BOOK VI.

THE WINTER WALK AT NOON.

THE ARGUMENT.

Bells at a distance--Their effect--A fine noon in winter--A

sheltered walk--Meditation better than books--Our familiarity

with the course of nature makes it appear less wonderful

than it is--The transformation that spring effects in a

shrubbery described--A mistake concerning the course of nature

corrected--God maintains it by an unremitted act--The amusements

fashionable at this hour of the day reproved--Animals happy, a

delightful sight--Origin of cruelty to animals--That it is a

great crime proved from scripture--That proof illustrated by a

tale--A line drawn between the lawful and unlawful destruction

of them--Their good and useful properties insisted on--Apology

for the encomiums bestowed by the author on animals--Instances

of man's extravagant praise of man--The groans of the creation

shall have an end--A view taken of the restoration of all

things--An invocation and an invitation of Him who shall bring

it to pass--The retired man vindicated from the charge of

uselessness--Conclusion.

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds;

And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased

With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave:

Some chord in unison with what we hear

Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.

How soft the music of those village bells,

Falling at intervals upon the ear

In cadence sweet, now dying all away,

Now pealing loud again, and louder still,

Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!

With easy force it opens all the cells

Where Memory slept. Wherever I have heard

A kindred melody, the scene recurs,

And with it all its pleasures and its pains.

Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,

That in a few short moments I retrace

(As in a map the voyager his course)

The windings of my way through many years.

Short as in retrospect the journey seems,

It seem'd not always short; the rugged path,

And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn,

Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length.

Yet, feeling present evils, while the past

Faintly impress the mind, or not at all,

How readily we wish time spent revoked,

That we might try the ground again, where once

(Through inexperience, as we now perceive)

We miss'd that happiness we might have found!

Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend,

A father, whose authority, in show

When most severe, and mustering all its force,

Was but the graver countenance of love:

Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower,

And utter now and then an awful voice,

But had a blessing in its darkest frown,

Threatening at once and nourishing the plant.

We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand

That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allured

By every gilded folly, we renounced

His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent

That converse, which we now in vain regret,

How gladly would the man recall to life

The boy's neglected sire! a mother too,

That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still,

Might he demand them at the gates of death.

Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed

The playful humour; he could now endure

(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears)

And feel a parent's presence no restraint.

But not to understand a treasure's worth

Till time has stolen away the slighted good,

Is cause of half the poverty we feel,

And makes the world the wilderness it is.

The few that pray at all pray oft amiss,

And, seeking grace to improve the prize they hold,

Would urge a wiser suit than asking more.

The night was winter in his roughest mood;

The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon

Upon the southern side of the slant hills,

And where the woods fence off the northern blast,

The season smiles, resigning all its rage,

And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue

Without a cloud, and white without a speck

The dazzling splendour of the scene below.

Again the harmony comes o'er the vale;

And through the trees I view the embattled tower

Whence all the music. I again perceive

The soothing influence of the wafted strains,

And settle in soft musings as I tread

The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms,

Whose outspread branches overarch the glade.

The roof, though moveable through all its length

As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed,

And, intercepting in their silent fall

The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.

No noise is here, or none that hinders thought.

The redbreast warbles still, but is content

With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd:

Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light

From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes

From many a twig the pendent drops of ice,

That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below.

Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,

Charms more than silence. Meditation here

May think down hours to moments. Here the heart

May give a useful lesson to the head,

And Learning wiser grow without his books.

Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one,

Have ofttimes no connexion. Knowledge dwells

In heads replete with thoughts of other men;

Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.

Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,

The mere materials with which Wisdom builds,

Till smooth'd, and squared, and fitted to its place,

Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.

Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much;

Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.

Books are not seldom talismans and spells,

By which the magic art of shrewder wits

Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd.

Some to the fascination of a name

Surrender judgment hoodwink'd. Some the style

Infatuates, and through labyrinth and wilds

Of error leads them, by a tune entranced.

While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear

The insupportable fatigue of thought,

And swallowing therefore without pause or choice

The total grist unsifted, husks and all.

But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course

Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer,

And sheepwalks populous with bleating lambs,

And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time

Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root,

Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth,

Not shy, as in the world, and to be won

By slow solicitation, seize at once

The roving thought, and fix it on themselves.

What prodigies can power divine perform

More grand than it produces year by year,

And all in sight of inattentive man?

