I shall only add one passage, from Plautus:
Candidatas venire, hostiatasque ad hoc Fanum. Rudens, act. i. sc. 5. Touch'd my breast and head,
Three drops, &c. Hygeia here performs her office in the very manner she was ordered by Mercy. I have, after the manner of Homer, used the same expressions over again, as when she received the mandate. The father of poetry constantly makes his envoys observe this practice, as a mark of decency and respect.
prospect. Excursion to the battle at Tournay. Reflections on the abuses of modern poetry. Hymn to the ever-blessed and glorious Trinity: 1st, to God the Father, as creator and preserver: 2dly, to God the Son, as mediator and redeemer: 3dly, to God the Holy Ghost, as sauctifier and comforter. Conclusion.
COME, Contemplation! therefore, from thy haunts, From Spenser's tomb, (with reverent steps and Oft visited by me; certès, by all, [slow Touch'd by the Muse:) from Richmond's green retreats,
By faintness fair, and amiably mild!
Where Nature's bard' the Seasons on his page Stole from the Year's rich hand: or Welwyngroves, Where Young, the friend of virtue and of man, Sows with poetic stars the nightly song, To Phoebus dear as his own day! and drowns The nightingale's complaint in sadder strains And sweeter elegance of woe, O come! Now ev'ning mildly-still and softer suns (While every breeze is flowing balm) invite To taste the fragrant spirit of the Spring Salubrious; from mead or hawthorn-hedge Aromatis'd, and pregnant with delight No less than health. And what a prospect round Swells greenly-grateful on the cherish'd eye! A universal blush! a waste of sweets! P. 50. Than Amalthea's, &c. How live the flow'rs, and, as the Zephyrs blow, Amalthea the daughter of Melissus king of Wave a soft lustre on their parent-Sun, Crete, and nurse of Jupiter, who fed him with And thank him with their odours for his beams; goats-milk and honey. But this story is differ-Mild image of himself! reflected fair, ently related. See Strabo. 1. x. Diodor. Sicul. 1. iv. c. 5. and Ovid. Fast. I. v. It is very remarkable that the translation of the Septuagint uses the expression Amalthea's horn, for the name of Job's third daughter Keren-happuc (so | called from her beauty) alluding to a Grecian fable invented long after; Job, ch. the last. v. 14. The same translation likewise mentions Arachne in the ninetieth psalm, and 9th verse, which image is left out in all our late versions. A Christian poet therefore may surely be excused for using the word ambrosia, &c. or drawing metaphors or comparisons from the pagan mythology in a serious composition; which is the practice of Milton and some of the best poets. The fault only is, when the poet weaves the heathen fables with the Jewish and Christian truths. As when Sannazarius introduces the Furies, Cerberus, &c. into his poem (which is otherwise a very fine one) De Partu Virginis. And likewise when Camoens blends the adventures of Bacchus with the miracles of Christ, &c. in his Lusiad. But this by the by.
The Grave cannot praise thee; Death cannot celebrate thee.-The living, the living, he shall Isaiah. praise thee, as I do this day.
The effects which the restoration of health ought to have in the solitudes of Spring. Rural
Hark! how the airy Echoes talk along With undulating answer, soft or loud, The mocking semblance of the imag'd voice, Babling itinerant from wood to hill, From hill to dale, and wake their sisters round, To multiply delight upon the car.
As float the clouds, romantic Fancy pours The magazines of Proteus forth, and builds Huge castles in the air; while vessels sail Spacious, along the fluid element; And dragons burn in gold, with azure stains Speckled: ten thousand inconsistent shapes Shift on the eye, and through the welkin roll.
Here tufted hills! there shining villas rise, Circling; and temples, solemn, fill the mind With beauty, splendour, and religious awe! Peace o'er the plains expands her snowy wing, Dove-ey'd; and buxom Plenty laughs around! Far different objects mortify the eve Along thy borders, Scheld: (with William's tears Ennobled, tears from brave Humanity And royal Pity drawn! nor of his blood Less prodigal!) Instead of herbag'd plains, Of fields with golden plenty waving wide,
Of lowing valleys, and of fleecy hills: What magazines of death! what flaming swords Destruction brandish; what a burnish'd glare Of horrour wanders round; what carnage vile Of dubitable limbs; what groaning piles Of dying warriors on th' ensanguin'd earth (E'en sons of Britain, chiefs of high renown) Grov'ling in dust, and with unmartial fires Sheer blasted! O'tis pitiful to sight!
