Prefers his fellow-grooms with much good sense, That he who dares, when she forbids, be grave,
Their skill a truth, his master's a pretence. Shall stand proscribed, a madman or a knave,
If neither horse nor groom affect the squire, A close designer not to be believed,
Where can at last his jockeyship retire ? Or, if excused that charge, at least deceived.
O to the club, the scene of savage joys,

Oh folly worthy of the nurse's lap,
The school of coarse good fellowship and noise; Give it the breast, or stop its mouth with pap!
There in the sweet society of those,

Is it incredible, or can it seem
Whose friendship from his boyish years he chose, A dream to any, except those that dream,
Let him improve his talent if he can,

That man should love his Maker, and that fire, Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man. Warming his heart, should at his lips transpire!

Man's heart had been impenetrably sealed, Know then, and modestly let fall your eyes, Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field, And veil your daring crest that braves the skies; Had not his Maker's all-bestowing hand That air of insolence affronts your God, Given him a soul, and bade him understand; You need his pardon, and provoke his rod: The reasoning power vouchsafed of course inferred Now, in a posture that becomes you more The power to clothe that reason with his word; Than that heroic strut assumed before, For all is perfect, that God works on earth, Know, your arrears with every hour accrue And he, that gives conception, aids the birth. For mercy shown, while wrath is justly due. If this be plain, 'tis plainly understood,

The time is short, and there are souls on earth, What uses of his boon the Giver would. Though future pain may serve for present mirth, The Mind, despatched upon her busy toil, Acquainted with the woes, that fear or shame, Should range where Providence has blessed the By fashion taught forbade them once to name,

And, having felt the pangs you deem a jest, Visiting every flower with labour meet,

Have proved them truths too big to be expressed And gathering all her treasures sweet hy sweet, Go seek on revelation's hallowed ground, She should inbue the tongue with what she sips, Sure to succeed, the remedy they found: And shed the balmy blessing on the lips, Touched by that power that you have dared to That good diffused may more abundant grow, mock, And speech may praise the power that bids it flow. That makes seas stable, and dissolves the rock, Will the sweet warbler of the livelong night, Your heart shall yield a life-renewing stream, That fills the listening lover with delight, That fools, as you have done, shall call a dream. Forget his harmony with rapture heard,

It happened on a solemn eventide, To learn the twittering of a meaner bird ? Soon after He that was our surety died, Or make the parrot's mimicry his choice, Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined, That odious libel on a human voice?

The scene of all those sorrows left behind, No-Nature, unsophisticate by man,

Sought their own village, busied as they went Starts not aside from her Creator's plan; In musings worthy of the great event: The melody, that was at first designed

They spake of him they loved, of him whose life, To cheer the rude forefathers of mankind, Though blameless, had incurred perpetual strife, Is note for note delivered in our ears,

Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts, In the last scene of her six thousand years. A deep memorial graven on their hearts. Yet Fashion, leader of a chattering train, The recollection, like a vein of ore, Whom man, for his own hurt, permits to reign, The farther traced, enriched them still the more; Who shifts and changes all things but his shape, They thought him, and they justly thought him, And would degrade her votary to an ape, The fruitful parent of abuse and wrong, Sent to do more than he appeared t' have done; Holds a usurped dominion o'er his tongue; T'exalt a people, and to place them high There sits and prompts him with his own disgrace, Above all else, and wondered he should die. Prescribes the theme, the tone, and the grimace, Ere yet they brought their journey to an end, And when accomplished in her wayward school,' A stranger joined them, courteous as a friend, Calls gentleman whom she has made a fool. And asked them with a kind, engaging air, 'Tis an unalterable fixed decree,

What their affliction was, and begged to share. That none could frame or ratify but she, Informed, he gathered up the broken thread, That heaven and hell, and righteousness and sin, And, truth and wisdom gracing all he said, Snares in his path, and foes that lurk within, Explained, illustrated, and searched so well God and his attributes (a field of day

