and their heav'n is base.190We have, it seems, who treat, and doubtless well,Of a chastising, not awarding hell;Who are assured that an offended GodWill cease to use the thunder and the rod;A soul on earth, by crime and folly stain'd,When here corrected, has improvementgain'd—In other state still more improved to grow,And nobler powers in happier world to know;New strength to use in each divine employ,And, more enjoying, looking to more joy.200A pleasing vision! could we thus be surePolluted souls would be at length so pure;The view is happy, we may think it just,It may be true—but who shall add it must?To the plain words and sense of sacred writ,With all my heart I reverently submit;But, where it leaves me doubtful, I'm afraidTo call conjecture to my reason's aid;Thy thoughts, thy ways, great God! are not as mine,And to thy mercy I my soul resign.210Jews are with us, but far unlike to those,Who, led by David, warr'd with Israel's foes;Unlike to those whom his imperial sonTaught truths divine—the preacher Solomon:Nor war nor wisdom yield our Jews delight;They will not study, and they dare not fight[45].These are, with us, a slavish, knavish crew,Shame and dishonour to the name of Jew;The poorest masters of the meanest arts,With cunning heads, and cold and cautious hearts;220They grope their dirty way to petty gains,While poorly paid for their nefarious pains.Amazing race! deprived of land and laws,A general language, and a public cause;With a religion none can now obey,With a reproach that none can take away:A people still, whose common ties are gone;Who, mix'd with every race, are lost in none.What said their prophet?—"Shouldst thou disobey,The Lord shall take thee from thy land away;230Thou shalt a by-word and a proverb be,And all shall wonder at thy woes and thee;Daughter and son shalt thou, while captive, have,And see them made the bond-maid and the slave;He, whom thou leav'st, the Lord thy God, shall bringWar to thy country on an eagle-wing:A people strong and dreadful to behold,Stern to the young, remorseless to the old;Masters, whose speech thou canst not understand,By cruel signs shall give the harsh command;240Doubtful of life shalt thou by night, by day,For grief, and dread, and trouble pine away;Thy evening-wish,—'Would God I saw the sun!'Thy morning-sigh,—'Would God the day were done!'Thus shalt thou suffer, and to distant timesRegret thy misery, and lament thy crimes[46]."A part there are, whom doubtless man might trust,Worthy as wealthy, pure, religious, just;They who with patience, yet with rapture lookOn the strong promise of the sacred book:250As unfulfilled th' endearing words they view,And blind to truth, yet own their prophets true;Well pleased they look for Sion's coming state,Nor think of Julian's boast and Julian's fate[47].More might I add; I might describe the flocksMade by seceders from the ancient stocks;Those who will not to any guide submit,Nor find one creed to their conceptions fit,Each sect, they judge, in something goes astray,And every church has lost the certain way;260Then for themselves they carve out creed and laws,And weigh their atoms, and divide their straws.}A sect remains, which though divided long}In hostile parties, both are fierce and strong,}And into each enlists a warm and zealous throng.}Soon as they rose in fame, the strife arose,}The Calvinistic these, th' Arminian those;}With Wesley some remained, the remnant Whitfield chose.Now various leaders both the parties take,And the divided hosts their new divisions make.270See yonder preacher to his people pass,Borne up and swell'd by tabernacle-gas;Much he discourses, and of various points,All unconnected, void of limbs and joints;He rails, persuades, explains, and moves the will,By fierce bold words, and strong mechanic skill."That Gospel Paul with zeal and love maintain'd,To others lost, to you is now explain'd;No worldly learning can these points discuss,Books teach them not as they are taught to us.280Illiterate call us! let their wisest manDraw forth his thousands as your teacher can:They give their moral precepts; so, they say,Did Epictetus once, and Seneca;One was a slave, and slaves we all must be,Until the Spirit comes and sets us free,Yet hear you nothing from such men but works;They make the Christian service like the Turks'."Hark to the churchman: day by day hecries,—'Children of men, be virtuous and be wise;290Seek patience, justice, temp'rance, meekness, truth;In age be courteous, be sedate inyouth.'