It smites the honest brain and heart! The cloud,
Belch'd from the brazen throat of war, would hide, | My God! for meditation is too poor, Industrious, the ruin which it spreads,
As if asham'd of massacre-But hark!— . What dire explosion tears th' embowel'd sky, And rumbles from th' infernal caves? The roar Of Etna's troubled caverns, when she heaves Trinacria from her marble pillars, fix'd On the foundations of the solid Earth, And Thetis' bellows from her distant dens, O'erwhelm the ear!-A mine with deadly stores Infuriate, burst; and a whole squadron'd host Whirl'd through the riven air. A human show'r With smouldry smoke enroll'd and wrapt in fire, To cover Earth with desolation drear!-
Curst be the man, the monk, the son of Hell, The triple Moloch! whose mechanic brain, Maliciously inventive, from its forge,
Of cruel steel, the sulphur seeds of wrath Flash'd on the world, and taught us how to kill; To hurl the blazing ruin, to disgorge From smoking brass the ragged instruments Of Fate, in thunder, on the mangled files Of gallant foes:-the cowardice of Hell! And what the barb'rous nations never knew, (Though nourish'd by the tigers, and their tongues Red with the gore of lions) to involve The holy temples, the religious fanes, To hall lujahs sacred and to peace,
With dreadless fires. Shudd'ring the angels weep At man's impiety, and seek the skies: They weep! while man, courageous in his guilt, Smiles at the infant writhing on his spear; The hoary head pollutes the flinty streets With scanty blood; and virgins pray in vain. Blush, blush! or own Deucalion for thy sire. Yet should Rebellion, bursting from the caves
Of Erebus, uprear her hydra-forin,
To poison, Liberty, thy light divine;
If she, audacious, stalk in open day,
Below the sacrifice of Christian hearts: Plato could meditate; a Christian, more: Christians, from meditation, soar to pray'r. Methinks I hear, reprov'd by modern wit, Or rather pagan: "Tho' ideal sounds Soft-wafted on the Zephyr's fancy'd wing, Steal tuneful soothings on the easy car, New from Ilissus' gilded mists exhal'd; Tho' gently o'er the academic groves, The magic echoes of unbodied thoughts Roll their light billows through th' unwounded air, In mildest undulations! yet a priest', Tasteless and peevish, with his jargon shrill, Scorns Academus; tho' its flow'rs bestow On Hybla nectar, purer than her own, From Plato's honey-dropping tongue distill'd In copious streams, devolving o'er the sense Its sweet regalement!" Philodemus, yes: (Tho' learn'd Lyceum's cloisters lead the mind Attentive on, as far as Nature leads: And Plato, for a heathen, nobler dreams Than dream some modern pocts:) yes, a priest, A priest dares tell you, Salçm's hallow'd walks, And that illumin'd mountain, where a God, The God of my salvation, and I hope Of thine, unutterable beauty beam'd, (Tho' shaded from excess of Deity, Too fierce for mortal-aching eyes to prove The rush of glory) me, desirous, draw From Athen's owls, to Jordan's mystic dove. Thou sing of Nature, and the moral charms Gild with thy painted Muse: my fingers lift The lyre to God! Jehova! Eloim! Truth is my leader; only Fancy, thine: (Sweet Farinelli of enervate song!)
I quit the myrtle, for a starry crown.
And know, if Sickness shed her bluish plagues From fog, or fen, or town-infected damps,
And hiss against the throne by Heav'n's own hand (And, sure I'd pity thee) among thy veins:
Establisti'd, and religion Heav'n-reform'd,
Britannia! rescue Earth from such a bane: Exert thy ancient spirit; urge thyself Into the bowels of the glowing war, Sweep her from day to multiply the fiends,
And scare the damn'd!-and thou! the God of Hosts,
Supreme! the Lord of lords, and King of kings! Thy people, thy anointed with thy shield
Cover and shade; unbare thy righteous arm, And save us in the hollow of thy hand! Michael send, as erst against the host Of Lucifer, and let his sword be drunk With rebel blood. The battle is thy own; When virtue, liberty, religion call: Thine is the victory: the glory thine!
