BOOK VI.

walkJ. Gilbert fecit.W. Greatbach sculp.THE WINTER'S WALK AT NOON.

J. Gilbert fecit.W. Greatbach sculp.THE WINTER'S WALK AT NOON.

J. Gilbert fecit.W. Greatbach sculp.

THE WINTER'S WALK AT NOON.

"WHO GIVES HIS NOONTO MISS, THE MERCER'S PLAGUE, FROM SHOP TO SHOPWANDERING AND LITTERING WITH UNFOLDED SILKS."

Bells at a distance—Their effect—A fine noon in winter—A sheltered walk—Meditation better than books—Our familiarity with the course of nature makes it appear less wonderful than it is—The transformation that spring effects in a shrubbery described—A mistake concerning the course of nature corrected—God maintains it by an unremitted act—The amusements fashionable at this hour of the day reproved—Animals happy, a delightful sight—Origin of cruelty to animals—That it is a great crime proved from scripture—That proof illustrated by a tale—A line drawn between the lawful and unlawful destruction of them—Their good and useful properties insisted on—Apology for the encomiums bestowed by the author on animals—Instances of man's extravagant praise of man—The groans of the creation shall have an end—A view taken of the restoration of all things—An invocation and an invitation of Him who shall bring it to pass—The retired man vindicated from the charge of uselessness—Conclusion.

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds;And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleasedWith melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave:Some chord in unison with what we hearIs touch'd within us, and the heart replies.How soft the music of those village bells,Falling at intervals upon the earIn cadence sweet, now dying all away,Now pealing loud again, and louder still,Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!With easy force it opens all the cellsWhere Memory slept. Wherever I have heardA kindred melody, the scene recurs,And with it all its pleasures and its pains.Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,That in a few short moments I retrace(As in a map the voyager his course)The windings of my way through many years.Short as in retrospect the journey seems,It seem'd not always short; the rugged path,And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn,Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length.Yet, feeling present evils, while the pastFaintly impress the mind, or not at all,How readily we wish time spent revoked,That we might try the ground again, where once(Through inexperience, as we now perceive)We miss'd that happiness we might have found!Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend,A father, whose authority, in showWhen most severe, and mustering all its force,Was but the graver countenance of love:Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower,And utter now and then an awful voice,But had a blessing in its darkest frown,Threatening at once and nourishing the plant.We loved, but not enough, the gentle handThat rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, alluredBy every gilded folly, we renouncedHis sheltering side, and wilfully forewentThat converse, which we now in vain regret,How gladly would the man recall to lifeThe boy's neglected sire! a mother too,That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still,Might he demand them at the gates of death.Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamedThe playful humour; he could now endure(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears)And feel a parent's presence no restraint.But not to understand a treasure's worthTill time has stolen away the slighted good,Is cause of half the poverty we feel,And makes the world the wilderness it is.The few that pray at all pray oft amiss,And, seeking grace to improve the prize they hold,Would urge a wiser suit than asking more.The night was winter in his roughest mood;The morning sharp and clear. But now at noonUpon the southern side of the slant hills,And where the woods fence off the northern blast,The season smiles, resigning all its rage,And has the warmth of May. The vault is blueWithout a cloud, and white without a speckThe dazzling splendour of the scene below.Again the harmony comes o'er the vale;And through the trees I view the embattled towerWhence all the music. I again perceiveThe soothing influence of the wafted strains,And settle in soft musings as I treadThe walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms,Whose outspread branches overarch the glade.The roof, though moveable through all its lengthAs the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed,And, intercepting in their silent fallThe frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.No noise is here, or none that hinders thought.The redbreast warbles still, but is contentWith slender notes, and more than half suppress'd:Pleased with his solitude, and flitting lightFrom spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakesFrom many a twig the pendent drops of ice,That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below.Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,Charms more than silence. Meditation hereMay think down hours to moments. Here the heartMay give a useful lesson to the head,And Learning wiser grow without his books.Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one,Have ofttimes no connexion. Knowledge dwellsIn heads replete with thoughts of other men;Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,The mere materials with which Wisdom builds,Till smooth'd, and squared, and fitted to its place,Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much;Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.Books are not seldom talismans and spells,By which the magic art of shrewder witsHolds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd.Some to the fascination of a nameSurrender judgment hoodwink'd. Some the styleInfatuates, and through labyrinth and wildsOf error leads them, by a tune entranced.While sloth seduces more, too weak to bearThe insupportable fatigue of thought,And swallowing therefore without pause or choiceThe total grist unsifted, husks and all.But trees, and rivulets whose rapid courseDefies the check of winter, haunts of deer,And sheepwalks populous with bleating lambs,And lanes, in which the primrose ere her timePeeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root,Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth,Not shy, as in the world, and to be wonBy slow solicitation, seize at onceThe roving thought, and fix it on themselves.What prodigies can power divine performMore grand than it produces year by year,And all in sight of inattentive man?Familiar with the effect, we slight the cause,And, in the constancy of nature's course,The regular return of genial months,And renovation of a faded world,See nought to wonder at. Should God again,As once in Gibeon, interrupt the raceOf the undeviating and punctual sun,How would the world admire! but speaks it lessAn agency divine, to make him knowHis moment when to sink and when to rise,Age after age, than to arrest his course?All we behold is miracle; but, seenSo duly, all is miracle in vain.Where now the vital energy that moved,While summer was, the pure and subtle lymphThrough the imperceptible meandering veinsOf leaf and flower? It sleeps; and the icy touchOf unprolific winter has impress'dA cold stagnation on the intestine tide.But let the months go round, a few short months,And all shall be restored. These naked shoots,Barren as lances, among which the windMakes wintry music, sighing as it goes,Shall put their graceful foliage on again,And, more aspiring, and with ampler spread,Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost.Then each, in its peculiar honours clad,Shall publish, even to the distant eye,Its family and tribe. Laburnum, richIn streaming gold; syringa, ivory pure;The scentless and the scented rose; this red,And of an humbler growth, the other[816]tall,And throwing up into the darkest gloomOf neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew,Her silver globes, light as the foamy surfThat the wind severs from the broken wave;The lilac, various in array, now white,Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now setWith purple spikes pyramidal, as if,Studious of ornament, yet unresolvedWhich hue she most approved, she chose them all:Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan,But well compensating her sickly looksWith never-cloying odours, early and late;Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarmOf flowers, like flies clothing her slender rods,That scarce a leaf appears; mezereon too,Though leafless, well attired, and thick besetWith blushing wreaths, investing every spray;Althæa with the purple eye; the broom,Yellow and bright, as bullion unalloy'd,Her blossoms; and luxuriant above allThe jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets,The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd leafMakes more conspicuous, and illumines moreThe bright profusion of her scatter'd stars.—These have been, and these shall be in their day;And all this uniform, uncolour'd sceneShall be dismantled of its fleecy load,And flush into variety again.From dearth to plenty, and from death to life,Is Nature's progress, when she lectures manIn heavenly truth; evincing, as she makesThe grand transition, that there lives and worksA soul in all things, and that soul is God.The beauties of the wilderness are his,That make so gay the solitary place,Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms,That cultivation glories in, are his.He sets the bright procession on its way,And marshals all the order of the year;He marks the bounds which Winter may not pass,And blunts his pointed fury; in its case,Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ,Uninjured, with inimitable art;And, ere one flowery season fades and dies,Designs the blooming wonders of the next.Some say that, in the origin of things,When all creation started into birth,The infant elements received a law,From which they swerve not since; that under forceOf that controlling ordinance they move,And need not his immediate hand, who firstPrescribed their course, to regulate it now.Thus dream they, and contrive to save a GodThe incumbrance of his own concerns, and spareThe great Artificer of all that movesThe stress of a continual act, the painOf unremitted vigilance and care,As too laborious and severe a task.So man, the moth, is not afraid, it seems,To span omnipotence, and measure might,That knows no measure, by the scanty ruleAnd standard of his own, that is to-day,And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down.But how should matter occupy a charge,Dull as it is, and satisfy a lawSo vast in its demands, unless impell'dTo ceaseless service by a ceaseless force,And under pressure of some conscious cause?The Lord of all, himself through all diffused,Sustains and is the life of all that lives.Nature is but a name for an effect,Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire,By which the mighty process is maintain'd,Who sleeps not, is not weary; in whose sightSlow circling ages are as transient days;Whose work is without labour; whose designsNo flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts;And whose beneficence no charge exhausts.Him blind antiquity profaned, not served,With self-taught rites, and under various names,Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan,And