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 vain
Her golden tube, through which a sensual world Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, The neat conveyance hiding all the offence. Not that he peevishly rejects a mode Because that world adopts it. If it bear The 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 heart Not soon deceived; aware that what is base No polish can make sterling; and that vice, Though well perfumed and elegantly dress'd, Like an unburied carcass trick'd with flowers Is but a garnish'd nuisance, fitter far For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, More golden than that age of fabled gold Renown'd in ancient song; not vex'd with care Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approved Of 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 perform Its 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'd To 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 some To 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 chime And 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.
To the Rev. William Cawthorne Unwin, Rector of Stock in Essex, the tutor of his two sons, the following poem, recommending private tuition in preference to an education at school, is inscribed, by his affectionate friend,
It is not from his form, in which we trace Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace, That man, the master of this globe, derives His right of empire over all that lives. That form, indeed, the associate of a mind Vast in its powers, ethereal in its kind, That form, the labour of Almighty skill, Framed for the service of a freeborn will, Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control, But borrows all its grandeur from the soul. Hers is the state, the splendour, and the throne, An intellectual kingdom, all her own. For her the memory fills her ample page With truths pour'd down from every distant age; For her amasses an unbounded store,
The wisdom of great nations, now no more; Though laden, not encumber'd with her spoil; Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil;
When copiously supplied, then most enlarged; Still to be fed, and not to be surcharged. For her the Fancy, roving unconfined, The present muse of every pensive mind, Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue To Nature's scenes than Nature ever knew. At her command winds rise and waters roar, Again she lays them slumbering on the shore; With flower and fruit the wilderness supplies. Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise. For her the Judgment, umpire in the strife That Grace and Nature have to wage through life,
Quick-sighted arbiter of good and ill, Appointed sage preceptor to the Will, Condemns, approves, and, with a faithful voice, Guides the decision of a doubtful choice. Why did the fiat of a God give birth To yon fair Sun and his attendant Earth? And, when descending he resigns the skies, Why takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise, Whom Ocean feels through all his countless waves, And owns her power on every shore he laves : Why do the seasons still enrich the year, Fruitful and young as in their first career? Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze : Summer in haste the thriving charge receives Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves, Till Autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews Dye them at last in all their glowing hues.- "Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste, Power misemploy'd, munificence misplaced, Had not its Author dignified the plan, And crown'd it with the majesty of man. Thus form'd, thus placed, intelligent, and taught, Look where he will, the wonders God has wrought, The wildest scorner of his Maker's laws Finds in a sober moment time to pause,
To press the important question on his heart, "Why form'd at all, and wherefore as thou art?" If man be what he seems, this hour a slave, The next mere dust and ashes in the grave; Endued with reason only to descry
His crimes and follies with an aching eye; With passions, just that he may prove, with pain, The force he spends against their fury vain; And if, soon after having burnt, by turns, With every lust with which frail Nature burns, His being end where death dissolves the bond, The tomb take all, and all be blank beyond; Then he, of all that Nature has brought forth, Stands self-impeach'd the creature of least worth, And, useless while he lives, and when he dies, Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies.
Truths that the learn'd pursue with eager thought Are not important always as dear-bought, Proving at last, though told in pompous strains, A childish waste of philosophic pains;
But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, Shine by the side of every path we tread With such a lustre, he that runs may read. 'Tis true that, if to trifle life away Down to the sunset of their latest day, Then perish on futurity's wide shore Like fleeting exhalations, found no more.
Were all that Heaven required of human kind, And all the plan their destiny design'd,
What none could reverence all might justly blame, And man would breathe but for his Maker's shame. But reason heard, and nature well perused, At once the dreaming mind is disabused. If all we find possessing earth, sea, air, Reflect His attributes who placed them there, Fulfil the purpose, and appear design'd Proofs of the wisdom of the all-seeing mind, 'Tis plain the creature, whom he chose to invest With kingship and dominion o'er the rest, Received his nobler nature, and was made Fit for the power in which he stands array'd; That first, or last, hereafter, if not here, He too might make his author's wisdom clear, Praise him on earth, or, obstinately dumb, Suffer his justice in a world to come. This once believed, 'twere logic misapplied To prove a consequence by none denied, That we are bound to cast the minds of youth Betimes into the mould of heavenly truth, That taught of God they may indeed be wise, Nor ignorantly wandering miss the skies.
In early days the conscience has in most A quickness, which in later life is lost: Preserved from guilt by salutary fears, Or guilty, soon relenting into tears. Too careless often, as our years proceed,
What friends we sort with, or what books we read, Our parents yet exert a prudent care
To feed our infant minds with proper fare;
And wisely store the nursery by degrees
With wholesome learning, yet acquired with ease. Neatly secured from being soil'd or torn Beneath a pane of thin translucent horn, A book (to please us at a tender age
'Tis call'd a book, though but a single page)
Presents the prayer the Saviour deign'd to teach, Which children use, and parsons-when they preach. Lisping our syllables, we scramble next
Through moral narrative, or sacred text;
And learn with wonder how this world began,
Who made, who marr'd, and who has ransom'd man: Points which, unless the Scripture made them plain, The wisest heads might agitate in vain. O thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing Back to the season of life's happy spring, I pleased remember, and, while memory yet Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget; Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail; Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style, May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile;
Witty, and well employ'd, and, like thy Lord, Speaking in parables his slighted word; I name thee not, lest so despised a name Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame; Yet e'en in transitory life's late day,
That mingles all my brown with sober grey, Revere the man whose PILGRIM marks the road, And guides the PROGRESS of the soul to God. "Twere well with most, if books that could engage Their childhood pleased them at a riper age; The man, approving what had charm'd the boy, Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy, And not with curses on his heart, who stole The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. The stamp of artless piety impress'd By kind tuition on his yielding breast, The youth, now bearded and yet pert and raw, Regards with scorn, though once received with awe; And, warp'd into the labyrinth of lies, That babblers, call'd philosophers, devise, Blasphemes his creed, as founded on a plan Replete with dreams, unworthy of a man. Touch but his nature in its ailing part, Assert the native evil of his heart,
His pride resents the charge, although the proof* Rise in his forehead, and seem rank enough: Point to the cure, describe a Saviour's cross As God's expedient to retrieve his loss, The young apostate sickens at the view, And hates it with the malice of a Jew.
How weak the barrier of mere nature proves, Opposed against the pleasures nature loves! While self-betray'd, and wilfully undone, She longs to yield, no sooner woo'd than won. Try now the merits of this blest exchange Of modest truth for wit's eccentric range. Time was, he closed as he began the day, With decent duty, not ashamed to pray; The practice was a bond upon his heart, A pledge he gave for a consistent part; Nor could he dare presumptuously displease A power confess'd so lately on his knees. But now farewell all legendary tales, The shadows fly, philosophy prevails; Prayer to the winds, and caution to the waves: Religion makes the free by nature slaves. Priests have invented, and the world admired What knavish priests promulgate as inspired;
Till Reason, now no longer overawed,
Resumes her powers, and spurns the clumsy fraul; And, common sense diffusing real day, The meteor of the Gospel dies away.
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