"Tis harmony from yon sequester'd bow'r,
Sweet harmony, that soothes the midnight hour! Long ere the charioteer of day had run
His morning course, th' enchantment was begun And he shall gild yon mountain's height again, Ere yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain.
Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent,
"That Virtue points to? Can a life thus spent
Lead to the bliss she promises the wise,
Detach the soul from earth, and speed her to the skies? Ye devotees to your ador'd employ,
Enthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy,
Love makes the musick of the blest above,
Heav'n's harmony is universal love;
And earthly sounds, tho' sweet and well combin'd, And lenient as soft opiates to the mind, Leave Vice and Folly unsubdu'd behind.
Gray dawn appears; the sportsman and his train Speckle the bosom of the distant plain; 'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighb'ring lairs; Save that his scent is less acute than theirs, For persevering chase, and headlong leaps, True beagle as the stanchest hound he keeps. Charg'd with the folly of his life's mad scene, He takes offence, and wonders what you mean The joy the danger and the toil o'erpays— 'Tis exercise, and health, and length of days. Again impetuous to the field he flies; Leaps ev'ry fence, but one, there falls and dies; Like a slain deer, the tumbrel brings him home, Unmiss'd but by his dogs and by his groom.
Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place, Lights of the world, and stars of human race; But if eccentrick ye forsake your sphere, Prodigies ominous, and view'd with fear; The comet's baneful influence is a dream; Yours real and pernicious in th' extreme. What then!-are appetites and lusts laid down With the same ease that man puts on his gown?
Will Av'rice and Concupiscence give place,
Charm'd by the sounds-Your Rev'rence, or Your Grace?
No. But his own engagement binds him fast; Or, if it does not, brands him to the last, What atheists call him-a designing knave, A mere church-juggler, hypocrite, and slave. Oh, laugh, or mourn with me the rueful jest, A cassock'd huntsman, and a fiddling priest ! He from Italian songsters takes his cue: Set Paul to musick, he shall quote him too. He takes the field, the master of the pack
Cries Well done, saint! and claps him on the back. 115 Is this the path of sanctity? Is this
To stand a way-mark in the road to bliss? Himself a wanderer from the narrow way, His silly sheep what wonder if they stray? Go, cast your orders at your Bishop's feet, Send your dishonour'd gown to Monmouth-street! The sacred function in your hands is made- Sad sacrilege! no function, but a trade!
Occiduus is a pastor of renown;
When he has pray'd and preach'd the sabbath down,
With wire and catgut he concludes the day, Quav'ring and semiquav'ring care away.
The full concerto swells upon your ear;
All elbows shake. Look in, and you would swear The Babylonian tyrant with a nod,
Had summon'd them to serve his golden god,
So well that thought th' employment seems to suit, Psalt'ry and sackbut, dulcimer, and flute. O fie! 'tis evangelical and pure :
Observe each face, how sober and demure :
Ecstasy sets her stamp on every mien ;
Chins fall'n and not an eyeball to be seen.
Still I insist, though musick heretofore
Has charm'd me much, (not e'n Occiduus more,)
Love, joy, and peace, make harmony more meet
For Sabbath ev'nings, and perhaps as sweet. Will not the sickliest sheep of ev'ry flock Resort to this example as a rock;
There stand, and justify the foul abuse Of sabbath hours with plausible excuse? If apostolick gravity be free
To play the fool on Sundays, why not we? If he the tinkling harpsichord regards As inoffensive, what offence in cards? Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay, Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play. Oh Italy!-Thy sabbaths will be soon Our sabbaths, clos'd with mumm'ry and buffoon.
Preaching and pranks will share the motley scene, Ours parcell'd out, as thine have ever been, God's worship and the mountebank between. What says the prophet? Let that day be blest With holiness and consecrated rest.
Pastime and business both it should exclude, And bar the door the moment they intrude;
Nobly distinguish'd above all the six
By deeds, in which the world must never mix.
Hear him again. He calls it a delight,
A day of luxury observ'd aright,
When the glad soul is made Heav'ns welcome guest, Sits banqueting, and God provides the feast.
But triflers are engag'd and cannot come; Their answer to the call is-Not at home.
O the dear pleasures of the velvet plain, The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again! Cards with what rapture, and the polish'd die, The yawning chasm of indolence supply! Then to the dance, and make the sober moon Witness of joys that shun the sight of noon. Blame, cynick, if you can, quadrille or ball, The snug close party, or the splendid hall, Where night, down-stooping from her ebon throne, Views constellations brighter than her own.
To quell the faction that affronts the throne, By silent magnanimity alone;
To nurse with tender care the thriving arts; Watch ev'ry beam Philosophy imparts; To give Religion her unbridled scope, Nor judge by statute a believer's hope ; With close fidelity and love unfeign'd, To keep the matrimonial bond unstain'd ; Covetous only of a virtuous praise; His life a lesson to the land he sways;
To touch the sword with conscientious awe, Nor draw it but when duty bids him draw; To sheath it in the peace-restoring close With joy beyond what victory bestows; Blest country where these kingly glories shine! Blest England, if this happiness be thine!
A. Guard what you say; the patriotick tribe
Will sneer and charge you with a bribe.-B. A. bribe? The worth of his three kingdoms I defy,
To lure me to the baseness of a lie;
And, of all lies, (be that one poet's boast,)
The lie that flatters I abhor the most.
Those arts be theirs, who hate his gentle reign,
But he that loves him has no need to fain.
A. Your smooth eulogium to one crown address'd,
Seems to imply a censure on the rest.
B. Quevedo, as he tells his sober tale, Ask'd, when in Hell, to see the royal jail; Approv'd their method in all other things; But where, good sir, do you confine your kings? There, said his guide—the group is full in view. Indeed-replied the Don-there are but few. His black interpreter the charge disdain'd-- Few, fellow?- there are all that ever reign'd. Wit, undistinguishing, is apt to strike The guilty and not guilty, both alike. I grant the sarcasm is too severe, And we can readily refute it here; VOL. I.
While Alfred's name, the father of his age, And the Sixth Edward's grace th' historick page. A. Kings then at last have but the lot of all: By their own conduct they must stand or fall.
B. True. While they live, the courtly laureat pays His quit-rent ode, his peppercorn of praise;
And many a dunce, whose fingers itch to write, Adds, as he can, his tributary mite:
A subject's faults a subject may proclaim,
A monarch's errors are forbidden game! Thus free from censure, overaw'd by fear, And prais'd for virtues that they scorn to wear, The fleeting forms of majesty engage Respect, while stalking o'er life's narrow stage; Then leave their crimes for history to scan, And ask with busy scorn, Was this the man? I pity kings, whom Worship waits upon, Obsequious from the cradle to the throne; Before whose infant eyes the flatt'rer bows, And binds a wreath about their baby brows; Whom Education stiffens into state,
And Death awakens from that dream too late. Oh! if Servility with supple knees,
Whose trade it is to smile, to crouch, to please; If smooth Dissimulation, skill'd to grace A devil's purpose with an angel's face; If smiling peeresses, and simp'ring peers, Encompassing his throne a few short years; If the gilt carriage and the pamper'd steed, That wants no driving, and disdains the lead; If guards, mechanically form'd in ranks, Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks, Should'ring and standing as if stuck to stone, While condescending majesty looks on ; If monarchy consist in such base things, Sighing, I say again, I pity kings!
To be suspected, thwarted, and withstood, E'en when he labours for his country's good,
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