Flora, and Vertumnus; peopling earthWith tutelary goddesses and godsThat were not; and commending as they wouldTo each some province, garden, field, or grove.But all are under one. One spirit, HisWho wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows,Rules universal nature. Not a flowerBut shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain,Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspiresTheir balmy odours, and imparts their hues,And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes,In grains as countless as the seaside sands,The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth.Happy who walks with him! whom what he findsOf flavour or of scent in fruit or flower,Or what he views of beautiful or grandIn nature, from the broad majestic oakTo the green blade that twinkles in the sun,Prompts with remembrance of a present God.His presence, who made all so fair, perceivedMakes all still fairer. As with him no sceneIs dreary, so with him all seasons please.Though winter had been none, had man been true,And earth be punish'd for its tenant's sake,Yet not in vengeance; as this smiling sky,So soon succeeding such an angry night,And these dissolving snows, and this clear streamRecovering fast its liquid music, prove.Who then, that has a mind well strung and tunedTo contemplation, and within his reachA scene so friendly to his favourite task,Would waste attention at the chequer'd board,His host of wooden warriors to and froMarching and countermarching, with an eyeAs fix'd as marble, with a forehead ridgedAnd furrow'd into storms, and with a handTrembling, as if eternity were hungIn balance on his conduct of a pin?Nor envies he aught more their idle sport,Who pant with application misappliedTo trivial joys, and pushing ivory balls,Across a velvet level, feel a joyAkin to rapture, when the bauble findsIts destined goal of difficult access.Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noonTo miss, the mercer's plague, from shop to shopWandering, and littering with unfolded silksThe polish'd counter, and approving none,Or promising with smiles to call again.Nor him who, by his vanity seduced,And soothed into a dream that he discernsThe difference of a Guido from a daub,Frequents the crowded auction: station'd thereAs duly as the Langford of the show,With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand,And tongue accomplish'd in the fulsome cantAnd pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease:Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls,He notes it in his book, then raps his box,Swears 'tis a bargain, rails at his hard fateThat he has let it pass—but never bids.Here unmolested, through whatever signThe sun proceeds, I wander. Neither mist,Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me,Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy.E'en in the spring and playtime of the year,That calls the unwonted villager abroadWith all her little ones, a sportive train,To gather kingcups in the yellow mead,And prink their hair with daisies, or to pickA cheap but wholesome salad from the brook,These shades are all my own. The timorous hare,Grown so familiar with her frequent guest,Scarce shuns me; and the stockdove unalarm'dSits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspendsHis long love-ditty for my near approach.Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm,That age or injury has hollow'd deep,Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves,He has outslept the winter, ventures forthTo frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun,The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play:He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush,And perks his ears, and stamps, and cries aloud,With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm,And anger insignificantly fierce.The heart is hard in nature, and unfitFor human fellowship, as being voidOf sympathy, and therefore dead alikeTo love and friendship both, that is not pleasedWith sight of animals enjoying life,Nor feels their happiness augment his own.The bounding fawn, that darts across the gladeWhen none pursues, through mere delight of heart,And spirits buoyant with excess of glee;The horse as wanton, and almost as fleet,That skims the spacious meadow at full speed,Then stops and snorts, and, throwing high his heels,Starts to the voluntary race again;The very kine that gambol at high noon,The total herd receiving first from oneThat leads the dance a summons to be gay,Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouthTheir efforts, yet resolved with one consentTo give such act and utterance as they mayTo ecstacy too big to be suppress'd—These, and a thousand images of bliss,With which kind Nature graces every scene,Where cruel man defeats not her design,Impart to the benevolent, who wishAll that are capable of pleasure pleased,A far superior happiness to theirs,The comfort of a reasonable joy.Man scarce had risen, obedient to His callWho form'd him from the dust, his future grave,When he was crown'd as never king was since.God set the diadem upon his head,And angel choirs attended. Wondering stoodThe new-made monarch, while before him pass'd,All happy, and all perfect in their kind,The creatures, summon'd from their various hauntsTo see their sovereign, and confess his sway.Vast was his empire, absolute his power,Or bounded only by a law, whose force'Twas his sublimest privilege to feelAnd own, the law of universal love.He ruled with meekness, they obey'd with joy;No cruel purpose lurk'd within his heart,And no distrust of his intent in theirs.So Eden was a scene of harmless sport,Where kindness on his part, who ruled the whole,Begat a tranquil confidence in all,And