To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife In 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 esteem The occasion it presents of doing good More than the perquisite; where law shall speak Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts And equity; not jealous more to guard A 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 Thine By 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 hearts Thy title is engraven with a pen
Dipped in the fountain of eternal love.
Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and Thy delay
Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see The 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 tired
Of its own taunting question, asked 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 recoiled, 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 deemed 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 even these
Worthy, compared with sycophants, who knee
Thy name, adoring, and then preach Thee man! So fares Thy church. But how Thy church may fare The world takes little thought. Who will may preach, And what they will. All pastors are alike To 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 war
With conscience and with Thee. Lust in their hearts, And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth To prey upon each other: stubborn, fierce, High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace. Thy prophets speak of such; and, noting down The 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 fulfilled, the conquest of a world. He is the happy man, whose life even now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; Who, doomed 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 fruit 910 Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one Content indeed to sojourn while he must Below the skies, but having there his home. The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Of 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 birds Pursuing gilded flies, and such he deems Her honours, her emoluments, her joys. Therefore in contemplation is his bliss,
Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, And shows him glories yet to be revealed. Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed, And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird That flutters least is longest on the wing. Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised, Or what achievements of immortal fame He purposes, and he shall answer--None. His warfare is within. There unfatigued
His fervent spirit labours. There he fights,
And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself,
And never-withering wreaths, compared with which The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds.
Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes, When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint Walks forth to meditate at eventide, And think on her, who thinks not for herself. Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns Of little worth, and idler in the best, If, author of no mischief and some good, He seeks his proper happiness by means That 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 sphere
Shine with his fair example, and though small
His influence, if that influence all be spent In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, In aiding helpless indigence, in works From which at least a grateful few derive Some taste of comfort in a world of woe, Then let the supercilious great confess He serves his country, recompenses well The state beneath the shadow of whose vine He sits secure, and in the scale of life Holds 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 vain
Can wear it even 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 dressed, Like an unburied carcase tricked with flowers, Is but a garnished 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
Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care Or stained 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 fulfilled, 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 called To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse,
I played 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 unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit ; Roved far, and gathered much some harsh, 'tis true, Picked 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.
AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, Esq. HILL,
DEAR JOSEPH,-Five and twenty years ago— Alas, how time escapes !-'tis even so- With frequent intercourse, and always sweet, And always friendly, we were wont to cheat A tedious hour, and now we never meet! As some grave gentleman in Terence says ('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days), Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings- Strange fluctuation of all human things! True. Changes will befall, and friends may part, But distance only cannot change the heart: And were I called to prove the assertion true, One proof should serve --a reference to you. Whence comes it, then, that in the wane of life, Though nothing have occurred to kindle strife, We find the friends we fancied we had won, Though numerous once, reduced to few or none? Can gold grow worthless, that has stood the touch? No; gold they seemed, but they were never such. Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, Swinging the parlour door upon its hinge, Dreading a negative, and overawed
Lest he should trespass, begged to go abroad.
Go, fellow !-whither?"-turning short aboutNay. Stay at home-you're always going out.' "Tis but a step, sir; just at the street's end."66 For what?". -“An please you, sir, to see a friend.”— A friend!" Horatio cried, and seemed to start"Yea marry shalt thou, and with all my heart. And fetch my cloak; for, though the night be raw, I'll see him too-the first I ever saw."
I knew the man, and knew his nature mild,
And was his plaything often when a child; But somewhat at that moment pinched him close, Else he was seldom bitter or morose.
Perhaps, his confidence just then betrayed,
His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; Perhaps 'twas mere good humour gave it birth, The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind, Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. But not to moralize too much, and strain To prove an evil of which all complain,
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