From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes, The gilded equipage, and turning loose His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve. Why? what has charm'd them? Hath he sav'd the state? No. Doth he purpose it's salvation? No. Enchanting novelty, that moon at full, That finds out ev'ry crevice of the head, That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near, And his own cattle must suffice him soon. Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise, 710 And dedicate a tribute, in it's use And just direction sacred, to a thing Doom'd to the dust, or lodg'd already there. Encomium in old time was poet's work; But poets, having lavishly long since Exhausted all materials of the art, The task now falls into the public hand; The vale of nature, where it creeps, and winds May stand between an animal and wo, The groans of nature in this nether world, Which Heav'n has heard for ages, have an end. Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung, Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp, 720 731 The time of rest, the promis'd sabbath, comes. Of this tempestuous state of human things Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest: For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds The dust, that waits upon his sultry march, When sin hath mov'd him, and his wrath is hot, Shall visit Earth in mercy; shall descend And what his storms have blasted and defac'd Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet But when a poet, or when one like me, 741 750 Happy to rove among poetic flow'rs, Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, Scenes of accomplish'd bliss; which who can see, Though but in distant prospect, and not feel 761 His soul refresh'd with foretaste of the joy? Rivers of gladness water all the Earth, And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field Laughs with abundance; and the land, once lean, Or fertile only in it's own disgrace, Exults to see it's thistly curse repeal'd. The various seasons woven into one, And that one season an eternal spring, 770 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 Together, or all gambol in the shade Of the same grove, and drink one common stream. Lurks in the serpent now: the mother sees, To stroke his azure neck, or to receive The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. All creatures worship man, and all mankind One Lord, one Father. Errour has no place: That creeping pestilence is driv'n away; The breath of Heav'n has chas'd it. In the heart No passion touches a discordant string, But all is harmony and love. Discase Is not: the pure and uncontaminate blood Holds it's due course, nor fears the frost of age. 789 |