Familiar with the effect, we slight the cause,

And, in the constancy of nature's course,

The regular return of genial months,

And renovation of a faded world,

See nought to wonder at. Should God again,

As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race

Of the undeviating and punctual sun,

How would the world admire! but speaks it less

An agency divine, to make him know

His moment when to sink and when to rise,

Age after age, than to arrest his course?

All we behold is miracle; but, seen

So duly, all is miracle in vain.

Where now the vital energy that moved,

While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph

Through the imperceptible meandering veins

Of leaf and flower? It sleeps; and the icy touch

Of unprolific winter has impress'd

A cold stagnation on the intestine tide.

But let the months go round, a few short months,

And all shall be restored. These naked shoots,

Barren as lances, among which the wind

Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes,

Shall put their graceful foliage on again,

And, more aspiring, and with ampler spread,

Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost.

Then each, in its peculiar honours clad,

Shall publish, even to the distant eye,

Its family and tribe. Laburnum, rich

In streaming gold; syringa, ivory pure;

The scentless and the scented rose; this red,

And of an humbler growth, the other[816] tall,

And throwing up into the darkest gloom

Of neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew,

Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf

That the wind severs from the broken wave;

The lilac, various in array, now white,

Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set

With purple spikes pyramidal, as if,

Studious of ornament, yet unresolved

Which hue she most approved, she chose them all:

Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan,

But well compensating her sickly looks

With never-cloying odours, early and late;

Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm

Of flowers, like flies clothing her slender rods,

That scarce a leaf appears; mezereon too,

Though leafless, well attired, and thick beset

With blushing wreaths, investing every spray;

Althæa with the purple eye; the broom,

Yellow and bright, as bullion unalloy'd,

Her blossoms; and luxuriant above all

The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets,

The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd leaf

Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more

The bright profusion of her scatter'd stars.--

These have been, and these shall be in their day;

And all this uniform, uncolour'd scene

Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load,

And flush into variety again.

From dearth to plenty, and from death to life,

Is Nature's progress, when she lectures man

In heavenly truth; evincing, as she makes

The grand transition, that there lives and works

A soul in all things, and that soul is God.

The beauties of the wilderness are his,

That make so gay the solitary place,

Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms,

That cultivation glories in, are his.

He sets the bright procession on its way,

And marshals all the order of the year;

He marks the bounds which Winter may not pass,

And blunts his pointed fury; in its case,

Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ,

Uninjured, with inimitable art;

And, ere one flowery season fades and dies,

Designs the blooming wonders of the next.

Some say that, in the origin of things,

When all creation started into birth,

The infant elements received a law,

From which they swerve not since; that under force

Of that controlling ordinance they move,

And need not his immediate hand, who first

Prescribed their course, to regulate it now.

Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God

The incumbrance of his own concerns, and spare

The great Artificer of all that moves

The stress of a continual act, the pain

Of unremitted vigilance and care,

As too laborious and severe a task.

So man, the moth, is not afraid, it seems,

To span omnipotence, and measure might,

That knows no measure, by the scanty rule

And standard of his own, that is to-day,

And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down.

But how should matter occupy a charge,

Dull as it is, and satisfy a law

So vast in its demands, unless impell'd

To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force,

And under pressure of some conscious cause?

The Lord of all, himself through all diffused,

Sustains and is the life of all that lives.

Nature is but a name for an effect,

Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire,

By which the mighty process is maintain'd,

Who sleeps not, is not weary; in whose sight

Slow circling ages are as transient days;

Whose work is without labour; whose designs

No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts;

And whose beneficence no charge exhausts.

Him blind antiquity profaned, not served,

With self-taught rites, and under various names,

Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan,

And Flora, and Vertumnus; peopling earth

With tutelary goddesses and gods

That were not; and commending as they would

To each some province, garden, field, or grove.

But all are under one. One spirit, His

Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows,

Rules universal nature. Not a flower

But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain,

Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires

Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues,

And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes,

In grains as countless as the seaside sands,

The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth.

Happy who walks with him! whom what he finds

Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower,

Or what he views of beautiful or grand

In nature, from the broad majestic oak

To the green blade that twinkles in the sun,

Prompts with remembrance of a present God.

His presence, who made all so fair, perceived

Makes all still fairer. As with him no scene

Is dreary, so with him all seasons please.

