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The God of our idolatry once more,
bunch, Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak, And strut, and storm and straddle, stamp and
stare, To show the world how Garrick did not act. For Garrick was a worshipper himself; He drew the Liturgy, and fram’d the rites And folemn ceremonial of the day, And call'd the world to worship on the banks Of Avon, fam'd in fong. Ah, pleasant proof! That piety has still in human hearts Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. The mulb'ry tree was hung with blooming
wreaths ; The mulb'ry tree stood centre of the dance; The mulb'ry tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs ; And from his touchwood trunk, the mulb'ry
tree Supplied such relics, as devotion holds Still sacred, and preserves with pious care.
So 'twas an hallow'd time: decorum reign’d,
--Man praises man. The rabble all alive,
in's eyes, and bless him. Maidens wave
the state ?
The task now falls into the public hand;
The groans of nature in this nether world,
For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair.
Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet Not to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch : Nor can the wonders it records be sung To meaner music, and not suffer loss. But when a poet, or when one like me, Happy to rove among poetic flow'rs, Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last On some fair theme, fome theme divinely fair, Such is the impulse and the fpur he feels To give it praise proportion'd to its worth, That not t' attempt it, arduous as he deems The labour, were a talk more arduous still.
Oh scenes surpasting fable, and yet true, Scenes of accomplish'd bliss ! which who can fee Though but in diftant prospect, and not feel His foul refresh'd with foretaste of the joy ? Rivers of gladness water all the earth, And clothe all climes with beauty ; the reproach Of barrennefs is past. The fruitful field Laughs with abundance, and the land, once lean, Or fertile only in its own disgrace, Exults to see its thistly curfe repeal'd. The various seasons woven into one, And that one season an eternal spring, The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence, For there is none to covet, all are full. The lion, and the libbard, and the bear,
Graze with the fearless flocks; all bask at noon
heart No passion touches a discordant string, But all is harmony and love. Disease Is not : the pure and uncontaminate blood Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age. One fong employs all nations, and all cry, “ Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us." The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks Shout to each other, and the mountain tops From diftant mountains catch the flying joy, Till nation after nation taught the strain, Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. Behold the measure of the promise fillid; See Salem built, the labour of a God!