fear as yet was not, nor cause for fear.But sin marr'd all; and the revolt of man,That source of evils not exhausted yet,Was punish'd with revolt of his from him.Garden of God, how terrible the changeThy groves and lawns then witness'd! Every heart,Each animal, of every name, conceivedA jealousy and an instinctive fear,And, conscious of some danger, either fledPrecipitate the loathed abode of man,Or growl'd defiance in such angry sort,As taught him too to tremble in his turn.Thus harmony and family accordWere driven from Paradise; and in that hourThe seeds of cruelty, that since have swell'dTo such gigantic and enormous growth,Were sown in human nature's fruitful soil.Hence date the persecution and the painThat man inflicts on all inferior kinds,Regardless of their plaints. To make him sport,To gratify the frenzy of his wrath,Or his base gluttony, are causes goodAnd just in his account, why bird and beastShould suffer torture, and the streams be dyedWith blood of their inhabitants impaled.Earth groans beneath the burden of a warWaged with defenceless innocence, while he,Not satisfied to prey on all around,Adds tenfold bitterness to death by pangsNeedless, and first torments ere he devours.Now happiest they that occupy the scenesThe most remote from his abhorr'd resort,Whom once, as delegate of God on earth,They fear'd, and as his perfect image loved.The wilderness is theirs, with all its caves,Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains,Unvisited by man. There they are free,And howl and roar as likes them, uncontroll'd;Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play.Woe to the tyrant, if he dare intrudeWithin the confines of their wild domain:The lion tells him—I am monarch here!And, if he spare him, spares him on the termsOf royal mercy, and through generous scornTo rend a victim trembling at his foot.In measure, as by force of instinct drawn,Or by necessity constrain'd, they liveDependent upon man; those in his fields,These at his crib, and some beneath his roof;They prove too often at how dear a rateHe sells protection. Witness at his footThe spaniel dying for some venial fault,Under dissection of the knotted scourge;Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yellsDriven to the slaughter, goaded, as he runs,To madness; while the savage at his heelsLaughs at the frantic sufferer's fury, spentUpon the guiltless passenger o'erthrown.He too is witness, noblest of the trainThat wait on man, the flight-performing horse:With unsuspecting readiness he takesHis murderer on his back, and, push'd all day,With bleeding sides and flanks that heave for life,To the far distant goal, arrives and dies.So little mercy shows who needs so much!Does law, so jealous in the cause of man,Denounce no doom on the delinquent? None.He lives, and o'er his brimming beaker boasts(As if barbarity were high desert)The inglorious feat, and clamorous in praiseOf the poor brute, seems wisely to supposeThe honours of his matchless horse his own.But many a crime deem'd innocent on earthIs register'd in heaven; and these no doubtHave each their record, with a curse annex'd.Man may dismiss compassion from his heart,But God will never. When he charged the JewTo assist his foe's down-fallen beast to rise;And when the bush-exploring boy that seizedThe young, to let the parent bird go free;Proved he not plainly that his meaner worksAre yet his care, and have an interest all,All, in the universal Father's love?On Noah, and in him on all mankind,The charter was conferr'd, by which we holdThe flesh of animals in fee, and claimO'er all we feed on power of life and death.But read the instrument, and mark it well:The oppression of a tyrannous controlCan find no warrant there. Feed then, and yieldThanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin,Feed on the slain, but spare the living brute!The Governor of all, himself to allSo bountiful, in whose attentive earThe unfledged raven and the lion's whelpPlead not in vain for pity on the pangsOf hunger unassuaged, has interposed,Not seldom, his avenging arm, to smiteThe injurious trampler upon Nature's law,That claims forbearance even for a brute.He hates the hardness of a Balaam's heart;And, prophet as he was, he might not strikeThe blameless animal, without rebuke,On which he rode. Her opportune offenceSaved him, or the unrelenting seer had died.He sees that human equity is slackTo interfere, though in so just a cause;And makes the task his own. Inspiring dumbAnd helpless victims with a sense so keenOf injury, with such knowledge of their strength,And such sagacity to take revenge,That oft the beast has seem'd to judge the man.An ancient, not a legendary tale,By one of sound intelligence rehearsed,(If such who plead for Providence may seemIn modern eyes,) shall make the doctrine clear.Where England, stretch'd towards the setting sun,Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave,Dwelt young Misagathus; a scorner heOf God and goodness, atheist in ostent,Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce.He journey'd; and his chance was as he wentTo join a traveller, of far different note,Evander, famed for piety, for yearsDeserving honour, but for wisdom more.Fame had not left the venerable manA stranger to the manners of the youth,Whose face too was familiar to his view.Their way was on the margin of the land,O'er the green summit of the rocks, whose baseBeats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high.The charity that warm'd his heart was movedAt sight of the man monster. With a smileGentle, and affable, and full of grace,As fearful of offending whom he wish'dMuch to persuade, he plied his ear with truthsNot harshly thunder'd forth, or rudely