—So they advise, and when such things be read,How can we wonder that their flocks are dead?"The heathens wrote of virtue, they could dwellOn such light points—in them it might be well,They might for virtue strive; but I maintain,Our strife for virtue would be proud and vain.When Samson carried Gaza's gates so far,Lack'd he a helping hand to bear the bar?300Thus the most virtuous must in bondage groan:Samson is grace, and carries all alone[48]."Hear you not priests their feeble spirits spendIn bidding sinners turn to God, and mend;To check their passions, and to walk aright;To run the race, and fight the glorious fight?Nay more—to pray, to study, to improve,To grow in goodness, to advance in love?"Oh! babes and sucklings, dull of heart and slow,Can grace be gradual? Can conversion grow?310The work is done by instantaneous call;Converts at once are made, or not at all;Nothing is left to grow, reform, amend;The first emotion is the movement's end:If once forgiven, debt can be no more;If once adopted, will the heir be poor?The man who gains the twenty-thousand prize,Does he by little and by little rise?There can no fortune for the soul be madeBy peddling cares and savings in her trade.320"Why are our sins forgiven?—Priests reply,—'Because by faith on mercy we rely;Because, believing, we repent andpray,'—Is this their doctrine?—then, they go astray:We're pardon'd neither for belief nor deed,For faith nor practice, principle nor creed;Nor for our sorrow for our former sin,Nor for our fears when better thoughts begin;Nor prayers nor penance in the cause avail;All strong remorse, all soft contritionfail:—330It is thecall!till that proclaims us free,In darkness, doubt, and bondage we must be;Till thatassuresus, we've in vain endured,And all is over when we're once assured."This is conversion:—First, there comes a cryWhich utters, 'Sinner, thou'rt condemned to die;'Then the struck soul to every aid repairs,To church and altar, ministers and prayers;In vain she strives—involved, ingulf'd in sin,She looks for hell, and seems already in:340When in this travail, the new birth comes on,And in an instant every pang is gone;The mighty work is done without ourpains—Claim but a part, and not a part remains.}"All this experience tells the soul, and yet}These moral men their pence and farthings set}Against the terrors of the countless debt.But such compounders, when they come to jail,Will find that virtues never serve as bail."So much to duties; now to learning look,350And see their priesthood piling book on book;Yea, books of infidels, we're told, and plays,Put out by heathens in the wink'd-on days;The very letters are of crooked kind,And show the strange perverseness of their mind.Have I this learning? When the Lord would speak,Think ye he needs the Latin or the Greek?And lo! with all their learning, when they riseTo preach, in view the ready sermon lies;Some low-prized stuff they purchased at the stalls,360And more like Seneca's than mine or Paul's.Children of bondage, how should they explainThe spirit's freedom, while they wear a chain?They study words, for meanings grow perplex'd,And slowly hunt for truth, from text to text,Through Greek and Hebrew—we the meaning seekOf that within, who every tongue can speak.This all can witness; yet the more I know,The more a meek and humble mind I show."No; let the Pope, the high and mighty priest,370Lord to the poor, and servant to the Beast,Let bishops, deans, and prebendaries swellWith pride and fatness till their hearts rebel:I'm meek and modest.—If I could be proud,This crowded meeting, lo! th' amazing crowd!Your mute attention, and your meek respect,My spirit's fervour, and my words' effect:Might stir th' unguarded soul; and oft to meThe tempter speaks, whom I compel to flee;He goes in fear, for he my force hastried—380Such is my power! but can you call it pride?"No, fellow-pilgrims! of the things I've shownI might be proud, were they indeed my own!But they are lent; and well you know the sourceOf all that's mine, and must confide of course;Mine! no, I err; 'tis but consign'd to me,And I am nought but steward and trustee."Farother doctrines yon Arminian speaks;"Seek grace," he cries; "for he shall find who seeks."This is the ancient stock by Wesleyled—390They the pure body, he the reverend head;All innovation they with dread decline;Their John the elder was the John divine.Hence still their moving prayer, the melting hymn,The varied accent, and the active limb;Hence that implicit faith in Satan's might,And their own matchless prowess in the fight.In every act they see that lurking foe,Let loose awhile, about the world togo:—A dragon, flying round the earth, to kill400The heavenly hope, and prompt the carnal will;Whom sainted knights attack in sinners' cause,And force the wounded victim from his paws;Who but for them would man's whole race subdue;For not a hireling will the foe pursue.}"Show me one Churchman who will rise and pray}Through half the night, though lab'ring all the day,}Always abounding—show me him, I say."