Though winter had been none, had man been true,

And earth be punish'd for its tenant's sake,

Yet not in vengeance; as this smiling sky,

So soon succeeding such an angry night,

And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream

Recovering fast its liquid music, prove.

Who then, that has a mind well strung and tuned

To contemplation, and within his reach

A scene so friendly to his favourite task,

Would waste attention at the chequer'd board,

His host of wooden warriors to and fro

Marching and countermarching, with an eye

As fix'd as marble, with a forehead ridged

And furrow'd into storms, and with a hand

Trembling, as if eternity were hung

In balance on his conduct of a pin?

Nor envies he aught more their idle sport,

Who pant with application misapplied

To trivial joys, and pushing ivory balls,

Across a velvet level, feel a joy

Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds

Its destined goal of difficult access.

Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noon

To miss, the mercer's plague, from shop to shop

Wandering, and littering with unfolded silks

The polish'd counter, and approving none,

Or promising with smiles to call again.

Nor him who, by his vanity seduced,

And soothed into a dream that he discerns

The difference of a Guido from a daub,

Frequents the crowded auction: station'd there

As duly as the Langford of the show,

With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand,

And tongue accomplish'd in the fulsome cant

And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease:

Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls,

He notes it in his book, then raps his box,

Swears 'tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate

That he has let it pass--but never bids.

Here unmolested, through whatever sign

The sun proceeds, I wander. Neither mist,

Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me,

Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy.

E'en in the spring and playtime of the year,

That calls the unwonted villager abroad

With all her little ones, a sportive train,

To gather kingcups in the yellow mead,

And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick

A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook,

These shades are all my own. The timorous hare,

Grown so familiar with her frequent guest,

Scarce shuns me; and the stockdove unalarm'd

Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends

His long love-ditty for my near approach.

Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm,

That age or injury has hollow'd deep,

Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves,

He has outslept the winter, ventures forth

To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun,

The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play:

He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,

Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush,

And perks his ears, and stamps, and cries aloud,

With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm,

And anger insignificantly fierce.

The heart is hard in nature, and unfit

For human fellowship, as being void

Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike

To love and friendship both, that is not pleased

With sight of animals enjoying life,

Nor feels their happiness augment his own.

The bounding fawn, that darts across the glade

When none pursues, through mere delight of heart,

And spirits buoyant with excess of glee;

The horse as wanton, and almost as fleet,

That skims the spacious meadow at full speed,

Then stops and snorts, and, throwing high his heels,

Starts to the voluntary race again;

The very kine that gambol at high noon,

The total herd receiving first from one

That leads the dance a summons to be gay,

Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth

Their efforts, yet resolved with one consent

To give such act and utterance as they may

To ecstacy too big to be suppress'd--

These, and a thousand images of bliss,

With which kind Nature graces every scene,

Where cruel man defeats not her design,

Impart to the benevolent, who wish

All that are capable of pleasure pleased,

A far superior happiness to theirs,

The comfort of a reasonable joy.

Man scarce had risen, obedient to His call

Who form'd him from the dust, his future grave,

When he was crown'd as never king was since.

God set the diadem upon his head,

And angel choirs attended. Wondering stood

The new-made monarch, while before him pass'd,

All happy, and all perfect in their kind,

The creatures, summon'd from their various haunts

To see their sovereign, and confess his sway.

Vast was his empire, absolute his power,

Or bounded only by a law, whose force

'Twas his sublimest privilege to feel

And own, the law of universal love.

He ruled with meekness, they obey'd with joy;

No cruel purpose lurk'd within his heart,

And no distrust of his intent in theirs.

So Eden was a scene of harmless sport,

Where kindness on his part, who ruled the whole,

Begat a tranquil confidence in all,

And fear as yet was not, nor cause for fear.

But sin marr'd all; and the revolt of man,

That source of evils not exhausted yet,

Was punish'd with revolt of his from him.

Garden of God, how terrible the change

Thy groves and lawns then witness'd! Every heart,

Each animal, of every name, conceived

A jealousy and an instinctive fear,

And, conscious of some danger, either fled

Precipitate the loathed abode of man,

Or growl'd defiance in such angry sort,

As taught him too to tremble in his turn.

Thus harmony and family accord

Were driven from Paradise; and in that hour

The seeds of cruelty, that since have swell'd

To such gigantic and enormous growth,

Were sown in human nature's fruitful soil.

