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That certain feasts are instituted now,
Where Venus hears the lover's tender vow;
That all Olympus through the country roves,
To consecrate our few remaining groves,
And Echo learns politely to repeat
The praise of names for ages obsolete:
That having prov'd the weakness, it should seem,
Of revelation’s ineffectual beam,
To bring the passions under sober sway,
And give the moralsprings their proper play,
They mean to try what may at last be done,
By stout substantial gods of wood and stone,
And whether Roman rites may not produce
The virtues of old Rome for English use,
May such success attend the pious plan,
May Mercury once more embellish man,
Grace him again with long-forgotten arts,
Reclaim his taste, and brighten up his parts
Make him athletic as in days of §.
Learn’d at the bar, in the palaestra bold,
Divest the rougher sex of female airs,
And teach the softer not to copy theirs:
The change shall please, nor shall it matter aught
Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought.
'Tis time, however, if the case stands thus,
For us plain folks, and all who side with us,
To build our altar, confident and bold,
And say as stern Elijah said of old,
The strife now stands upon a fair award,
If Israel’s Lord be God, then serve the Lord:
If he be silent, faith is all a whim,
Then Baal is the God, and worship him.
Digression is so much in modern use,
Thought is so rare, and fancy so profuse,
Some never seem so wide of their intent,
As when returning to the theme they meant;
As mendicants, whose business is to roam,
Make ev'ry parish but their own their home.

Though such continual zigzags in a book,
Such drunken reelings have an awkward look,
And I had rather keep to what is true,
Than rove and stagger with no mark in view;
Yet to consult a little seem’d no crime,
The freakish humour of the present time:
But now to gather up what seems dispers'd,
And touch the subject I design’d at first,
May prove, though much beside the rules of art,
Best for the public, and my wisest part. ... -
And first, let no man charge me, that I mean
To close in sable ev’ry social scene,
And give good company a face severe,
As if they met around a father's bier;
For tell some men, that pleasure all their bent,
And laughter all their work, is life mis-spent,
Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply,
“Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry.”
To find the medium asks some share of wit,
And therefore 'tis a task fools never hit.
But though life's valley be a vale of tears,
A brighter scene beyond that vale appears,
Whose glory, with a light that never fades,
Shoots between scatter'd rocks and op'ning shades,
And, while it shows the land the soul desires,
The language of the land she seeks inspires.
Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a sacred cure
Of all that was absurd, profane, impure:
Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech
Pursues the course that Truth and Nature teach;
No longer labours merely to produce
The pomp of sound, or tinkle without use:
Where'er it winds, the salutary stream,
§ and fresh, enriches every theme,
ile all the happy man possess'd before,
The gift of nature, or the classic store.
Is made subservient to the grand design,
For which Heav'n form'd the faculty divine,

So, should an idiot, while at large he strays,
Find the sweet lyre, on which an artist plays, .
With rash and awkward force the chords he shakes,
And grins with wonder at the jar he makes;
But let the wise and well-instructed hand
Once take the shell beneath his just command,
In gentle sounds it seems as it complain'd
Of the rude injuries it late sustain'd,
Till tun’d at length to some immortal song,
Itsounds Jehovah's name, and pours his praise along.

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HACKNEY’D in business, wearied at that oar,
Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no more,
But which, when ife at ebb runs weak and low,
All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego;
The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade,
Pant for the refuge of some rural shade,
ere, all his long anxieties forgot
Amid the charms of a sequester’d spot,
Or recollected only to gild o'er,
And add a smile to what was sweet before,
e may possess the joys he thinks he sees,
Lay his old age upon the lap of Ease,
Improve the remnant of his wasted span,
And, having liv'd a trifler, die a man.
Thus Conscience pleads her cause within the breast,
Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd,
And calls a creature form'd for God alone,
For Heav'n's high purposes, and not his own,
Calls him away from selfish ends and aims,
From what debilitates and what inflames,
From cities humming with a restless crowd,
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,
Whose highest praise is that they live in vain,
The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain,
ere works of man are cluster'd close around,
And works of God are hardly to be found,

To regions where, in spite of sin and woe,
Traces of Eden are still seen below,
Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove,
Remind him of his Maker's pow'r and love.
'Tis well if, look’d for at so late a day.
In the last scene of such a senseless play,
True wisdom will attend his feeble call,
And grace his action ere the curtain fall.
Souls, that have long despis’d their heav'nly birth,
Their wishes all impregnated with earth,
For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless care
In catching smoke and feeding upon air,
Conversant only with the ways of men,
Rarely redeem the short remaining ten.
Invet’rate habits choke th’ unfruitful heart,
Their fibres penetrate its tend’rest part,
And, draining its nutritious pow'rs to feed
Their noxious growth, starve ev'ry better seed.
: Happy, if full of days—but happier far,
If, ere we yet discern life's ev’ning star,
Sick of the service of a world, that feeds
Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds,
We can escape from Custom’s idiot sway,
To serve the Sov’reign we were born to obey.
Then sweet to muse upon his skill ††
Infinite o in all that he has made 1
o trace in Nature's most minute design
The signature and stamp of pow'r divine,
Contrivance intricate, express'd with ease,
Where unassisted sight no beauty sees,
The shapely limb and lubricated joint
Within the small dimensions of a point,
Muscle and nerve miraculously spun,
His mighty work, who speaks, and it is done,
Th’ invisible in things scarce seen reveal’d,
To whom an atom is an ample field;
To wonder at a thousand insect forms,
These hatch'd, and those resuscitated worms,

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