—Thus cries the preacher, and he adds, "their sheepSatan devours at leisure as they sleep.410Not so with us; we drive him from the fold,For ever barking and for ever bold;While they securely slumber, all his schemesTake full effect—the devil never dreams:Watchful and changeful through the world he goes,And few can trace this deadliest of their foes;But I detect, and at his work surprise,The subtle serpent under all disguise."Thus to man's soul the foe of souls will speak,—'A saint elect, you can have nought to seek;420Why all this labour in so plain a case—Such care to run, when certain of the race?'All this he urges to the carnal will;He knows you're slothful, and would have you still.Be this your answer,—'Satan, I will keepStill on the watch till you are laid asleep.'Thus too the Christian's progress he'llretard:—'The gates of mercy are for ever barr'd,And that with bolts so driven and so stout,Ten thousand workmen cannot wrench them out,'430To this deceit you have but one reply—Give to the father of all lies, the lie."A sister's weakness he'll by fitssurprise—His her wild laughter, his her piteous cries;And, should a pastor at her side attend,He'll use her organs to abuse her friend.These are possessions—unbelieving witsImpute them all to nature: 'They're her fits,Caused by commotions in the nerves andbrains.'—Vain talk! but they'll be fitted for their pains.440"These are in part the ills the foe has wrought,And these the churchman thinks not worth his thought;They bid the troubled try for peace and rest,Compose their minds, and be no more distress'd;As well might they command the passive shoreTo keep secure, and be o'erflow'd no more;To the wrong subject is their skillapplied—To act like workmen, they should stem the tide."These are the church-physicians; they are paidWith noble fees for their advice and aid;450Yet know they not the inward pulse to feel,To ease the anguish, or the wound to heal.With the sick sinner thus their work begins:'Do you repent you of your former sins?Will you amend if you revive and live,And, pardon seeking, will you pardon give?Have you belief in what your Lord has done,And are you thankful?—all is well, my son.'"A way far different ours—we thus surpriseA soul with questions, and demand replies;460"'How dropp'd you first,' I ask, 'the legal yoke?What the first word the living Witness spoke?Perceived you thunders roar and lightnings shine,And tempests gathering ere the birth divine?Did fire, and storm, and earthquake all appearBefore that still small voice,What dost thou here?Hast thou by day and night, and soon and late,Waited and watch'd before Admission-gate;And so, a pilgrim and a soldier, pass'dTo Sion's hill through battle and through blast?470Then, in thy way didst thou thy foe attack,And mad'st thou proud Apollyon turn his back?'"Heart-searching things are these, and shake the mind,Yea, like the rustling of a mighty wind."Thus would I ask:—'Nay, let me question now,How sink my sayings in your bosoms? how?Feel you a quickening? drops the subject deep?Stupid and stony, no! you're all asleep;Listless and lazy, waiting for a close,As if at church—Do I allow repose?480Am I a legal minister? do IWith form or rubrick, rule or rite, comply?Then, whence this quiet, tell me, I beseech?One might believe you heard your rector preach,Or his assistant dreamer;—Oh! return,Ye times of burning, when the heart would burn.Now hearts are ice, and you, my freezing fold,Have spirits sunk and sad, and bosoms stony-cold,'"Oh! now again for those prevailing powers,Which once began this mighty work of ours;490When the wide field, God's temple, was the place,And birds flew by to catch a breath of grace;When 'mid his timid friends and threat'ning foes,Our zealous chief as Paul at Athens rose:When with infernal spite and knotty clubsThe ill-one arm'd his scoundrels and his scrubs;And there were flying all around the spotBrands at the preacher, but they touch'd him not;Stakes brought to smite him, threaten'd in his cause,And tongues, attuned to curses, roar'd applause;500Louder and louder grew his awful tones,Sobbing and sighs were heard, and rueful groans;Soft women fainted, prouder man express'dWonder and wo, and butchers smote the breast;Eyes wept, ears tingled; stiff'ning on each head,The hair drew back, and Satan howl'd and fled."In that soft season, when the gentle breezeRises all round, and swells by slow degrees;Till tempests gather, when through all the skyThe thunders rattle, and the lightnings fly;510When rain in torrents wood and vale deform,And all is horror, hurricane, and storm:So, when the preacher in that glorious time,Than clouds more melting, more than storm sublime,Dropp'd the new word, there came a charm around;Tremors and terrors rose upon the sound;The stubborn spirits by his force he broke,As the fork'd lightning rives the knotted oak.Fear, hope, dismay, all signs of shame or grace,Chain'd every foot, or featured every face;520Then took his sacred trump a louder swell,And now they groan'd they sicken'd, and they fell;Again he sounded, and we heard the cryOf the word-wounded, as about to die;Further and further spread the conquering word,As loud he cried—'the battle of the Lord.'Ev'n those apart who were the sound denied,Fell down instinctive, and in spirit died.Nor [stay'd] he yet—his eye, his frown, his speech,His very gesture had a power to teach;530With outstretch'd arms, strong voice and piercing call,He won the field, and made the Dagons fall;And thus in triumph took his glorious way,Through scenes of horror, terror, and dismay."