press'd,But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet."And dost thou dream," the impenetrable manExclaimed, "that me the lullabies of age,And fantasies of dotards such as thou,Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in me?Mark now the proof I give thee, that the braveNeed no such aids as superstition lends,To steel their hearts against the dread of death."He spoke, and to the precipice at handPush'd with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks,And the blood thrills and curdles at the thoughtOf such a gulf as he design'd his grave.But though the felon on his back could dareThe dreadful leap, more rational, his steedDeclined the death, and wheeling swiftly round,Or e'er his hoof had press'd the crumbling verge,Baffled his rider, saved against his will.The frenzy of the brain may be redress'dBy medicine well applied, but without graceThe heart's insanity admits no cure.Enraged the more by what might have reform'dHis horrible intent, again he soughtDestruction, with a zeal to be destroy'd,With sounding whip, and rowels dyed in blood.But still in vain. The Providence, that meantA longer date to the far nobler beast,Spared yet again the ignobler for his sake.And now, his prowess proved, and his sincereIncurable obduracy evinced,His rage grew cool; and pleased perhaps to have earn'dSo cheaply the renown of that attempt,With looks of some complacence he resumedHis road, deriding much the blank amazeOf good Evander, still where he was leftFix'd motionless, and petrified with dread.So on they fared. Discourse on other themesEnsuing seem'd to obliterate the past;And tamer far for so much fury shown,(As is the course of rash and fiery men,)The rude companion smiled, as if transform'd.But 'twas a transient calm. A storm was near,An unsuspected storm. His hour was come.The impious challenger of power divineWas now to learn that Heaven, though slow to wrath,Is never with impunity defied.His horse, as he had caught his master's mood,Snorting, and starting into sudden rage,Unbidden, and not now to be controll'd,Rush'd to the cliff, and, having reach'd it, stood.At once the shock unseated him: he flewSheer o'er the craggy barrier; and, immersedDeep in the flood, found, when he sought it not,The death he had deserved, and died alone.So God wrought double justice; made the foolThe victim of his own tremendous choice,And taught a brute the way to safe revenge.I would not enter on my list of friends(Though graced with polish'd manners and fine sense,Yet wanting sensibility) the manWho needlessly sets foot upon a worm.An inadvertent step may crush the snailThat crawls at evening in the public path:But he that has humanity, forewarn'd,Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.The creeping vermin, loathesome to the sight,And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes,A visitor unwelcome, into scenesSacred to neatness and repose, the alcove,The chamber, or refectory, may die:A necessary act incurs no blame.Not so when, held within their proper bounds,And guiltless of offence, they range the air,Or take their pastime in the spacious field:There they are privileged; and he that huntsOr harms them there is guilty of a wrong,Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm,Who, when she form'd, design'd them an abode.The sum is this. If man's convenience, health,Or safety interfere, his rights and claimsAre paramount, and must extinguish theirs.Else they are all—the meanest things that are,As free to live, and to enjoy that life,As God was free to form them at the first,Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all.Ye therefore, who love mercy, teach your sonsTo love it too. The spring-time of our yearsIs soon dishonour'd and defiled in mostBy budding ills, that ask a prudent handTo check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots,If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth,Than cruelty, most devilish of them all.Mercy to him that shows it is the ruleAnd righteous limitation of its act,By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man;And he that shows none, being ripe in years,And conscious of the outrage he commits,Shall seek it, and not find it, in his turn.Distinguish'd much by reason, and still moreBy our capacity of grace divine,From creatures that exist but for our sake,Which, having served us, perish, we are heldAccountable; and God, some future day,Will reckon with us roundly for the abuseOf what he deems no mean or trivial trust.Superior as we are, they yet dependNot more on human help than we on theirs.Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were givenIn aid of our defects. In some are foundSuch teachable and apprehensive parts,That man's attainments in his own concerns,Match'd with the expertness of the brutes in theirs,Are ofttimes vanquish'd and thrown far behind.Some show that nice sagacity of smell,And read with such discernment, in the portAnd figure of the man, his secret aim,That ofttimes we owe our safety to a skillWe could not teach, and must despair to learn.But learn we might, if not too proud to stoopTo quadruped instructors, many a goodAnd useful quality, and virtue too,Rarely exemplified among ourselves—Attachment never to be wean'd or changedBy any change of fortune; proof alikeAgainst unkindness, absence, and neglect;Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threatCan move or warp; and gratitude for smallAnd trivial favours, lasting as the lifeAnd glistening even in the dying eye.Man praises man. Desert in arts or armsWins public honour; and ten thousand sitPatiently present at a sacred song,Commemoration-mad; content to hear(O wonderful effect of music's power!)Messiah's eulogy for Handel's sake.But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve—(For was it less, what heathen would have daredTo strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath,And hang it up in honour of a man?)Much less might serve, when all that we designIs but to gratify an itching ear,And give the day to a musician's praise.Remember Handel? Who, that was not bornDeaf as the dead to harmony, forgets,Or can, the more than Homer of his age?Yes—we remember him; and while we praiseA talent so divine, remember tooThat His most holy book, from whom it came,Was never meant, was never used before,To buckram out the memory of a man.But hush!