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And figure of the man, his secret aim,
That oft we owe our safety to a skill
We could not teach, and must despair to learn.
But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop
To quadruped instructors, many a good
And useful quality, and virtue too,
Rarely exemplified among ourselves;
Attachment never to be wean'd, or chang'd
By any change of fortune: proof alike
Against unkindness, absence, and neglect;
Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat
Can move or warp; and gratitude for small
And trivial favours, lasting as the life,
And glistning even in the dying eye.
Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms
Wins public honour! and ten thousand sit
Patiently present at a sacred song,
Commemoration-mad; content to hear
(0, wonderful effect of music's pow'r!)
Messiah’s eulogy for Handel's sake.
But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve-
(For, was it less, what heathen would have dar'd
To strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath,
And hang it up in honour of a man?)
Much less might serve, when all that we design
Is but to gratify an itching ear,
And give the day to a musician's praise.
Remember Handel? Who, that was not born
Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets,
Or can, the more than Homer of his age ?
Yes--we remember him; and, while we praise
A talent so divine, remember too
That His most holy book, from whom it. came,
Was never meant, was never us'd before,
To buckram out the mem'ry of a man.
But, hush !---the muse, perhaps, is too severe;
with the gravity beyond the size
sasure of th' offence, rebukes a deed
s impious than absurd, and owing more want of judgment than to wrong design. n the chapel of old Ely House, en wand'ring Charles, who meant to be the third, I fled from William, and the news was fresh, simple clerk, but loyal, did announce, leke did rear right merrily, two staves, 3 to the praise and glory of King George! an praises man; and Garrick's mem’ry next, en time had somewhat mellow'd it, and made idol of our worship while he liv'd God of our idolatry once more, I have its altar; and the world shall go ilgrimage to bow before his shrine. theatre too small shall suffocate jueez'd contents, and more than it admits sigh at their exclusion, and return atified: for there some noble lord stuff his shoulders with king Richard's bunch, rap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak, strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp and stare, low the world how Garrick did not act. jarrick was a worshipper himself; rew the liturgy, and fram'd the rites solemn ceremonial of the day, call'd the world to worship on the banks von, fam'd in song. Ah, pleasant proof piety has still in human hearts place, a spark or two not yet extinct. iulb’rry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths; nulb’rry-tree stood centre of the dance; nulb’rry-tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs ; from his touchwood trunk the mulb’rry-tree lied such relics as devotion holds acred, and preserves with pious care. vas a hallow'd time: decorum reign'd, mirth without offence. No few return'd, tless, much edified, and all refresh’d.
-Man praises man. The rabble all alive
From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes,
Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day,
A pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes.
Some shout him, and some hang upon his car,
gaze in 's eyes, and bless him. Maidens wave
Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy:
While others, not so satisfied, unhorse
The gilded equipage, and, turning loose
His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve. state?
Why? what has charm’d them? Hath he sav'd the
No. Doth he purpose its 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 neas,
And his own cattle must suffice him soon.
Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise,
And dedicate a tribute, in its 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:
And I, contented with a humbler theme,
Have pour'd my stream of panegyric down
The vale of Nature, where it creeps, and winds
Among her lovely works with a secure
And unambitious course, reflecting clear,
If not the virtues, yet the worth, of brutes.
And I am recompens'd, and deem the toils
Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine
May stand between an animal and woe,
And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.
The groans of Nature in this nether world, Which Heav'n has heard for ages, have an end. Poretold by prophets, and by poets sung,
lose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp, time of rest the promis'd Sabbath, comes. thousand
years of sorrow have well-nigh fill'd their tardy and disastrous course or a sinful world; and what remains this tempestuous state of human things aerely as the working of a sea ore a calm, that rocks itself to rest:
He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds : dust that waits upon his sultry march, len sin hath mov'd him, and his wrath is hot, ll visit earth in mercy; shall descend pitious in his chariot pav'd with love; i what his storms have blasted and defac’d
man’s revolt shall with a smile repair. weet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet t to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch: r can the wonders it records be sung meaner music, and not suffer loss. : when a poet, or when one like me, ppy to rove among poetic flow'rs, ough poor in skill to rear them, lights at last some fair theme, some theme divinely fair, h is the impulse and the spur he feels, give it praise proportion'd to its worth, at not t' attempt it, arduous as he deems 2 labour, were a task more arduous still. ), scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, nes of accomplish'd bliss! which who can see, ough but in distant prospect, and not feel 3 soul refresh'd with foretaste of the joy ? rers of gladness water all the earth, d clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach barrenness is past. The fruitful field ughs with abundance; and the land, once lean, fertile only in its own disgrace, ults to see its thistly curse repeal’d. e various seasons woven into one,
And that one season an eternal spring,
The garden fears no blight, and needs no fenoe,
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.
Antipathies are none. No foe to man
Lurks in the serpent now; the mother sees,
And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand
Stretch'd forth to dally with the crested worm,
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. Error 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 spring,
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 song 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 distant mountains catch the flying joy;
Till, nation after nation taught the strain,
Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round.
Behold the measure of the promise fill’d;
See Salem built, the labour of a God!
Bright as a sun the sacred city shines;
All kingdoms and all princes of the earth
Flock to the light; the glory of all lands
Flows into her; unbounded is her joy,
And endless her increase. Thy rams are there,
Yebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there;