"Sects in Religion?"—Yes, of every race
We nurse some portion in our favoured place;
Not one warm preacher of one growing sect
Can say our Borough treats him with neglect;
Frequent as fashions they with us appear,
And you might ask, "how think we for the year?"
They come to us as riders in a trade,
And with much art exhibit and persuade.
Minds are for sects of various kinds decreed,
10
As different soils are form'd for diff'rent seed;
Some, when converted, sigh in sore amaze,
And some are wrapt in joy's ecstatic blaze;
Others again will change to each extreme,
They know not why—as hurried in a dream;
Unstable they, like water, take all forms,
Are quick and stagnant, have their calms and storms;
}
High on the hills, they in the sunbeams glow;
}
Then muddily they move debased and slow,
}
Or cold and frozen rest, and neither rise nor flow.
20
Yet none the cool and prudent teacher prize;
On him they dote who wakes their ecstasies;
With passions ready primed such guide they meet,
And warm and kindle with th' imparted heat;
'Tis he who wakes the nameless strong desire,
The melting rapture, and the glowing fire;
'Tis he who pierces deep the tortured breast,
And stirs the terrors, never more to rest.
Opposed to these we have a prouder kind,
Rash without heat, and without raptures blind;
30
These ourGlad Tidingsunconcern'd peruse,
Search without awe, and without fear refuse;
The truths, the blessings found in Sacred Writ,
Call forth their spleen, and exercise their wit;
Respect from these nor saints nor martyrs gain;
The zeal they scorn, and they deride the pain;
And take their transient, cool, contemptuous view,
Of that which must be tried, and doubtless—may be true.
Friends of our faith we have, whom doubts like these,
And keen remarks, and bold objections please;
40
They grant such doubts have weaker minds oppress'd,
Till sound conviction gave the troubled rest.
"But still," they cry, "let none their censures spare;
They but confirm the glorious hopes we share;
From doubt, disdain, derision, scorn, and lies,
With five-fold triumph sacred truth shall rise."
Yes! I allow, so truth shall stand at last,
And gain fresh glory by the conflictpast—
As Solway-Moss (a barren mass and cold,
Death to the seed, and poison to the fold,)
50
The smiling plain and fertile vale o'erlaid,
Choked the green sod, and kill'd the springing blade;
That, changed by culture, may in time be seen,
Enrich'd by golden grain, and pasture green;
And these fair acres, rented and enjoy'd,
May those excel by Solway-Moss destroyed[44].
Still must have mourn'd the tenant of the day,
For hopes destroy'd and harvests swept away;
To him the gain of future years unknown,
The instant grief and suffering were his own.
60
So must I grieve for many a wounded heart,
Chill'd by those doubts which bolder minds impart:
Truth in the end shall shine divinely clear,
But sad the darkness till those times appear;
Contests for truth, as wars for freedom, yield
Glory and joy to those who gain the field;
But still the Christian must in pity sigh
For all who suffer, and uncertain die.
Here are, who all the Church maintains approve,
But yet the Church herself they will not love;
70
In angry speech, they blame the carnal tie,
Which pure Religion lost her spirit by;
What time from prisons, flames, and tortures led,
She slumber'd careless in a royal bed;
To make, they add, the Churches' glory shine.
Should Diocletian reign, not Constantine.
"In pomp," they cry, "is England's Church array'd;
Her cool reformers wrought like men afraid.
We would have pull'd her gorgeous temples down,
And spurn'd her mitre, and defiled her gown;
80
We would have trodden low both bench and stall,
Nor left a tithe remaining, great or small."
Let us be serious.—Should such trials come,
Are they themselves prepared for martyrdom?
It seems to us that our reformers knew
Th' important work they undertook to do;
An equal priesthood they were loth to try,
Lest zeal and care should with ambition die;
To them it seem'd that, take the tenth away,
Yet priests must eat, and you must feed or pay:
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Would they indeed, who hold such pay in scorn,
Put on the muzzle when they tread the corn?
Would they, all gratis, watch and tend the fold,
Nor take one fleece to keep them from the cold?
Men are not equal, and 'tis meet and right
That robes and titles our respect excite;
Order requires it; 'tis by vulgar pride
That such regard is censured and denied,
Or by that false enthusiastic zeal,
That thinks the spirit will the priest reveal,
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And show to all men, by their powerful speech,
Who are appointed and inspired to teach.
Alas! could we the dangerous rule believe,
Whom for their teacher should the crowd receive?