Hence date the persecution and the pain

That man inflicts on all inferior kinds,

Regardless of their plaints. To make him sport,

To gratify the frenzy of his wrath,

Or his base gluttony, are causes good

And just in his account, why bird and beast

Should suffer torture, and the streams be dyed

With blood of their inhabitants impaled.

Earth groans beneath the burden of a war

Waged with defenceless innocence, while he,

Not satisfied to prey on all around,

Adds tenfold bitterness to death by pangs

Needless, and first torments ere he devours.

Now happiest they that occupy the scenes

The most remote from his abhorr'd resort,

Whom once, as delegate of God on earth,

They fear'd, and as his perfect image loved.

The wilderness is theirs, with all its caves,

Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains,

Unvisited by man. There they are free,

And howl and roar as likes them, uncontroll'd;

Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play.

Woe to the tyrant, if he dare intrude

Within the confines of their wild domain:

The lion tells him--I am monarch here!

And, if he spare him, spares him on the terms

Of royal mercy, and through generous scorn

To rend a victim trembling at his foot.

In measure, as by force of instinct drawn,

Or by necessity constrain'd, they live

Dependent upon man; those in his fields,

These at his crib, and some beneath his roof;

They prove too often at how dear a rate

He sells protection. Witness at his foot

The spaniel dying for some venial fault,

Under dissection of the knotted scourge;

Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yells

Driven to the slaughter, goaded, as he runs,

To madness; while the savage at his heels

Laughs at the frantic sufferer's fury, spent

Upon the guiltless passenger o'erthrown.

He too is witness, noblest of the train

That wait on man, the flight-performing horse:

With unsuspecting readiness he takes

His murderer on his back, and, push'd all day,

With bleeding sides and flanks that heave for life,

To the far distant goal, arrives and dies.

So little mercy shows who needs so much!

Does law, so jealous in the cause of man,

Denounce no doom on the delinquent? None.

He lives, and o'er his brimming beaker boasts

(As if barbarity were high desert)

The inglorious feat, and clamorous in praise

Of the poor brute, seems wisely to suppose

The honours of his matchless horse his own.

But many a crime deem'd innocent on earth

Is register'd in heaven; and these no doubt

Have each their record, with a curse annex'd.

Man may dismiss compassion from his heart,

But God will never. When he charged the Jew

To assist his foe's down-fallen beast to rise;

And when the bush-exploring boy that seized

The young, to let the parent bird go free;

Proved he not plainly that his meaner works

Are yet his care, and have an interest all,

All, in the universal Father's love?

On Noah, and in him on all mankind,

The charter was conferr'd, by which we hold

The flesh of animals in fee, and claim

O'er all we feed on power of life and death.

But read the instrument, and mark it well:

The oppression of a tyrannous control

Can find no warrant there. Feed then, and yield

Thanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin,

Feed on the slain, but spare the living brute!

The Governor of all, himself to all

So bountiful, in whose attentive ear

The unfledged raven and the lion's whelp

Plead not in vain for pity on the pangs

Of hunger unassuaged, has interposed,

Not seldom, his avenging arm, to smite

The injurious trampler upon Nature's law,

That claims forbearance even for a brute.

He hates the hardness of a Balaam's heart;

And, prophet as he was, he might not strike

The blameless animal, without rebuke,

On which he rode. Her opportune offence

Saved him, or the unrelenting seer had died.

He sees that human equity is slack

To interfere, though in so just a cause;

And makes the task his own. Inspiring dumb

And helpless victims with a sense so keen

Of injury, with such knowledge of their strength,

And such sagacity to take revenge,

That oft the beast has seem'd to judge the man.

An ancient, not a legendary tale,

By one of sound intelligence rehearsed,

(If such who plead for Providence may seem

In modern eyes,) shall make the doctrine clear.

Where England, stretch'd towards the setting sun,

Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave,

Dwelt young Misagathus; a scorner he

Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent,

Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce.

He journey'd; and his chance was as he went

To join a traveller, of far different note,

Evander, famed for piety, for years

Deserving honour, but for wisdom more.

Fame had not left the venerable man

A stranger to the manners of the youth,

Whose face too was familiar to his view.

Their way was on the margin of the land,

O'er the green summit of the rocks, whose base

Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high.

The charity that warm'd his heart was moved

At sight of the man monster. With a smile

Gentle, and affable, and full of grace,

As fearful of offending whom he wish'd

Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths

Not harshly thunder'd forth, or rudely press'd,

But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet.

