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No skill in swordmanship, however just,
Can be secure against a madman's thrust;
And even Virtue, so unfairly match'd,
Although immortal, may be prick'd or scratch'd.
When Scandal has new minted an old lie,
Or tax'd invention for a fresh supply,
Tis call'd a satire, and the world appears
Gath'ring around it with erected ears:
A thousand names are toss'd into the crowd;
Some whisper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud;
Just as the sapience of an author's brain
Suggests it safe or dang'rous to be plain.
Strange! how the frequent interjected dash
Quickens a market, and helps off the trash;
Th' important letters, that include the rest,
Serve as a key to those that are suppress'd;
Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw,
The world is charm'd, and Scrib escapes the law.
So, when the cold damp shades of night prevail,
Worms may be caught by either head or tail;
Forcibly drawn from many a close recess,
They meet with little pity, no redress;
Plung'd in the stream they lodge upon the mud,
Food for the famish'd rovers of the flood.
Vol. i. N
All zeal for a reform, that gives offence To peace and charity, is mere pretence: A bold remark, but which, if well applied, Would humble many a tow'ring poet's pride. Perhaps the man was in a sportive fit, And had no other play-place for his wit; Perhaps enchanted with the love of fame, He sought the jewel in his neighbour's shame; Perhaps—whatever end he might pursue, The cause of virtue could not be his view. At ev'ry stroke wit flashes in our eyes; The turns are quick, the polish'd points surprise, But shine with cruel and tremendous charms, That, while they please, possess us with alarms; So have I seen, (and hasten'd to the sight On all the wings of holiday delight) Where stands that monument of ancient pow'r, Nam'd with emphatic dignity, the Tow'r, Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and small, In starry forms dispos'd upon the wall; We wonder, as we gazing stand below, That brass and steel should make so fine a show; But though we praise th' exact designer's skill, Account them implements of mischief still.
No works shall find acceptance in that day, When all disguises shall be rent away, That square not truly with the Scripture plan, Nor spring from love to God, or love to man. As he ordains things sordid in their birth To be resolv'd into their parent earth; And, though the soul shall seek superior orbs, Whate'er this world produces, it absorbs; So self starts nothing, but what tends apace Home to the goal, where it began the race. Such as our motive is, our aim must be; If this be servile, that can ne'er be free: If self employ us, whatsoe'er is wrought, We glorify that self, not him we ought; Such virtues had need prove their own reward, The judge of all men owes them no regard. True Charity, a plant divinely nurs'd, Fed by the love, from which it rose at first, Thrives against hope, and in the rudest scene, Storms but enliven it's unfading green; Exub'rant is the shadow it supplies, It's fruit on earth, it's growth above the skies. To look at Him, who form'd us and redeem'd, So glorious now, though once so disesteem'd,
To see a God stretch forth his human hand,
T' uphold the boundless scenes of his command;
To recollect, that, in a form like ours,
He bruis'd beneath his feet th' infernal pow'rs,
Captivity led captive, rose to claim
The wreath he won so dearly in our name;
That thron'd above all height he condescends,
To call the few that trust in him his friends;
That, in the Heav'n of heav'ns, that space he deems
Too scanty for th' exertion of his beams,
And shines, as if impatient to bestow
Life and a kingdom upon worms below;
That sight imparts a never-dying flame,
Though feeble in degree, in kind the same.
Like him the soul thus kindled from above
Spreads wide her arms of universal love;
And, still enlarg'd as she receives the grace,
Includes creation in her close embrace.
Behold a Christian!—and without the fires
The founder of that name alone inspires,
Though all accomplishment, all knowledge meet,
To make the shining prodigy complete,
Whoever boasts that name—behold a cheat!
Were love, in these the World's last doting years,
As frequent as the want of it appears,
The churches warm'd, they would no longer hold
Snch frozen figures, stiff as they are cold;
Relenting forms would lose their pow'r, or cease;
And eVn the dipp'd and sprinkled live in peace:
Each heart would quit it's prison in the breast,
And flow in free communion with the rest.
The statesman, skill'd in projects dark and deep,
Might burn his useless Machiavel, and sleep;
His budget often fill'd, yet always poor,
Might swing at ease behind his study door,
No longer prey upon our annual rents,
Or scare the nation with it's big contents:
Disbanded legions freely might depart,
And slaying man would cease to be an art.
No learned disputants would take the field,
Sure not to conquer, and sure not to yield;
Both sides deceiv'd, if rightly understood,
Pelting each other for the public good.
Did charity prevail, the press would prove
A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love;
And I might spare myself the pains to show
What few can learn, and all suppose they know.