Since all the varying kinds demand respect,
All press you on to join their chosen sect,
Although but in this single point agreed,
"Desert your churches and adopt our creed."
We know full well how much our forms offend
The burthen'd Papist and the simpleFriend—
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Him who new robes for every service takes,
And who in drab and beaver sighs and shakes.
He on the priest, whom hood and band adorn,
Looks with the sleepy eye of silent scorn;
But him I would not for my friend and guide,
Who views such things with spleen, or wears with pride.
See next our several sects—but first behold
The Church of Rome, who here is poor and old:
Use not triumphant rail'ry, or, at least,
Let not thy mother be a whore and beast.
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Great was her pride indeed in ancient times;
Yet shall we think of nothing but her crimes?
Exalted high above all earthly things,
She placed her foot upon the neck of kings;
But some have deeply since avenged the crown,
And thrown her glory and her honours down;
Nor neck nor ear can she of kings command,
Nor place a foot upon her own fair land.
Among her sons, with us a quiet few,
Obscure themselves, her ancient state review;
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And fond and melancholy glances cast
On power insulted, and on triumph pass'd:
They look, they can but look, with many a sigh,
On sacred buildings doom'd in dust to lie;
"On seats," they tell, "where priests 'mid tapers dim
Breathed the warm prayer, or tuned the midnight hymn;
Where trembling penitents their guilt confess'd;
Where want had succour, and contrition rest.
There weary men from trouble found relief,
There men in sorrow found repose from grief;
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To scenes like these the fainting soul retired;
Revenge and anger in these cells expired;
By pity soothed, remorse lost half her fears,
And soften'd pride dropp'd penitential tears.
Then convent-walls and nunnery-spires arose,
In pleasant spots which monk or abbot chose;
When counts and barons saints devoted fed,
And, making cheap exchange, had pray'r for bread.
Now all is lost; the earth where abbeys stood
Is layman's land, the glebe, the stream, the wood;
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His oxen low where monks retired to eat;
His cows repose upon the prior's seat;
And wanton doves within the cloisters bill,
Where the chaste votary warr'd with wanton will."
Such is the change they mourn, but they restrain
The rage of grief, and passively complain.
We've Baptists old and new; forbear to ask
What the distinction—I decline the task.
This I perceive, that, when a sect grows old,
Converts are few, and the converted cold:
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First comes the hot-bed heat, and, while it glows,
The plants spring up, and each with vigour grows;
Then comes the cooler day, and, though awhile
The verdure prospers and the blossoms smile,
Yet poor the fruit, and form'd by long delay,
Nor will the profits for the culture pay;
The skilful gard'ner then no longer stops,
But turns to other beds for bearing crops.
Some Swedenborgians in our streets are found,
Those wandering walkers on enchanted ground;
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Who in our world can other worlds survey,
And speak with spirits, though confined in clay:
Of Bible-mysteries they the keys possess,
Assured themselves, where wiser men but guess:
'Tis theirs to see—around, about,above—
How spirits mingle thoughts, and angels move;
Those whom our grosser views from us exclude,
To them appear a heavenly multitude;
While the dark sayings, seal'd to men like us,
Their priests interpret, and their flocks discuss.
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But while these gifted men, a favoured fold,
New powers exhibit and new worlds behold;
Is there not danger lest their minds confound
The pure above them with the gross around?
May not these Phaetons, who thus contrive
'Twixt heaven above and earth beneath to drive,
When from their flaming chariots they descend,
The worlds they visit in their fancies blend?
Alas! too sure on both they bring disgrace;
Their earth is crazy, and their heav'n is base.
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We have, it seems, who treat, and doubtless well,
Of a chastising, not awarding hell;
Who are assured that an offended God
Will cease to use the thunder and the rod;
A soul on earth, by crime and folly stain'd,
When here corrected, has improvementgain'd—
In other state still more improved to grow,
And nobler powers in happier world to know;
New strength to use in each divine employ,
And, more enjoying, looking to more joy.
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A pleasing vision! could we thus be sure
Polluted souls would be at length so pure;
The view is happy, we may think it just,
It may be true—but who shall add it must?
To the plain words and sense of sacred writ,
With all my heart I reverently submit;
But, where it leaves me doubtful, I'm afraid
To call conjecture to my reason's aid;
Thy thoughts, thy ways, great God! are not as mine,
And to thy mercy I my soul resign.
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Jews are with us, but far unlike to those,
Who, led by David, warr'd with Israel's foes;
Unlike to those whom his imperial son
Taught truths divine—the preacher Solomon:
Nor war nor wisdom yield our Jews delight;
They will not study, and they dare not fight[45].