The tender theme on which they chose to dwell, Where 'tis an angel's happiness to stray,) That, reaching home, The night, they said, is Fruits of his love and wonders of his might,

near, Be never named in ears esteemed polile. We must not now be parted, sojourn here



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The new acquaintance soon became a guest, Is sparkling wit the world's exclusive right?
And, made so welceme at their simple feast, The fixed fee-simple of the vain and light?
He blessed the bread, but vanished at the word, Can hopes of heaven, bright prospects for an hour,
And left them both exclaiming, 'Twas the Lord! That come to waft us out of Sorrow's power,
Did not our hearts feel all he deigned to say? Obscure or quench a faculty, that finds
Did they not burn within us on the way? Its happiest soil in the serenest minds?

Now theirs was converse, such as it behoves Religion curbs indeed its wanton play,
Man to maintain, and such as God approves: And brings the trifler under rigorous sway,
Their views, indeed, were indistinct and dim, But gives it usefulness unknown before,
But yet successful, being aimed at him, And, purifying, makes it shine the more.
Christ and his character their only scope, A Christian's wit is inoffensive light,
Their object, and their subject, and their hope, A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight;
They felt what it became them much to feel, Vigorous in age as in the flush of youth,
And, wanting him to loose the sacred seal, 'Tis always active on the side of truth;
Found him as prompt, as their desire was true, Temperance and peace ensure its healthful state,
To spread the new born glories in their view. And make it brightest at its latest date.

Well-what are ages and the lapse of time, Oh I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain, Matched against truths, as lasting as sublime? Ere life go down, to see such sights again) Can length of years on God himself exact? A veteran warrior in the Chistian field, Or make that fiction, which was once a fact? Who never saw the sword he could not wield; No-marble and recording brass decay, Grave without dullness, learned without pride, And, like the graver's memory, pass away; Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-eyed; The works of man inherit, as is just,

A man that would have foiled at their own play Their author's frailty, and return to dust: A dozen would-be's of the modern day; But truth divine for ever stands secure,

Who, when occasion justified its use, Its head is guarded, and its base is sure. Had wit as bright as ready to produce, Fixed in the rolling flood of endless years,

Could fetch from records of an earlier age, The pillar of th' eternal plan appears,

Or from philosophy's enlightened page, The raving storm and dashing wave defies,

His rich materials, and regale your ear Built by that architect who built the skies. With strains it was a privilege to hear: Hearts may be found, that harbour at this hour Yet, above all, his luxury supreme, That love of Christ, and all its quickening power; And his chief glory, was the Gospel theme: And lips unstained by folly or by strife, There he was copious as old Greece or Rome, Whose wisdom, drawn from the deep well of life, His happy eloquence seemed there at home, Tastes of its healthful origin, and flows

Ambition not to shine or to excel, A Jordan for th' ablution of our woes.

But to treat justly what he loved so well. O days of heaven and nights of equal praise, It moves me more perhaps than folly ought, Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days, When some green heads, as void of wit as thought, When souls drawn upwards in communion sweet, Suppose themselves monopolists of sense, Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat, And wiser men's ability pretence. Discourse, as if released and safe at home, Though time will wear us and we must grow old Of dangers past, and wonders yet to come, Such men are not forgot as soon as cold; And spread the sacred treasures of the breast Their fragrant memory will outlast their tomb, Upon the lap of covenanted Rest.

Embalmed for ever in its own perfume. What, always dreaming over heavenly things, And to say truth, though in its early prime, Like angel-heads in stone with pigeon-wings? And when unstained with any grosser crime, Canting and whining out all day the word, Youth has a sprightliness and fire to boast, And half the night? Fanatic and absurd! That in the valley of decline are lost, Mine be the friend less frequent in his prayers, And Virtue with peculiar charms appears, Who makes no bustle with his soul's affairs, Crowned with the garland of life's blooming years; Whose wit can brighten up a wintry day, Yet Age, by long experience well informed, And chase the splenetic dull hours away; Well read, well tempered, with religion warmed, Content on earth in earthly things to shine, That fire abated, which impels rash youth, Who waits for heaven ere he becomes divine Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth, Leave saints t' enjoy those altitudes they teach, As time improves the grape's authentic juice, And plucks the fruit placed more within his reach, Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use,

Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame, And claims a reverence in its shortening day, Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name, That 'tis an honour and a joy to pay.