"And dost thou dream," the impenetrable man

Exclaimed, "that me the lullabies of age,

And fantasies of dotards such as thou,

Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in me?

Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave

Need no such aids as superstition lends,

To steel their hearts against the dread of death."

He spoke, and to the precipice at hand

Push'd with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks,

And the blood thrills and curdles at the thought

Of such a gulf as he design'd his grave.

But though the felon on his back could dare

The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed

Declined the death, and wheeling swiftly round,

Or e'er his hoof had press'd the crumbling verge,

Baffled his rider, saved against his will.

The frenzy of the brain may be redress'd

By medicine well applied, but without grace

The heart's insanity admits no cure.

Enraged the more by what might have reform'd

His horrible intent, again he sought

Destruction, with a zeal to be destroy'd,

With sounding whip, and rowels dyed in blood.

But still in vain. The Providence, that meant

A longer date to the far nobler beast,

Spared yet again the ignobler for his sake.

And now, his prowess proved, and his sincere

Incurable obduracy evinced,

His rage grew cool; and pleased perhaps to have earn'd

So cheaply the renown of that attempt,

With looks of some complacence he resumed

His road, deriding much the blank amaze

Of good Evander, still where he was left

Fix'd motionless, and petrified with dread.

So on they fared. Discourse on other themes

Ensuing seem'd to obliterate the past;

And tamer far for so much fury shown,

(As is the course of rash and fiery men,)

The rude companion smiled, as if transform'd.

But 'twas a transient calm. A storm was near,

An unsuspected storm. His hour was come.

The impious challenger of power divine

Was now to learn that Heaven, though slow to wrath,

Is never with impunity defied.

His horse, as he had caught his master's mood,

Snorting, and starting into sudden rage,

Unbidden, and not now to be controll'd,

Rush'd to the cliff, and, having reach'd it, stood.

At once the shock unseated him: he flew

Sheer o'er the craggy barrier; and, immersed

Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not,

The death he had deserved, and died alone.

So God wrought double justice; made the fool

The victim of his own tremendous choice,

And taught a brute the way to safe revenge.

I would not enter on my list of friends

(Though graced with polish'd manners and fine sense,

Yet wanting sensibility) the man

Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.

An inadvertent step may crush the snail

That crawls at evening in the public path:

But he that has humanity, forewarn'd,

Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.

The creeping vermin, loathesome to the sight,

And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes,

A visitor unwelcome, into scenes

Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove,

The chamber, or refectory, may die:

A necessary act incurs no blame.

Not so when, held within their proper bounds,

And guiltless of offence, they range the air,

Or take their pastime in the spacious field:

There they are privileged; and he that hunts

Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong,

Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm,

Who, when she form'd, design'd them an abode.

The sum is this. If man's convenience, health,

Or safety interfere, his rights and claims

Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs.

Else they are all--the meanest things that are,

As free to live, and to enjoy that life,

As God was free to form them at the first,

Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all.

Ye therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons

To love it too. The spring-time of our years

Is soon dishonour'd and defiled in most

By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand

To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots,

If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth,

Than cruelty, most devilish of them all.

Mercy to him that shows it is the rule

And righteous limitation of its act,

By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man;

And he that shows none, being ripe in years,

And conscious of the outrage he commits,

Shall seek it, and not find it, in his turn.

Distinguish'd much by reason, and still more

By our capacity of grace divine,

From creatures that exist but for our sake,

Which, having served us, perish, we are held

Accountable; and God, some future day,

Will reckon with us roundly for the abuse

Of what he deems no mean or trivial trust.

Superior as we are, they yet depend

Not more on human help than we on theirs.

Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were given

In aid of our defects. In some are found

Such teachable and apprehensive parts,

That man's attainments in his own concerns,

Match'd with the expertness of the brutes in theirs,

Are ofttimes vanquish'd and thrown far behind.

Some show that nice sagacity of smell,

And read with such discernment, in the port

And figure of the man, his secret aim,

That ofttimes 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 changed

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 glistening 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

(O wonderful effect of music's power!)

Messiah's eulogy for Handel's sake.

But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve--

(For was it less, what heathen would have dared

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 used before,

To buckram out the memory of a man.

But hush!--the muse perhaps is too severe;

And, with a gravity beyond the size

And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed

Less impious than absurd, and owing more

To want of judgment than to wrong design.