These are, with us, a slavish, knavish crew,
Shame and dishonour to the name of Jew;
The poorest masters of the meanest arts,
With cunning heads, and cold and cautious hearts;
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They grope their dirty way to petty gains,
While poorly paid for their nefarious pains.
Amazing race! deprived of land and laws,
A general language, and a public cause;
With a religion none can now obey,
With a reproach that none can take away:
A people still, whose common ties are gone;
Who, mix'd with every race, are lost in none.
What said their prophet?—"Shouldst thou disobey,
The Lord shall take thee from thy land away;
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Thou shalt a by-word and a proverb be,
And all shall wonder at thy woes and thee;
Daughter and son shalt thou, while captive, have,
And see them made the bond-maid and the slave;
He, whom thou leav'st, the Lord thy God, shall bring
War to thy country on an eagle-wing:
A people strong and dreadful to behold,
Stern to the young, remorseless to the old;
Masters, whose speech thou canst not understand,
By cruel signs shall give the harsh command;
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Doubtful of life shalt thou by night, by day,
For grief, and dread, and trouble pine away;
Thy evening-wish,—'Would God I saw the sun!'
Thy morning-sigh,—'Would God the day were done!'
Thus shalt thou suffer, and to distant times
Regret thy misery, and lament thy crimes[46]."
A part there are, whom doubtless man might trust,
Worthy as wealthy, pure, religious, just;
They who with patience, yet with rapture look
On the strong promise of the sacred book:
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As unfulfilled th' endearing words they view,
And blind to truth, yet own their prophets true;
Well pleased they look for Sion's coming state,
Nor think of Julian's boast and Julian's fate[47].
More might I add; I might describe the flocks
Made by seceders from the ancient stocks;
Those who will not to any guide submit,
Nor find one creed to their conceptions fit,
Each sect, they judge, in something goes astray,
And every church has lost the certain way;
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Then for themselves they carve out creed and laws,
And weigh their atoms, and divide their straws.
}
A sect remains, which though divided long
}
In hostile parties, both are fierce and strong,
}
And into each enlists a warm and zealous throng.
}
Soon as they rose in fame, the strife arose,
}
The Calvinistic these, th' Arminian those;
}
With Wesley some remained, the remnant Whitfield chose.
Now various leaders both the parties take,
And the divided hosts their new divisions make.
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See yonder preacher to his people pass,
Borne up and swell'd by tabernacle-gas;
Much he discourses, and of various points,
All unconnected, void of limbs and joints;
He rails, persuades, explains, and moves the will,
By fierce bold words, and strong mechanic skill.
"That Gospel Paul with zeal and love maintain'd,
To others lost, to you is now explain'd;
No worldly learning can these points discuss,
Books teach them not as they are taught to us.
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Illiterate call us! let their wisest man
Draw forth his thousands as your teacher can:
They give their moral precepts; so, they say,
Did Epictetus once, and Seneca;
One was a slave, and slaves we all must be,
Until the Spirit comes and sets us free,
Yet hear you nothing from such men but works;
They make the Christian service like the Turks'.
"Hark to the churchman: day by day hecries,—
'Children of men, be virtuous and be wise;
290
Seek patience, justice, temp'rance, meekness, truth;
In age be courteous, be sedate inyouth.'—
So they advise, and when such things be read,
How can we wonder that their flocks are dead?
"The heathens wrote of virtue, they could dwell
On such light points—in them it might be well,
They might for virtue strive; but I maintain,
Our strife for virtue would be proud and vain.
When Samson carried Gaza's gates so far,
Lack'd he a helping hand to bear the bar?
300
Thus the most virtuous must in bondage groan:
Samson is grace, and carries all alone[48].
"Hear you not priests their feeble spirits spend
In bidding sinners turn to God, and mend;
To check their passions, and to walk aright;
To run the race, and fight the glorious fight?
Nay more—to pray, to study, to improve,
To grow in goodness, to advance in love?
"Oh! babes and sucklings, dull of heart and slow,
Can grace be gradual? Can conversion grow?
310
The work is done by instantaneous call;
Converts at once are made, or not at all;
Nothing is left to grow, reform, amend;
The first emotion is the movement's end:
If once forgiven, debt can be no more;
If once adopted, will the heir be poor?
The man who gains the twenty-thousand prize,
Does he by little and by little rise?
There can no fortune for the soul be made
By peddling cares and savings in her trade.