The fruits of age, less fair, are yet more sound, Should flow, like waters after summer showers,
Than those a brighter season pours around; Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers.
And, like the stores autumnal suns mature, The Christian, in whose soul, though now distressed,
Through wintry rigours unimpaired endure. Lives the dear thought of joys he once possesseil,

What is fanatic frenzy, scorned so much, When all his glowing language issued forth
And dreaded more than a contagious touch? With God's deep'stamp upon its current worth,
I grant it dangerous, and approve your fear, Will speak without disguise, and must impart,
That fire is catching if you draw too near; Sad as it is, his undissembling heart,
But sage observers oft mistake the flame, Abhors constraint, and dares not feign a zeal,
And give true piety that odious name.

Or seem to boast a fire he does not feel. To tremble (as the creature of an hour

The song of Zion is a tasteless thing, Ought at the view of an almighty power) Unless, when rising on a joyful wing, Before his presence, at whose awful throne The soul can mix with the celestial bands, All tremble in all worlds, except our own, And give the strain the compass it demands. To supplicate his mercy, love his ways, And prize them above pleasure, wealth, or praise, Strange tidings these to tell a world, who treat Though common sense, allowed a casting voice, All but their own experience as deceit! And free from bias, must approve the choice, Will they believe, though credulous enough Convicts a man fanatic in th' extreme,

To swallow much upon much weaker proof, And wild as madness in the world's esteem.

at there are blest inhabitants on earth, But that disease, when soberly defined,

Partakers of a new ethereal birth, Is the false fire of an o'erheated mind;

Their hopes, desires, and purposes estranged It views the truth with a distorted eye,

From things terrestrial, and divinely changed, And either warps or lays it useless by;

Their very language, of a kind, that speaks 'Tis narrow, selfish, arrogant, and draws The soul's sure interest in the good she seeks, Its sordid nourishment from man's applause; Who deal with Scripture, its importance felt, And while at heart sin unrelinquished lies, As Tully with philosophy once dealt, Presumes itself chief favourite of the skies. And in the silent watches of the night, 'Tis such a light as putrefaction breeds

And through the scenes of toil-renewing light, In fly-blown flesh, whereon the maggot feeds, The social walk, or solitary ride, Shines in the dark, but, ushered into day, Keep still the dear companion at their side! The stench remains, the lustre dies away. No-shame upon a self-disgracing age,

True bliss, if man may reach it, is composed God's work may serve an ape upon a stage Of hearts in union mutually disclosed:

With such a jest, as filled with hellish glee And, farewell else all hopes of pure delight,

Certain invisibles as shrewd as he; Those hearts should be reclaimed, renewed, up- But veneration or respect finds none, right.

Save from the subjects of that work alone. Bad men, profaning friendship’s hallowed name, The world grown old her deep discernment shows, Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame,

Claps spectacles on her sagacious nose, A dark confederacy against the laws

Peruses closely the true Christian's face, Of virtue, and religion's glorious cause :

And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace: They build each other up with dreadful skill, Usurps God's office, lays his bosom bare, As bastions set point blank against God's will; And finds hypocrisy close lurking there; Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt,

And, serving God herself through mere constraint, Deeply resolved to shut a Saviour out;

Concludes his unfeigned love of him a feint. Call legions up from hell to back the deed; And yet, God knows, look human nature through, And, cursed with conquest, finally succeed. (And in due time the world shall know it too) But souls, that carry on a blest exchange That since the flowers of Eden felt the blast, Of joys, they meet within their heavenly range, That after man's defection laid all waste, And with a fearless confidence make known Sincerity towards the heart-searching God The sorrows sympathy esteems its own,

Has made the new-born creature her abode, Daily derive increasing light and force

Nor shall be found in unregenerate souls, From such communion in their pleasant course, Till the last fire burn all between the poles. Feel less the journey's roughness and its length, Sincerity! why 'tis his only pride, Meet their opposers with united strength, Weak and imperfect in all grace beside, And, one in heart, in interest, and design, He knows that God demands his heart entire, Gird up each other to the race divine.

