« ForrigeFortsett »
But all he gains for his harangue is—Well,
What monstrous lies some travellers will tell!
The truth she loves a sightless world blaspheme,
Such was the portrait an apostle drew,
When one, that holds communion with the skies, Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, Tis ev'n as if an angel shook his wings;
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,
How many deeds, with which the world has rung,
From Pride, in league with Ignorance, have sprung!
But God o'errules all human follies still,
And bends the tough materials to his will.
A conflagration, or a wintry flood,
Has left some hundreds without home or food;
Extravagance and Av'rice shall subscribe,
While fame and self-complacence are the bribe.
The brief proclaim'd, it visits ev'ry pew,
But first the squire's, a compliment but due:
With slow deliberation he unties
His glitt'ring purse, that envy of all eyes,
And, while the clerk just puzzles out the psalm,
Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm;
Till finding, what he might have found before,
A smaller piece amidst the precious store,
Pinch'd close between his finger and his thumb,
He half exhibits, and then drops the sum.
Gold to be sure!—Throughout the town 'tis told.
How the good squire gives never less than gold.
From motives such as his, though not the best,
Springs in due time supply for the distress'd;
Not less effectual than what love bestows, •
Except that office clips it as it goes.
But lest I seem to sin against a friend, And wound the grace I mean to recommend, (Though vice derided with a just design Implies no trespass against love divine,) Once more I would adopt the graver style, A teacher should be sparing of his smile. Unless a love of virtue light the flame, Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame; He hides behind a magisterial air His own offences, and strips others bare; Affects indeed a most humane concern, That men, if gently tutor'd, will not learn; That mulish Folly, not to be reclaim'd By softer methods, must be made asham'd; But (I might instance in St. Patrick's dean) Too often rails to gratify his spleen. Most sat'rists are indeed a public scourge; Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge; Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd, The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, By lean despair upon an empty purse, The wild assassins start into the street, Prepar'd to poniard whomsoe'er they meet.