Turn, Contemplation, from this savage scene Of violence and waste: my swimming eyes Have lost the beauties of the vernal view!
Sweet are the beauties of the vernal view! And yet devotion wafts to nobler themes, And lifts the soul to Heav'n! for who, untouch'd, With mental adoration, feeling laud, Beholds this living-vegetable whole, This universal witness of a God! Tho' silent, yet convincing, uncontrol'd, Which meets the sense, and triumphs in the soul? Let me, by Isaac's wise example fir'd, When meditation led him through the fields, Sweetly in pious musings lost, adore
Then, theu no Piatonist! thy inmost soul Will thank me for this preaching; nor disdain To breathe itself in pray'r, as low as mine; From God begin, with God conclude the song; Thus glorifying with a Christian-zeal.
Father of Heav'n and Earth! coeval Son! And co-existing Spirit! Trinal-One! Mysterious Deity; invisible; Indefinite, and omnipresent God, Inhabiting eternity! Shall dust, Shall ashes, dare presume to sing of thee? O for a David's heart, and tongue of fire To rival angels in my praise and zeal! Yet love immense, and gratitude, with awe Religious mix'd, shail elevate the hymn, My heart enkindle, and inspire my tongue, Father-Creator! who beholds thy works, But catches inspiration! Thou the Earth On nothing hung, and balanc'd in the void With a magnetic force, and central poise. Ocean of brightness thou! Thy grand behest Flung on thy orb, the Sun, a sparkling drop, To light the stars, and feed their silver urns With unexhausted flame; to bid them shine Eternal in their courses, o'er the blue Which mantles night, and woo us to repose With roscid radiance. They harmonious roll,
The very expressions of one of our disciples of Socrates.
In majesty of motion, solemn, loud, The universal hallelujah: sphere,
In lucid order, quiring sweet to sphere, Deep-felt and loftier than a seraph's song; The symphony of well-according worlds! But man, thy bean, thy breath, thy image, shines The crown, the glory, and the lord of all; Of all below the stars! a plant, from Heav'n Traduc'd, to spread the riches of its bloom O'er Earth, and water'd with etherial dews; Incorruptible aliment! The birds Warble among his boughs; the cattle, safe, Pasture within his shade; and Earth beneath Th' imperial umbrage of his branches smiles. The smiling Earth, the spangled spheres, and man Their great Creator praise! but praise how long, Unless by thy almighty arm upheld, Preserver infinite? By thee unless Upheld, the Earth would from her basis reel; The spheres forego their courses, (off their orbs The silver softness melted into shade) Obscurely dissonant; and mortal man (Void of thy fostering fires) his stately form To dust be moulder'd: Chaos would resume Her ancient anarchy; confusion, rule; And darkness swallow all. In thee we live, In thee we move our beings in thy chain, Linkt to eternity, fasten on thee, The pillar of our souls! For me, (how late A neighbour of the worm!) when I forget The wonders of thy goodness ray'd on me, And cease to celebrate, with matin-harp Or vesper-song, thy plenitude of love, And healing mercy; may the nightly pow'r, Which whispers on my slumbers, cease to breathe Her modulating impulse through my soul; Untun'd, unhallow'd! Discord, string my lyre, Idly, my finger, press the fretted gold, Rebellious to the dictates of my hand, When indolent, to swell the notes for thee, Father of Heav'n and Earth!-Coeval Son! (His word, his essence, his effulgence pure!) Not less thy filial likeness I adore, Nor from thy Father's glory aught disjoin, Redeemer' Mediator! from the birth Of uncreated Time, thy Father's wrath
Of elegiac-sorrow, with the theme