And gives him all his just demands require. But conversation, choose what theme we may, Without it his pretensions were ás vain, And chiefly when religion leads the way, As having it he deems the world's disdain;

That great defect would cost him not alone Are bringing into vogue their heathen train,
Man's favourable judgment, but his own; And Jupiter bids fair to rule again;
His birthright shaken, and no longer clear, That certain feasts are instituted now,
Than while his conduct proves his heart sincere. Where Venus hears the lover's tender vow;
Retort the charge, and let the world be told That all Olympus through the country roves,
She boasts a contidence she does not hold; To consecrate our few remaining groves,
That, conscious of her crimes, she feels instead And Echo learns politely to repeat
A cold misgiving, and a killing dread:

The praise of names for ages obsolete:
That while in health the ground of her support That having proved the weakness, it should seem,
Is madly to forget that life is short;

Of revelation's ineffectual beam, That sick she trembles, knowing she must die, To bring the passions under sober sway, Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie; And give the mortal springs their proper play, That while she dotes, and dreams that she believes, They mean to try what may at last be done, She mocks her Maker, and herself deceives, By stout substantial gods of wood and stone, Her utmost reach, historical assent,

And whether Roman rites may not produce The doctrines warped to what they never meant; The virtues of old Rome for English use. That truth itself is in her head as dull

May such success attend the pious plan, And useless as a candle in a scull,

May Mercury once more embellish man, And all her love of God a groundless claim, Grace him again with long forgotten arts, A trick upon the canvass, painted flame. Reclaim his taste, and brighten up his parts, Tell ber again, the sneer upon her face,

Make him athletic, as in days of old, And all her censures of the work of grace, Learned at the bar, in the palæstra bold, Are insincere, meant only to conceal

Divest the rougher sex of female airs, A dread she would not, yet is forced to feel : And teach the softer not to copy theirs: That in her heart the Christian she reveres, The change shall please, nor shall it matter aught And while she seems to scorn him, only fears. Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought.

A poet does not work by square or line, 'Tis time, however, if the case stand thus, As suniths and joiners perfect a design ;

For us plain folks, and all who side with us, At least we moderns, our attention less,

To build our altar, confident and bold, Beyond th' example of our sires digress,

And say as stern Elijah said of old, And claim a right to scamper and run wide, The strife now stands upon a fair award, Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide. If Israel's Lord be God, then serve the Lord: The world and I fortuitously met;

If he be silent, faith is all a whim, I owed a trifle, and have paid the debt ;

Then Baal is the God, and worship him. She did me wrong, I recompensed the deed,

Disgression is so much in modern use, And, having struck the balance, now proceed. Thought is so rare, and fancy so profuse, Perhaps, however, as some years have passed, Some never seem so wide of their intent, Since she and I conversed together last,

As when returning to the theme they meant; And I have lived recluse in rural shades,

As mendicants, whose business is to roam, Which seldom a distinct report pervades, Make every parish but their own their home. Great changes and new manners have occurred, Though such continual zigzags in a book, And blest reforms, that I have never heard, Such drunken reelings have an awkward look, And she may now be as discreet and wise, And I had rather creep to what is true, As once absurd in all discerning eyes.

Than rove and stagger with no mark in view; Sobriety perhaps may now be found,

Yet to consult a little, seemned no crime, Where once Intoxication pressed the ground;

The freakish humour of the present time; The subtle and injurious may be just,

But now to gather up what seems dispersed, And he grown chaste, that was the slave of lust; And touch the subject I designed at first, Arts once esteemed may be with shame dismissed; May prove, though much beside the rules of art, Charity may relax the miser's fist ;

Best for the public, and my wisest part.
The gamester may have cast his cards away, And first, let no man charge me, that I mean
Forgot to curse, and only kneel to pray.