320
"Why are our sins forgiven?—Priests reply,
—'Because by faith on mercy we rely;
Because, believing, we repent andpray,'—
Is this their doctrine?—then, they go astray:
We're pardon'd neither for belief nor deed,
For faith nor practice, principle nor creed;
Nor for our sorrow for our former sin,
Nor for our fears when better thoughts begin;
Nor prayers nor penance in the cause avail;
All strong remorse, all soft contritionfail:—
330
It is thecall!till that proclaims us free,
In darkness, doubt, and bondage we must be;
Till thatassuresus, we've in vain endured,
And all is over when we're once assured.
"This is conversion:—First, there comes a cry
Which utters, 'Sinner, thou'rt condemned to die;'
Then the struck soul to every aid repairs,
To church and altar, ministers and prayers;
In vain she strives—involved, ingulf'd in sin,
She looks for hell, and seems already in:
340
When in this travail, the new birth comes on,
And in an instant every pang is gone;
The mighty work is done without ourpains—
Claim but a part, and not a part remains.
}
"All this experience tells the soul, and yet
}
These moral men their pence and farthings set
}
Against the terrors of the countless debt.
But such compounders, when they come to jail,
Will find that virtues never serve as bail.
"So much to duties; now to learning look,
350
And see their priesthood piling book on book;
Yea, books of infidels, we're told, and plays,
Put out by heathens in the wink'd-on days;
The very letters are of crooked kind,
And show the strange perverseness of their mind.
Have I this learning? When the Lord would speak,
Think ye he needs the Latin or the Greek?
And lo! with all their learning, when they rise
To preach, in view the ready sermon lies;
Some low-prized stuff they purchased at the stalls,
360
And more like Seneca's than mine or Paul's.
Children of bondage, how should they explain
The spirit's freedom, while they wear a chain?
They study words, for meanings grow perplex'd,
And slowly hunt for truth, from text to text,
Through Greek and Hebrew—we the meaning seek
Of that within, who every tongue can speak.
This all can witness; yet the more I know,
The more a meek and humble mind I show.
"No; let the Pope, the high and mighty priest,
370
Lord to the poor, and servant to the Beast,
Let bishops, deans, and prebendaries swell
With pride and fatness till their hearts rebel:
I'm meek and modest.—If I could be proud,
This crowded meeting, lo! th' amazing crowd!
Your mute attention, and your meek respect,
My spirit's fervour, and my words' effect:
Might stir th' unguarded soul; and oft to me
The tempter speaks, whom I compel to flee;
He goes in fear, for he my force hastried—
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Such is my power! but can you call it pride?
"No, fellow-pilgrims! of the things I've shown
I might be proud, were they indeed my own!
But they are lent; and well you know the source
Of all that's mine, and must confide of course;
Mine! no, I err; 'tis but consign'd to me,
And I am nought but steward and trustee."
Farother doctrines yon Arminian speaks;
"Seek grace," he cries; "for he shall find who seeks."
This is the ancient stock by Wesleyled—
390
They the pure body, he the reverend head;
All innovation they with dread decline;
Their John the elder was the John divine.
Hence still their moving prayer, the melting hymn,
The varied accent, and the active limb;
Hence that implicit faith in Satan's might,
And their own matchless prowess in the fight.
In every act they see that lurking foe,
Let loose awhile, about the world togo:—
A dragon, flying round the earth, to kill
400
The heavenly hope, and prompt the carnal will;
Whom sainted knights attack in sinners' cause,
And force the wounded victim from his paws;
Who but for them would man's whole race subdue;
For not a hireling will the foe pursue.
}
"Show me one Churchman who will rise and pray
}
Through half the night, though lab'ring all the day,
}
Always abounding—show me him, I say."—
Thus cries the preacher, and he adds, "their sheep
Satan devours at leisure as they sleep.
410
Not so with us; we drive him from the fold,
For ever barking and for ever bold;
While they securely slumber, all his schemes
Take full effect—the devil never dreams:
Watchful and changeful through the world he goes,
And few can trace this deadliest of their foes;
But I detect, and at his work surprise,
The subtle serpent under all disguise.
"Thus to man's soul the foe of souls will speak,
—'A saint elect, you can have nought to seek;
420
Why all this labour in so plain a case—
Such care to run, when certain of the race?'
All this he urges to the carnal will;
He knows you're slothful, and would have you still.
Be this your answer,—'Satan, I will keep
Still on the watch till you are laid asleep.'
Thus too the Christian's progress he'llretard:—
'The gates of mercy are for ever barr'd,
And that with bolts so driven and so stout,
Ten thousand workmen cannot wrench them out,'
430
To this deceit you have but one reply—
Give to the father of all lies, the lie.
