Rome's hitelings came, and to the gaping crowd-
The mould'ring bones of their pretended 'saints,"
By some fictitious miracle preserv'd
For ages past, display'd. From mute respect
They fell to worship, while the juggling priest
Extoll'd his patron's merits in a strain
Of heavenly seeming zeal. Nor left forgot
His influence on the counsels of the sky;
A powerful intercessor He, when won
Their aspirations to present before
The seat of mercy. Soon, his aid to gain,
To superstitions cares and blandishments,
To him addrest, they chang'd their simple rites,
And learn'd in such observances to trust
Above the virtues of a blameless life.
On the gross multitude by arts as gross
(Broad glaring frauds, if any eye had mark'd
The fraud) their ends these old impostors gain'd,
And from their fixt allegiance won the crowd
To put their trust in Rome. But much more strong
Tho' subtler is the texture, which entwines
Their sons! Almost too fine for common eyes,
Scarce to the feeling palpable, it cheats
The sight and touch at once.
Of sanctity, the multitude is lur'd
With golden dreams and tales of rapturous joys
Unfelt, and visionary gleams of bliss
Unseen; the wild enthusiast's darling test.
And oftentimes, the quick malignant shaft
Of obloquy, with keen invective gall
Envenom'd, at the appointed swain they dart
Who tends the flock, and with paternal care
Leads them the rugged path he treads himself
To promis'd jays. On him the hated names
Of HIRELING they bestow; because the law
Securing his subsistence, gives him thence
Upright integrity, unapt to soothe
The passions of the multitude with tales
Of meritorious faith that wafts the soul
Direct to heaven, and scorns the feeble aid
Of poor, despised morality. The law
Which gives him independence, thence bestows
Authority (if he perform his task)
To bid his precepts on their ductile minds
Sink deep, and long remain. But he who trusts
To popular applause, must learn to soothe
Th' elector for his vote, by arts, well known
To each successful candidate. What tho'
For him the Gallic vintage does not flow
Round the gay Bacchanalian shire, to buy
The curule chair? what tho' the fuming feast
No venal voices buys for him? No less
The flowing period and mimetie start,
His transports and his zeal, intoxicate
The deep fermenting mind. Not yon fair star
Which rolls the tides, and on the scething brain
Stamps with a strange and wonder-working spell
Demonian visions, rules the frantic mind
With more despotic sway, than he who deals
Ideal portions of heaven's spirit round,
And opens the celestial sluice at will,
"Or shuts the gates of mercy on mankind.”
But, are there some whose mental energy
Repells the Syren pest with manly scorn?
To them, with other arts, with other wiles
The Flamens of the populace apply.
Sly Masqueraders! in another shape.
They gain their votes, no more enthusiasts now,
But cool, deliberate, sophists; they pervert.
Priestley and his followers.
And warp the holy evangelic word.
Its awful doctrines they deny, or change,
To soothe the speculative pride of man
Deny the FALL and RANSOM; nay, debase
The fiery essence of the human soul,
(Which ranges thro' creation, and connects
Things present, past and future) with the clod
Material, which we tread, as best befits
Their views of glory, or of gain. Is then
The state to suffer obloquy, which chose
Beneath the hierarchal rule to curb
Such hurtful wand'rings? She forbids the crowd
Of pastors in their flocks at large to trust
For food and raiment to reward their toil.
For well she knew, what ills would thence arise
Which oft have shaken, oft again may shake,
The public weal. The demagogue, whose all
Upon the populace depends, must soothe
The populace, or all his labours lose;
"Tis not the plain and awful precept given
Beneath the FIAT of the state, will serve,
(They have their simple fare each sabbath morn
And scorn it) but a rhapsody of grace
Effectual, overpowering grace, well tim'd
Well tun'd, the FULL ASSURANCE of the saints
Above temptation, scorning chance or change,
Insisted on with zeal, will gain the hearts
Even of the seeming sober man and maid.
Such are the men, on whom the lot would fall,
(For such are public favourites of the crowd)
From press and pulpit. While the legal sons
Of unsophisticated gospel lore,
(The pupils of the fathers) are contemn'd
As obsolete. But cease advent'rous muse!
Thou tread'st on smother'd fires, enough for me
This rude preamble.-Some superior hand
Perhaps may touch the master chords in time.
No longer cry "I vow I'll leave you!"
You deceive you,
If you think to fright me so; Let the whining silly lover
No such fears my breast can know,
Never will I, crown'd with willow,
On my pillow,
Sadly sighing, lay my head;
Nor sing, inspiring scorn or pity,
Many a ditty,
Mourning for a false one fled.
While the vows you freely plighted
Are unslighted,
Constant ever will I be;
But if once, the rover playing,
You are straying,
Truer loves shall solace me!
BY THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.
DARK on my view the evening landscape lowers,
And drear the woods that clothe yon distant hills,
Embosoming the valley! On yon cliff
Th' old castle frowns defiance, as if still
Its walls some siege were battering, aud the storm
Of war, rung shrilly on its jutting towers,
Mishapen, and moss-turretted! The winds
Through the rent battlements strange music make,
In mystic echoes, breathing soft or loud,
As 'twere some spirit harping! But the stream,
Below glides tranquil, as though not a breath
Stirred on its surface.
And lo! how yon long line of silver light
Stretches athwart the waste and fallows brown,
In bright, transparent, tints, marking distinct
The village-church and hamlet. Lovely scene!
Well might your warm and brilliant contrasts charm
The eye of him, who on the dazzling heap
Of hoarded gold, with joyless luxury, glotes,
Or ransacks Ocean's bed, and Earth's deep womb,
For costly gems, or glittering ores; him too,
Who on the tints of Claude, or Raphael's forms,
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