Mournfully varying. Take, my soul redeem'd! O take the moaning dove's dew-dropping wing, Fly, fly to Solyma! and melt thy woe To Cedron's murmurs. Thence, extend thy flight To Golgotha's accursed tree. Behold! Clouds roll'd on clouds of wrath (the blackest wrath Of an offended God!) his beauties shade; But shade not long: it soon in drops dissolves, Sweet to the soul as manna to the taste, As pride of summer-flow'r to sight or smell! Behind this shadowing cloud, this mystic gloom, The Sharon rose, dy'd in the blood of Heav'n, The lily of the valley, white from stain, Bows the fair head, in loveliness declines, And, sweetly languishing, it droops and dies. But darkness veils the Sun: a curtain draw Before the passion; beyond wonder great, Great beyond silence! - (Awe-struck pause a- while-)
And heavy as the burthen of our sins! - 'Tis finish'd!-Change the lyre, the numbers Let holy anthem-airs inspire the hymn. [change; Glory in Heav'n! redemption to mankind, And peace on Earth! dominion! blessing! praise! Thanksgiving! pow'r! salvation to our God! Salvation to our God, and to the Lamb! And, co-existing Spirit! Thou, whose breath My voice informs, shall it be mute to thee, Eternal Paraclete? in order, last,
Equal in glory to Omnipotence
The first, as to the second; and from both Proceeding; (O inexplicable name!) Mystical link of the unnumber'd Three! To learning, night; to faith, the noon-tide day. Soul of the universe! thy wisdom, first, The rage compos'd of warring elements3, (The subject of a nobler future song) Yon all-surrounding Heav'ns with crystal orbs Garnish'd, and living gems, in goodly ranks And disciplin'd array; dividing night From day, their ordinances 'stablish'd sure. Moving the waters saw thee o'er their face, O God, the waters saw thee, and afraid, Into their channels shrunk, (capacious bed Of liquid element!) and own'd their bounds
(Sprung from omniscience!) to appease, for man, Impassable, as that eternal gulph
Upright as yet, to mediate, mercy wak'd Unbounded love in thee; unbounded love Contracted to the measure of a span Immensity of Godhead, and thy crown Reft from thy faded brow. Listen, O Earth! And wonder, O ye Heav'ns! shall he, whose feet Are cloth'd with stars, (the glory of his head For who can tell?) whose looks divine illume The dazzl'd eyes of cherubs, and the youth Of saints with everlasting bloom renew: Shall he, whose vital smiles with splendour fill The circuits of creation, and sustain Th' abodes of all existence, from the depths Of Hell beneath, above Heav'n's highest orb, With life, and health, and joy! shall he, to God, Dear as his eye and heart, engraven there Deep from eternity; alone belov'd, Alone begotten! say, shall he become A man of grief-for man? nay more his foe, Rebellious next the fiends?-Astonishment Had chain'd my tongue to silence, if the pow'rs Of tenderest pity and of warmest love Provok'd not pensive measures, sadder strains
'Twixt bliss and woe.-The Prince of Peace thy Largely imbib'd, when, dovelike, o'er his head, Fast by the banks of Jordan's sacred stream, Thy mantling wings diffus'd their heavenly hues; And Abba glorify'd his Only Son, Well-pleased. From thy tongues of cloven fire Kindled, the nations burn'd in flaming zeal, And unextinguish'd charity, dispers'd
And glowing as the summer blaze at noon. The rushing winds, on all their wings convey'd Thy doctrine, strong to shake the guilty soul; As, erst, the dome, low-stooping to its base, Before thy mighty presence learn'd to bend. Thou, from the morning-womb, upon our souls, Barren and dry, thy sanctifying dews, Abroad, in silent softness sheds: the dews Of love unspotted, uncorrupted joy; Obedient goodness, temperance subdu'd; Unshaken faith, and meekness without guile. Hence flow the odours out, our pray'rs perfume, Like incense, rising fragrant on the throne,
The Elements, a Poem: in four books.
