A talent fo divine, remember too
That His moft holy book, from whom it came, Was never meant, was never used before, To buckram out the memory of a man. But hush!-the muse perhaps is too fevere; And with a gravity beyond the fize
And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed Lefs impious than abfurd, and owing more To want of judgment than to wrong defign. So in the chapel of old Ely House,
When wandering Charles, who meant to be the third, Had fled from William, and the news was fresh,
The fimple clerk, but loyal, did announce,
And eke did rear right merrily, two ftaves,
Sung to the praise and glory of King George! -Man praises man; and Garrick's memory next, When time hath somewhat mellowed it, and made The idol of our worship while he lived
The God of our idolatry once more,
Shall have its altar; and the world fhall go
In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine. The theatre too small shall fuffocate
Its fqueezed contents, and more than it admits Shall figh at their exclufion, and return Ungratified. For there fome noble lord
Shall ftuff his shoulders with king Richard's bunch,
Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak,
And ftrut, and storm, and straddle, stamp and stare,
To fhew the world how Garrick did not act, For Garrick was a worshipper himself;
He drew the liturgy, and framed the rites And folemn ceremonial of the day,
And called the world to worship on the banks Of Avon, famed in fong. Ah, pleasant proof That piety has ftill in human hearts
Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct.
The mulberry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths; The mulberry-tree stood centre of the dance;
The mulberry-tree was hymned with dulcet airs; And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-tree Supplied fuch relics as devotion holds
Still facred, and preserves with pious care. So 'twas an hallowed time: decorum reigned, And mirth without offence. No few returned, Doubtlefs, much edified, and all refreshed. -Man praises man. The rabble all alive From tippling benches, cellars, ftalls, and ftyes, Swarm in the ftreets. The ftatesman of the day, A pompous and flow-moving pageant, comes. Some shout him, and fome hang upon his car, To gaze in's eyes, and blefs him. Maidens wave Their 'kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy.
While others, not fo fatisfied, unhorfe The gilded equipage, and turning loose
His fteeds, ufurp a place they well deferve.
Why? what has charmed them? Hath he faved the state? No. Doth he purpose its falvation? No.
Enchanting novelty, that moon at full,
That finds out every crevice of the head, That is not found and perfect, hath in their's Wrought this difturbance. But the wane is near, And his own cattle muft fuffice him foon.
Thus idly do we wafte the breath of praise, And dedicate a tribute, in its ufe
And juft direction facred, to a thing Doomed to the duft, or lodged already there. Encomium in old time was poet's work; But poets, having lavishly long fince Exhaufted all materials of the art,
The task now falls into the public hand; And I, contented with an humble theme, Have poured my ftream of panegyric down The vale of nature, where it creeps, and winds Among her lovely works with a fecure And unambitious course, reflecting clear, If not the virtues, yet the worth, of brutes. And I am recompenfed, and deem the toils Of poetry not loft, if verse of mine
May ftand between an animal and woe, And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.
The groans of nature in this nether world, Which Heaven has heard for ages, have an end. Foretold by prophets, and by poets fung, Whofe fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp, The time of reft, the promised sabbath, comes. Six thousand years of forrow have well-nigh Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course Over a finful world; and what remains Of this tempeftuous state of human things Is merely as the working of a fea
Before a calm, that rocks itself to reft:
For He, whofe car the winds are, and the clouds The duft, that waits upon his fultry march,
When fin hath moved him, and his wrath is hot, Shall vifit earth in mercy; shall descend Propitious in his chariot paved with love; And what his ftorms have blafted and defaced For man's revolt fhall with a smile repair.
Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too fweet Not to be wronged by a mere mortal touch: Nor can the wonders it records be fung To meaner mufic, and not suffer lofs.
But when a poet, or when one like me, Happy to rove among poetic flowers,
Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at laft On fome fair theme, fome theme divinely fair, Such is the impulse and the spur he feels To give it praise proportioned to its worth, That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems The labour, were a task more arduous ftill.
Oh scenes furpaffing fable, and yet true, Scenes of accomplished blifs! which who can fee, Though but in diftant prospect, and not feel His foul refreshed with foretaste of the joy? Rivers of gladness water all the earth,
And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach Of barrenness is paft. The fruitful field Laughs with abundance; and the land, once lean, Or fertile only in its own difgrace,
Exults to fee its thiftly curse repealed.
The various feasons woven into one,
And that one feason 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 bafk at noon. 'Together, or all gambol in the shade
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