—the muse perhaps is too severe;And, with a gravity beyond the sizeAnd measure of the offence, rebukes a deedLess impious than absurd, and owing moreTo want of judgment than to wrong design.So in the chapel of old Ely House,When wandering Charles, who meant to be the third,Had fled from William, and the news was fresh,The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce,And eke did rear right merrily, two staves,Sung to the praise and glory of King George!—Man praises man; and Garrick's memory next,When time hath somewhat mellow'd it, and madeThe idol of our worship while he livedThe god of our idolatry once more,Shall have its altar; and the world shall goIn pilgrimage to bow before his shrine.The theatre, too small, shall suffocateIts squeezed contents, and more than it admitsShall sigh at their exclusion, and returnUngratified: for there some noble lordShall stuff his shoulders with king Richard's bunch,Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak,And strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp, and stare,To show the world how Garrick did not act—For Garrick was a worshipper himself;He drew the liturgy, and framed the ritesAnd solemn ceremonial of the day,And call'd the world to worship on the banksOf Avon, famed in song. Ah, pleasant proofThat piety has still in human heartsSome place, a spark or two not yet extinct.The mulberry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths;The mulberry-tree stood centre of the dance;The mulberry-tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs;And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-treeSupplied such relics as devotion holdsStill sacred, and preserves with pious care.So 'twas a hallow'd time: decorum reign'd,And mirth without offence. No few return'd,Doubtless much edified, and all refresh'd.—Man praises man. The rabble, all alive,From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes,Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day,A pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes.Some shout him, and some hang upon his car,To gaze in his eyes, and bless him. Maidens waveTheir kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy;While others, not so satisfied, unhorseThe gilded equipage, and turning looseHis steeds, usurp a place they well deserve.Why? what has charm'd them? Hath he saved the state?No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No.Enchanting novelty, that moon at full,That finds out every crevice of the headThat is not sound and perfect, hath in theirsWrought this disturbance. But the wane is nearAnd his own cattle must suffice him soon.Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise,And dedicate a tribute, in its useAnd just direction sacred, to a thingDoom'd to the dust, or lodged already there.Encomium in old time was poet's work;But poets, having lavishly long sinceExhausted all materials of the art,The task now falls into the public hand;And I, contented with an humble theme,Have pour'd my stream of panegyric downThe vale of Nature, where it creeps and windsAmong her lovely works with a secureAnd unambitious course, reflecting clear,If not the virtues, yet the worth, of brutes.And I am recompensed, and deem the toilsOf poetry not lost, if verse of mineMay stand between an animal and woe,And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.The groans of Nature in this nether world,Which heaven has heard for ages, have an end.Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung,Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp,The time of rest, the promised sabbath, comes.Six thousand years of sorrow have well nighFulfill'd their tardy and disastrous courseOver a sinful world; and what remainsOf this tempestuous state of human thingsIs merely as the working of a seaBefore a calm, that rocks itself to rest:For He, whose car the winds are, and the cloudsThe dust that waits upon his sultry march,When sin hath moved him, and his wrath is hot,Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descendPropitious in his chariot paved with love;And what his storms have blasted and defacedFor man's revolt, shall with a smile repair.Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweetNot to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch:Nor can the wonders it records be sungTo meaner music, and not suffer loss.But when a poet, or when one like me,Happy to rove among poetic flowers,Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at lastOn some fair theme, some theme divinely fair,Such is the impulse and the spur he feels,To give it praise proportion'd to its worth,That not to attempt it, arduous as he deemsThe labour, were a task more arduous still.O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,Scenes of accomplish'd bliss! which who can see,Though but in distant prospect, and not feelHis soul refresh'd with foretaste of the joy?Rivers of gladness water all the earth,And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproachOf barrenness is past. The fruitful fieldLaughs with abundance; and the land, once lean,Or fertile only in its own