From golden vials pour'd, by elder hands! Extinct thy influential radiance, Sin, Incumbent on the soul, as black as Hell, Holds godless anarchy: by thee refin'd, Incens'd, sublim'd, and sanctify'd, the soul Invites the Holiest (O abyss of love!) To choose a temple, purer than the Sun, Incorruptible, formed not by hands, Where best he loves to dwell.-Thou all my bed, Most holy Comforter! in sickness smooth'd, And violet-buds, and roses, without thorn, [vale Shower'd round the couch. From darkness and the Of shadowy Death, to pastures fair, and streams Of comfort, thy refreshing right-hand led My wearied soul, and bath'd in health and joy! To light restor❜d and the sweet breath of Heav'n, Beneath thy olive-boughs, in plenteous flow, The golden oil effusing on my head Of gladness, let me ever sit and sing, Thy numerous Godhead sparkling in my soul, Thyself instilling praises, by thy ear Not unapprov'd! For wisdom's steady ray, Th' enlight'ning gift of tongues, the sacred fires Of poesy are thine; united Three! Father of Heav'n and Earth! coeval Son! And co-existing Spirit! Trinal One!
NOTES AND ALLUSIONS.
Page 52. ALONG thy borders, Scheld
Coelum & terram camposque liquentes, Lucentemque globum lunæ, Titaniaque astra Spiritus intùs agit.
That he means God by Spirit, appears from another place.
-Deum ire per omnes Terrasque tractusque maris cœlumque profundum. And Zeno's opinion is very remarkable: Θεος εςι πνευμα διηκον δι' ολα τα κοσμα.
See Lactantius, B. vii. c. 3. and Diogenes Laertius in the Life of Zeno.
P. 54. Moving the waters saw thee o'er their face, &c.
Cicero tells us that it was Thales's opinion that God was the Spirit which created all things from the water. "Thales aquam dixit esse initium rerum, Deum autem esse mentem quæ ex aqua cuncta fingeret." De Nat. Deor. 1. i.
Vix ea fatus eram, tremere omnia visa repentè
This was written at the time of the siege of Liminaque laurusque Dei, totusque moveri Tournay.
P. 53. Far be it from me to speak with disrespect of this pagan philosopher. For my part, 1 could almost declare my admiration of Plato's beautiful descriptions, &c. in the words of B. Jonson on Shakspeare: "To justify," says he, "my own candour, I honour his memory (on this side idolatry) as much as any." See his Discoveries, vol II. fol. of his works. Page 98.
I only here would observe how falsely, not to say impiously, some modern writers seem to take pains to recommend Plato's ideal morality in opposition to the glorious doctrines so fully revealed in the holy scriptures.
Alluding to 2. Sectanus's admirable Satires; who introduces much such another character under this name. The true author, as we are informed By Mons. Blainville in his curious Travels, is Mons. Segardi, one of the finest and politest gentlemen of Rome; by Philodemus, he means one Gravina, an atheistical pretender to philosophy, the Greek language, &c. He thus makes him boast of himself, as if he drew the principles of his system from Socrates.
Nos etenim (puto jàm nosti) docti sumus, & quos Socraticâ cœpi tractandos mollitèr arte Sordibus emergunt vulgi, totâque probantur Urbe.
See 2. Sectani Satyr. 4to. vol. I. Sat, 1. lib. i. v. 108, &c.
-Thou from the morning-womb, &c. Psalm cx. 3. This is a noble metaphor to express the beauties and graces of the Holy Spirit, So that "from the womb of the morning" in the Psalmist, signifies this: From the heavenly light of the Gospel, which is the wing or beam whereby the Sun of Righteousness revealeth himself, and breaketh out upon the world, the people shall adorn themselves from the first forming of Christ in them, with the dews of grace, and the gifts and emanations of the Holy Ghost: which are love, faith, meekness, temperance. joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, Gal. v. 22. &c. When the spirit of Christ bloweth thus upon us, and the dews of grace are poured into our hearts, then the spices flow out, which arise from the holy duties and spiritual infusions, mentioned above.
Rev. v. 8. The four-and-twenty elders fell down before the Lamb, having every one of them harps and golden vials full of odours, which are the prayers of the saints; that is, the prayers of good men are as grateful to God as incense from the tabernacle. So David, Ps. xiv. 2. Let my
The heathens frequently give the appellation of prayer be directed to thee as incense.