"A sister's weakness he'll by fitssurprise—
His her wild laughter, his her piteous cries;
And, should a pastor at her side attend,
He'll use her organs to abuse her friend.
These are possessions—unbelieving wits
Impute them all to nature: 'They're her fits,
Caused by commotions in the nerves andbrains.'—
Vain talk! but they'll be fitted for their pains.
440
"These are in part the ills the foe has wrought,
And these the churchman thinks not worth his thought;
They bid the troubled try for peace and rest,
Compose their minds, and be no more distress'd;
As well might they command the passive shore
To keep secure, and be o'erflow'd no more;
To the wrong subject is their skillapplied—
To act like workmen, they should stem the tide.
"These are the church-physicians; they are paid
With noble fees for their advice and aid;
450
Yet know they not the inward pulse to feel,
To ease the anguish, or the wound to heal.
With the sick sinner thus their work begins:
'Do you repent you of your former sins?
Will you amend if you revive and live,
And, pardon seeking, will you pardon give?
Have you belief in what your Lord has done,
And are you thankful?—all is well, my son.'
"A way far different ours—we thus surprise
A soul with questions, and demand replies;
460
"'How dropp'd you first,' I ask, 'the legal yoke?
What the first word the living Witness spoke?
Perceived you thunders roar and lightnings shine,
And tempests gathering ere the birth divine?
Did fire, and storm, and earthquake all appear
Before that still small voice,What dost thou here?
Hast thou by day and night, and soon and late,
Waited and watch'd before Admission-gate;
And so, a pilgrim and a soldier, pass'd
To Sion's hill through battle and through blast?
470
Then, in thy way didst thou thy foe attack,
And mad'st thou proud Apollyon turn his back?'
"Heart-searching things are these, and shake the mind,
Yea, like the rustling of a mighty wind.
"Thus would I ask:—'Nay, let me question now,
How sink my sayings in your bosoms? how?
Feel you a quickening? drops the subject deep?
Stupid and stony, no! you're all asleep;
Listless and lazy, waiting for a close,
As if at church—Do I allow repose?
480
Am I a legal minister? do I
With form or rubrick, rule or rite, comply?
Then, whence this quiet, tell me, I beseech?
One might believe you heard your rector preach,
Or his assistant dreamer;—Oh! return,
Ye times of burning, when the heart would burn.
Now hearts are ice, and you, my freezing fold,
Have spirits sunk and sad, and bosoms stony-cold,'
"Oh! now again for those prevailing powers,
Which once began this mighty work of ours;
490
When the wide field, God's temple, was the place,
And birds flew by to catch a breath of grace;
When 'mid his timid friends and threat'ning foes,
Our zealous chief as Paul at Athens rose:
When with infernal spite and knotty clubs
The ill-one arm'd his scoundrels and his scrubs;
And there were flying all around the spot
Brands at the preacher, but they touch'd him not;
Stakes brought to smite him, threaten'd in his cause,
And tongues, attuned to curses, roar'd applause;
500
Louder and louder grew his awful tones,
Sobbing and sighs were heard, and rueful groans;
Soft women fainted, prouder man express'd
Wonder and wo, and butchers smote the breast;
Eyes wept, ears tingled; stiff'ning on each head,
The hair drew back, and Satan howl'd and fled.
"In that soft season, when the gentle breeze
Rises all round, and swells by slow degrees;
Till tempests gather, when through all the sky
The thunders rattle, and the lightnings fly;
510
When rain in torrents wood and vale deform,
And all is horror, hurricane, and storm:
So, when the preacher in that glorious time,
Than clouds more melting, more than storm sublime,
Dropp'd the new word, there came a charm around;
Tremors and terrors rose upon the sound;
The stubborn spirits by his force he broke,
As the fork'd lightning rives the knotted oak.
Fear, hope, dismay, all signs of shame or grace,
Chain'd every foot, or featured every face;
520
Then took his sacred trump a louder swell,
And now they groan'd they sicken'd, and they fell;
Again he sounded, and we heard the cry
Of the word-wounded, as about to die;
Further and further spread the conquering word,
As loud he cried—'the battle of the Lord.'
Ev'n those apart who were the sound denied,
Fell down instinctive, and in spirit died.
Nor [stay'd] he yet—his eye, his frown, his speech,
His very gesture had a power to teach;
530
With outstretch'd arms, strong voice and piercing call,
He won the field, and made the Dagons fall;
And thus in triumph took his glorious way,
Through scenes of horror, terror, and dismay."