Adorn the polish'd periods as they fall,
One madrigal of theirs is worth them all.
A. Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe,
To dash the pen through all that you proscribe.
B. No matter-we could shift when they were not, And should no doubt if they were all forgot.
THE PROGRESS OF ERROR.
Si quid loquar audiendum.-HOR. Lib. iv. Od. 2.
SING muse (if such a theme, so dark, so long,
May find a muse to grace it with a song)
By what unseen and unsuspected arts
The serpent error twines round human hearts,
Tell where she lurks, beneath what flow'ry shades,
That not a glimpse of genuine light pervades,
The pois'nous, black, insinuating worm,
Successfully conceals her loathsome form.
Take, if ye can, ye careless and supine!
Counsel and caution from a voice like mine;
Truths that the theorist could never reach,
And observation taught me, I would teach.
Not all whose eloquence the fancy fills,
Musical as the chime of tinkling rills,
Weak to perform, though mighty to pretend,
Can trace her mazy windings to their end,
Discern the fraud beneath the specious lure,
Prevent the danger, or prescribe the cure.
The clear harangue, and cold as it is clear,
Falls soporific on the listless ear,
Like quicksilver, the rhet'ric they display,
Shines as it runs, but grasp'd at slips away.
Placed for his trial on this bustling stage,
From thoughtless youth to ruminating age,
Free in his will to choose, or to refuse,
Man may improve the crisis, or abuse.
Else, on the fatalist's unrighteous plan,
Say, to what bar amenable were man?
With nought in charge, he could betray no trust,
And, if he fell, would fall because he must;
If love reward him, or if vengeance strike,
His recompence in both, unjust alike.
1 I think that Cowper recollected Young's most ingenious comparison of pleasure to quicksilver.
Divine authority within his breast
Brings every thought, word, action to the test,
Warns him or prompts, approves him or restrains,
As reason, or as passion, takes the reins.
Heav'n from above, and conscience from within,
Cry in his startled ear, Abstain from sin.
The world around solicits his desire,
And kindles in his soul a treach'rous fire,
While all his purposes and steps to guard,
Peace follows virtue as its sure reward,
And pleasure brings as surely in her train
Remorse, and sorrow, and vindictive pain.
Man, thus endued with an elective voice,
Must be supplied with objects of his choice.
Where'er he turns, enjoyment and delight,
Or present, or in prospect, meet his sight;
These open on the spot their honey'd store,
Those call him loudly to pursuit of more.
His unexhausted mine, the sordid vice
Avarice shows, and virtue is the price.
Here, various motives his ambition raise,
Pow'r, pomp, and splendour, and the thirst of praise;
There, beauty woos him with expanded arms;
E'en Bacchanalian madness has its charms.
Nor these alone, whose pleasures less refined
Might well alarm the most unguarded mind,
Seek to supplant his unexperienced youth,
Or lead him devious from the path of truth;
Hourly allurements on his passions press,
Safe in themselves, but dang'rous in th' excess.
Hark! how it floats upon the dewy air,
Oh what a dying, dying close was there!
'Tis harmony from yon sequester'd bow'r,
Sweet harmony that soothes the midnight hour;
Long e'er the charioteer of day had run
His morning course, th' enchantment was begun,
And he shall gild yon mountain's height again,
E'er yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain.
Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent
That virtue points to? Can a life thus spent
Lead to the bliss she promises the wise,
Detach the soul from earth, and speed her to the skies?
Ye devotees to your adored employ,
Enthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy,
Love makes the music of the blest above,
Heav'n's harmony is universal love;
And earthly sounds, though sweet and well combined,
And lenient as soft opiates to the mind,
Leave vice and folly unsubdu'd behind.
Gray dawn appears, the sportsman and his train
Speckle the bosom of the distant plain,
'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighb'ring lairs,
Save that his scent is less acute than theirs,
For persevering chase, and headlong leaps,
True beagle, as the stanchest hound he keeps.
Charged with the folly of his life's mad scene,
He takes offence, and wonders what you mean;
The joy, the danger, and the toil o'erpays,
'Tis exercise, and health, and length of days.
Again impetuous to the field he flies,
Leaps every fence but one, there falls and dies;
Like a slain deer, the tumbrel brings him home,
Unmiss'd but by his dogs and by his groom.
Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place,
Lights of the world, and stars of human race-
But if eccentric ye forsake your sphere,
Prodigious, ominous, and view'd with fear.
The comet's baneful influence is a dream,
Yours real, and pernicious in th' extreme.
What then-are appetites and lusts laid down,
With the same ease the man puts on his gown?
Will av'rice and concupiscence give place,
Charm'd by the sounds, your rev'rence, or your grace?
No. But his own engagement binds him fast,
Or if it does not, brands him to the last
What atheists call him, a designing knave,
A mere church juggler, hypocrite, and slave.