P. 55. Beneath thy olive-brauch, &c,
Alluding to the two olive-branches in Zecharia, c. iv. v. 11 and 12. which empty the golden oil out of themselves. Amongst other expositions of which words; Junius and Tarnovius interpret them, to mean the various gifts and effusions of the Holy Spirit, which are, by Christ, derived upon the church. For Christ is called the Messiah, on account of his being anointed with the oil of gladness; Ps. xiv. 8. And St. John speaketh thus of the Holy Ghost: Ye have an unction from the Holy One. 1 John ii. 20. The anointing which ye received from him, abideth in you. John c. ii. v. 27.
To conclude; a recovery from the small-pox a few years ago, gave occasion to the preceding poem. I only at first (in gratitude to the Great Physician of souls and bodies) designed to have published this hymn to the Trinity upon a recovery from sickness. But the subject being very extensive, and capable of admitting serious reflections on the frail state of humanity, I expatiated farther upon it. It cannot be supposed that I should treat upon sickness in a medicinal, but only in a descriptive, a moral, and religious manner: the versification is varied accordingly: the descriptive parts being more poetical; the moral, more plain; and the religious, for the most part, drawn from the Holy Scriptures. I have just taken such notice of the progress of the smallpox, as may give the reader some small idea of it, without offending his imagination. These few
notes are not intended for the learned reader, but added to assist those who may not be so well acquainted with the classical and other allusions. I do not remember to have seen any other poem on the same subject to lead me on the way, and therefore, it is to be hoped, the good-natured reader will more readily excuse its blemishes.
I have here added, by way of conclusion to the notes, a short hymn written (when very young) in the great epidemical cold in 1732.
O LORD! to thee I lift my soul, To thee direct my eyes, While fate in every vapour rolls, And sick'ning Nature sighs.
E'en air, the vehicle of life,
The soft recess of breath,
Is made the harbinger of Fate, And poison'd dart of Death.
No gentle strains relieve my ears: But hark! the passing-toll, In a long, sadly-solemn knell, Alarms anew my soul.
No lovely prospect meets my eye, But melancholy fear, Attended with the hollow pomp Of sickness and despair.
My sins, wide-staring in my face In ghastly guise alarm;
The pleasing sins of wanton youth, In many a fatal charm.
I sink beneath their black approach: My God! thy mercy lend; Let Hope her healing wings diffuse; O snatch me from the fiend!
I feel, I feel thy saving health: New raptures fill my heart: A shining train of bliss succeeds; The gloomy scenes depart.
Tho' straining coughs this mortal frame To dissolution bring,
Yet dreary Death in vain affrights, And points in vain his sting:
If gracious Heaven at that sad hour Its guardian arm extend; If angels watch my parting soul, And save me at my end.
O Lord, or let me live or die, Thy holy will be done! But let me live alone to thee, And die in thee alone.
SHALL foreign lands for Pomfret wake the lyre, And Tyber's more than Isis' banks inspire? Let Isis' groves with Pomfret's name resound; Not Rome alone can boast of classic ground. Ye sons of harmony, the wreath prepare, The living laurel wreath, to bind her hair.
Hail, fair exemplar of the good and great, The Muses hail thee to their honour'd seat; And ne'er since Anna with her presence blest, They sung a nobler, more auspicious guest.
Behold our youth, transported at the sight; Behold our virgins, sparkling with delight: E'en venerable age forgets its snow, The splendour catches, and consents to glow. Ye youths, with Pomfret's praises tune the shell: Ye virgins, learn from Pomfret to excel: For let her age, with fervent prayers and pure, The blessings of all bounteous Heaven secure. Their breathing incense let the Graces bring: Their grateful pæans let the Muses sing.
If praise be guilt, ye laurels, cease to grow, Oxford to sing, and seraphims to glow. No altars to an idol-power we raise, Nor consecrate the worthless with our praise, To merit only and to goodness just, We rear the arch-triumphal and the bust. Sprung from the Pembroke' race, their nation's Allied by science, as by blood aliied,
The Pembroke family have been remarkable for genius. Mary, countess of Pembroke, sister to sir Philip Sidney, for whose entertainment be wrote his Arcadia, published a tragedy called Antonius. Ann, countess of Pembroke, had Daniel for her tutor, and erected to Spenser the monument in Westminster Abbey. William, earl
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