disgrace,Exults to see its thistly curse repeal'd.The various seasons woven into one,And that one season an eternal spring,The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence,For there is none to covet, all are full.The lion, and the libbard, and the bearGraze with the fearless flocks; all bask at noonTogether, or all gambol in the shadeOf the same grove, and drink one common stream.Antipathies are none. No foe to manLurks in the serpent now: the mother sees,And smiles to see, her infant's playful handStretch'd forth to dally with the crested worm,To stroke his azure neck, or to receiveThe lambent homage of his arrowy tongue.All creatures worship man, and all mankindOne Lord, one Father. Error has no place;That creeping pestilence is driven away;The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heartNo passion touches a discordant string,But all is harmony and love. DiseaseIs not: the pure and uncontaminate bloodHolds its due course, nor fears the frost of age.One song employs all nations; and all cry,"Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us!"The dwellers in the vales and on the rocksShout to each other, and the mountain topsFrom distant mountains catch the flying joy;Till, nation after nation taught the strain,Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round.Behold the measure of the promise fill'd;See Salem built, the labour of a God;Bright as a sun, the sacred city shines;All kingdoms and all princes of the earthFlock to that light; the glory of all landsFlows into her; unbounded is her joy,And endless her increase. Thy rams are there,Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there;[817]The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind,And Saba's spicy groves, pay tribute there.Praise is in all her gates: upon her walls,And in her streets, and in her spacious courts,Is heard salvation. Eastern Java thereKneels with the native of the farthest west;And Æthiopia spreads abroad the hand,And worships. Her report has travell'd forthInto all lands. From every clime they comeTo see thy beauty, and to share thy joy,O Sion! an assembly such as earthSaw never, such as Heaven stoops down to see.Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were oncePerfect, and all must be at length restored.So God has greatly purposed; who would elseIn his dishonour'd works himself endureDishonour, and be wrong'd without redress.Haste, then, and wheel away a shatter'd world,Ye slow-revolving seasons! we would see(A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet)A world that does not dread and hate his lawAnd suffer for its crime; would learn how fairThe creature is that God pronounces good,How pleasant in itself what pleases him.Here every drop of honey hides a sting;Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers;And e'en the joy that haply some poor heartDerives from heaven, pure as the fountain is,Is sullied in the stream, taking a taintFrom touch of human lips, at best impure.O for a world in principle as chasteAs this is gross and selfish! over whichCustom and prejudice shall bear no sway,That govern all things here, shouldering asideThe meek and modest Truth, and forcing herTo seek a refuge from the tongue of StrifeIn nooks obscure, far from the ways of men:Where Violence shall never lift the sword,Nor Cunning justify the proud man's wrong,Leaving the poor no remedy but tears:Where he, that fills an office, shall esteemThe occasion it presents of doing goodMore than the perquisite: where Law shall speakSeldom, and never but as Wisdom promptsAnd Equity; not jealous more to guardA worthless form, than to decide aright:—Where Fashion shall not sanctify abuse,Nor smooth Good-breeding (supplemental grace)With lean performance ape the work of Love!Come then, and, added to thy many crowns,Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth,Thou who alone art worthy! It was thineBy ancient covenant, ere Nature's birth;And thou hast made it thine by purchase since,And overpaid its value with thy blood.Thy saints proclaim thee king; and in their heartsThy title is engraven with a penDipp'd in the fountain of eternal love.Thy saints proclaim thee king; and thy delayGives courage to their foes, who, could they seeThe dawn of thy last advent, long desired,Would creep into the bowels of the hills,And flee for safety to the falling rocks.The very spirit of the world is tiredOf its own taunting question, ask'd so long,"Where is the promise of your Lord's approach?"The infidel has shot his bolts away,Till, his exhausted quiver yielding none,He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoil'd,And aims them at the shield of Truth again.The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands,That hides divinity from mortal eyes;And all the mysteries to faith proposed,Insulted and traduced, are cast aside,As useless, to the moles and to the bats.They now are deem'd the faithful, and are praised;Who, constant only in rejecting thee,Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal,And quit their office for their error's sake.Blind, and in love with darkness! yet e'en theseWorthy, compared with sycophants, who kneelThy name adoring, and then preach thee man!So fares thy church. But how thy church may fareThe world takes little thought. Who will may preach,And what they will. All pastors are alikeTo wandering sheep, resolved to follow none.Two gods divide them all—Pleasure and Gain:For these they live, they sacrifice to these,And in their service wage perpetual warWith Conscience and with thee. Lust in their hearts,And mischief in their hands, they roam the earthTo prey upon each other: stubborn, fierce,High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace.Thy prophets