Oh laugh, or mourn with me, the rueful jest,
A cassock'd huntsman, and a fiddling priest;
He from Italian songsters takes his cue,
Set Paul to music, he shall quote him too.
He takes the field, the master of the pack
Cries, Well done, saint-and claps him on the back.
Is this the path of sanctity? Is this
To stand a way-mark in the road to bliss?
Himself a wand'rer from the narrow way,
His silly sheep, what wonder if they stray?
Go, cast your orders at your bishop's feet,
Send your dishonour'd gown to Monmouth Street,
The sacred function, in your hands is made,
Sad sacrilege! no function, but a trade.
Occiduus1 is a pastor of renown;
When he has pray'd and preach'd the sabbath down,
With wire and catgut he concludes the day,
Quav'ring and semiquav'ring care away.
The full concerto swells upon your ear;
All elbows shake. Look in, and you would swear
The Babylonian tyrant with a nod
Had summon'd them to serve his golden god;
So well that thought th' employment seems to suit,
Psalt'ry and sackbut, dulcimer and flute.
Oh fie! 'Tis evangelical and pure;
Observe each face, how sober and demure,
Ecstasy sets her stamp on ev'ry mien,
Chins fall'n, and not an eyeball to be seen.
Still I insist, though music heretofore
Has charm'd me much, not ev'n Occiduus more,
Love, joy, and peace, make harmony, more meet
For sabbath evenings, and perhaps as sweet.
Will not the sickliest sheep of ev'ry flock,
Resort to this example as a rock,
There stand and justify the foul abuse
Of sabbath hours, with plausible excuse?
If apostolic gravity be free
To play the fool on Sundays, why not we?
If he the tinkling harpsichord regards
As inoffensive, what offence in cards?
Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay,
Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play,
Oh Italy! Thy sabbaths will be soon
Our sabbaths, closed with mumm'ry and buffoon;
Preaching and pranks will share the motley scene,
Ours parcell'd out, as thine have ever been,
God's worship and the mountebank between.
1 "I am sorry to find that the censure I have passed upon Occiduus is even better founded than I supposed. Lady Austen has been at his sabbatical concerts, which, it seems, are composed of song-tunes and of psalm-tunes indiscriminately-music without words; and I suppose I may say, consequently, without devotion. He seems to have suffered considerably in his spiritual character by his attachment to music." (To Mr. Newton, Sept. 9, 1781.) "OCCIDUUS" was CHARLES WESLEY, one of the religious rivals of Whitefield. Charles had a livelier temperament than his brother. In the earlier days of their religious ardour they were accustomed to spend part of the Sunday in country walks and singing of psalms. Upon one occasion, when they were beginning to set a stave, a sense of the ridiculous situation came upon Charles, and he burst into loud laughter. "I asked him," says John, "if he was distracted, and began to be very angry, and presently after to laugh as loud as he. Nor could we possibly refrain, though we were ready to tear ourselves in pieces; but were forced to go home without singing another line."
What says the prophet? Let that day be blest
With holiness and consecrated rest;
Pastime and bus'ness both it should exclude,
And bar the door the moment they intrude,
Nobly distinguish'd above all the six,
By deeds in which the world must never mix.
Hear him again. He calls it a delight,2
A day of luxury, observed aright,
When the glad soul is made heav'n's welcome guest,
Sits banqueting, and God provides the feast.
But triflers are engaged and cannot come;
Their answer to the call is-Not at home,
Oh the dear pleasures of the velvet plain,
The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again.
Cards with what rapture, and the polish'd die,
The yawning chasm of indolence supply!
Then to the dance, and make the sober moon
Witness of joys that shun the sight of noon.
Blame, cynic, if you can, quadrille or ball,
The snug close party, or the splendid hall,
Where night, down-stooping from her ebon throne,
Views constellations brighter than her own.
'Tis innocent, and harmless and refined,
The balm of care, elysium of the mind.
Innocent! Oh if venerable time
Slain at the foot of pleasure, be no crime,
Then with his silver beard and magic wand,
Let Comus rise Archbishop of the land,
Let him your rubric and your feasts prescribe,
Grand metropolitan of all the tribe.
Of manners rough, and coarse athletic cast,
The rank debauch suits Clodio's filthy taste.
Rufillus, exquisitely form'd by rule,
Not of the moral, but the dancing school,
Wonders at Clodio's follies, in a tone
As tragical as others at his own.
He cannot drink five bottles, bilk the score,
Then kill a constable, and drink five more;
But he can draw a pattern, make a tart,
And has the ladies' etiquette by heart.
Go fool, and, arm in arm with Clodio, plead
Your cause before a bar you little dread;
"Ye shall keep the sabbath therefore; for it is holy unto you."Exodus xxxi. 14.
3 The god of night-feasting, whose torch falling from his hand was the emblem of his riot.
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