To clothe in sable every social scene,
It has indeed been told me (with what weight, And give good company a face severe,
How credibly, 'tis hard for me to state)

As if they met around a father's bier;
That fables old, that seemed for ever mute, For tell some men, that pleasure all their bent,
Revived are hastening into fresh repute,

And laughter all their work, is life mispent, And gods and goddesses, discarded long, Their wisdom bursts into the sage reply, Like useless lumber, or a stroller's song,

Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry.

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To find the medium asks some share of wit, While all the happy man possessed before,
And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit.

The gift of nature, or the classic store,
But though life's valley be a vale of tears, Is made subscrvient to the grand design,
A brighter scene beyond that vale appears, For which Heaven formed the faculty divine,
Whose glory, with a light that never fades, So should an idiot, while at large he strays,
Shoots between scattered rocks and opening shades, Find the sweet lyre, on which an artist plays,
And, while it shows the land the soul desires, With rash and awkward force the chords he shakes,
The language of the land she seeks inspires. And grins with wonder at the jar he makes;
Thus touched, the tongue receives a sacred cure But let the wise and well-instructed hand
Of all that was absurd, profane, impure; Once take the shell beneath his just command,
Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech In gentle sounds it seemed as it complained
Pursues the course that Truth and Nature teach; Of the rude injuries it late sustained,
No longer labours merely to produce

Till tuned at length to some immortal song, The pomp of sound, or tinkle without use: It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours his praise Where'er it winds, the salutary stream,

along. Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme,

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HACKNEYED in business, wearied at the oar Souls, that have long despised their heavenly birth, Which thousands, once fast chained to, quit no Their wishes all iinpregnated with earth, more,

For threescore years employed with ceaseless care But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low, In catching smoke and feeding upon air, All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego; Conversant only with the ways of men, The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade, Rarely redeem the short remaining ten. Pants for the refuge of some rural shade, Inveterate habits choke th' unfruitful heart, Where, all his long anxieties forgot

Their fibres penetrate its tenderest part, Amid the charms of a sequestered spot,

And, draining its nutritious powers to feed' Or recollected only to gild o'er,

Their noxious growth, starve every better seed. And add a smile to what was sweet before,

Happy, if full of days—but happier far, He may possess the joys he thinks he sees, If, ere we yet discern life's evening star, Lay his old age upon the lap of Ease,

Sick of the service of a world, that feeds Improve the remnant of his wasted span, Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds, And, having lived a trifler, die a man.

We can escape from custom's idiot sway, Thus Conscience pleads her cause within the breast, To serve the sovereign we were born to obey. Though long rebelled against, not yet suppressed, Then sweet to muse upon his skill displayed And calls a creature formed for God alone, (Infinite skill) in all that he has made! For Heaven's high purposes, and not his own: To trace in Nature's most minute design Calls him away from selfish ends and aims, The signature and stamp of power divine, From what debilitates and what inflames, Contrivance intricate, expressed with ease, From cities humming with a restless crowd, Where unassisted sight no beauty sees, Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,

The shapely limb and lubricated joint, Whose highest praisc is that they live in vain, Within the small dimensions of a point, The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain, Muscle and nerve miraculously spun, Where works of man are clustered close around, His mighty work, who speaks, and it is done, And works of God are hardly to be found, The invisible in things scarce seen revealed, To regions where, in spite of sin and wo, To whom an atom is an ample field; Traces of Eden are still seen below,

To wonder at a thousand insect forms, Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove, These hatched, and those resuscitated worms, Remind him of his Maker's power and love. New life ordained and brighter scenes to share, 'Tis well if, looked for at so late a day,

Once prone on earth, now buoyant upon air, In the last scene of such a senseless play, Whose shape would make them, had they bulk True wisdom will attend his feeble call, And grace his action ere the curtain fall. More hideous foes than fancy can devise;

and size,

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