speak of such; and, noting downThe features of the last degenerate times,Exhibit every lineament of these.Come then, and, added to thy many crowns,Receive yet one, as radiant as the rest,Due to thy last and most effectual work,Thy word fulfill'd, the conquest of a world!He is the happy man whose life e'en nowShows somewhat of that happier life to come;Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state,Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose,Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruitOf virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith,Prepare for happiness; bespeak him oneContent indeed to sojourn while he mustBelow the skies, but having there his home.The world o'erlooks him in her busy searchOf objects, more illustrious in her view;And, occupied as earnestly as she,Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world.She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not;He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain.He cannot skim the ground like summer birdsPursuing gilded flies; and such he deemsHer honours, her emoluments, her joys.Therefore in Contemplation is his bliss,Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earthShe makes familiar with a heaven unseen,And shows him glories yet to be revealed.Not slothful he, though seeming unemploy'd,And censured oft as useless. Stillest streamsOft water fairest meadows, and the birdThat flutters least is longest on the wing.Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised,Or what achievements of immortal fameHe purposes, and he shall answer—None.His warfare is within. There unfatiguedHis fervent spirit labours. There he fights,And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself,And never-withering wreaths, compared with whichThe laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds.Perhaps the self-approving haughty world,That as she sweeps him with her whistling silksScarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see,Deems him a cypher in the works of God,Receives advantage from his noiseless hours,Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owesHer sunshine and her rain, her blooming springAnd plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes,When, Isaac-like, the solitary saintWalks forth to meditate at even-tide,And think on her, who thinks not for herself.Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concernsOf little worth, an idler in the best,If, author of no mischief and some good,He seek his proper happiness by meansThat may advance, but cannot hinder, thine.Nor, though he tread the secret path of life,Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease,Account him an encumbrance on the state,Receiving benefits, and rendering none.His sphere, though humble, if that humble sphereShine with his fair example, and though smallHis influence, if that influence all be spentIn soothing sorrow and in quenching strife,In aiding helpless indigence, in worksFrom which at least a grateful few deriveSome taste of comfort in a world of woe;Then let the supercilious great confessHe serves his country, recompenses wellThe state, beneath the shadow of whose vineHe sits secure, and in the scale of lifeHolds no ignoble, though a slighted, place.The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen,Must drop indeed the hope of public praise;But he may boast, what few that win it can,That, if his country stand not by his skill,At least his follies have not wrought her fall.Polite Refinement offers him in vainHer golden tube, through which a sensual worldDraws gross impurity, and likes it well,The neat conveyance hiding all the offence.Not that he peevishly rejects a modeBecause that world adopts it. If it bearThe stamp and clear impression of good sense,And be not costly more than of true worth,He puts it on, and, for decorum sake,Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she.She judges of refinement by the eye,He by the test of conscience, and a heartNot soon deceived; aware that what is baseNo polish can make sterling; and that vice,Though well perfumed and elegantly dress'd,Like an unburied carcass trick'd with flowersIs but a garnish'd nuisance, fitter farFor cleanly riddance than for fair attire.So life glides smoothly and by stealth away,More golden than that age of fabled goldRenown'd in ancient song; not vex'd with careOr stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approvedOf God and man, and peaceful in its end.So glide my life away! and so, at last,My share of duties decently fulfill'd,May some disease, not tardy to performIts destined office, yet with gentle stroke,Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat,Beneath the turf that I have often trod.It shall not grieve me then that once, when call'dTo dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse,I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair,With that light task; but soon, to please her more,Whom flowers alone I knew would little please,Let fall the unfinish'd wreath, and roved for fruit;Roved far, and gather'd much: some harsh, 'tis true,Pick'd from the thorns and briars of reproof,But wholesome, well-digested; grateful someTo palates that can taste immortal truth;Insipid else, and sure to be despised.But all is in His hand, whose praise I seek.In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,If he regard not, though divine the theme.'Tis not in artful measures, in the chimeAnd idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre,To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart;Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,Whose approbation—prosper even mine.

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