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 simple clerk, but loyal, did announce,

And eke did rear right merrily, two staves,

Sung to the praise and glory of King George!

--Man praises man; and Garrick's memory next,

When time hath somewhat mellow'd 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 shall go

In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine.

The theatre, too small, shall suffocate

Its squeezed contents, and more than it admits

Shall sigh at their exclusion, and return

Ungratified: for there some noble lord

Shall stuff his shoulders with king Richard's bunch,

Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak,

And strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp, and stare,

To show the world how Garrick did not act--

For Garrick was a worshipper himself;

He drew the liturgy, and framed the rites

And solemn ceremonial of the day,

And call'd the world to worship on the banks

Of Avon, famed in song. Ah, pleasant proof

That piety has still 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 hymn'd with dulcet airs;

And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-tree

Supplied such relics as devotion holds

Still sacred, and preserves with pious care.

So 'twas a hallow'd time: decorum reign'd,

And mirth without offence. No few return'd,

Doubtless 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,

To gaze in his 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.

Why? what has charm'd them? Hath he saved the state?

No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No.

Enchanting novelty, that moon at full,

That finds out every 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,

And dedicate a tribute, in its use

And just direction sacred, to a thing

Doom'd to the dust, or lodged 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 an humble 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 recompensed, 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 heaven has heard for ages, have an end.

Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung,

Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp,

The time of rest, the promised sabbath, comes.

Six thousand years of sorrow have well nigh

Fulfill'd their tardy and disastrous course

Over a sinful world; and what remains

Of this tempestuous state of human things

Is merely as the working of a sea

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 moved him, and his wrath is hot,

Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend

Propitious in his chariot paved with love;

And what his storms have blasted and defaced

For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair.

Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet

Not to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch:

Nor can the wonders it records be sung

To meaner music, and not suffer loss.

But when a poet, or when one like me,

Happy to rove among poetic flowers,

Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last

On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair,

Such is the impulse and the spur he feels,

To give it praise proportion'd to its worth,

That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems

The labour, were a task more arduous still.

O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,

Scenes of accomplish'd bliss! which who can see,

Though but in distant prospect, and not feel

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 its own disgrace,

Exults to see its thistly curse repeal'd.

The various seasons woven into one,

And that one season 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 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 driven away;

The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart

No passion touches a discordant string,

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 that light; the glory of all lands

Flows into her; unbounded is her joy,

And endless her increase. Thy rams are there,

Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there;[817]

The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind,

And Saba's spicy groves, pay tribute there.

Praise is in all her gates: upon her walls,

And in her streets, and in her spacious courts,

Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there

Kneels with the native of the farthest west;

And Æthiopia spreads abroad the hand,

And worships. Her report has travell'd forth

Into all lands. From every clime they come

To see thy beauty, and to share thy joy,

O Sion! an assembly such as earth

Saw never, such as Heaven stoops down to see.

Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were once

Perfect, and all must be at length restored.

So God has greatly purposed; who would else

In his dishonour'd works himself endure

Dishonour, and be wrong'd without redress.

Haste, then, and wheel away a shatter'd world,

Ye slow-revolving seasons! we would see

(A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet)

A world that does not dread and hate his law

And suffer for its crime; would learn how fair

The creature is that God pronounces good,

How pleasant in itself what pleases him.

Here every drop of honey hides a sting;

Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers;

And e'en the joy that haply some poor heart

Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is,

Is sullied in the stream, taking a taint

From touch of human lips, at best impure.

O for a world in principle as chaste

As this is gross and selfish! over which

Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway,

That govern all things here, shouldering aside

The meek and modest Truth, and forcing her

To seek a refuge from the tongue of Strife

In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men:

Where Violence shall never lift the sword,

Nor Cunning justify the proud man's wrong,

Leaving the poor no remedy but tears:

Where he, that fills an office, shall esteem

The occasion it presents of doing good

More than the perquisite: where Law shall speak

Seldom, and never but as Wisdom prompts

And Equity; not jealous more to guard

A worthless form, than to decide aright:--

Where Fashion shall not sanctify abuse,

Nor smooth Good-breeding (supplemental grace)

With lean performance ape the work of Love!

Come then, and, added to thy many crowns,

Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth,

Thou who alone art worthy! It was thine

By ancient covenant, ere Nature's birth;

And thou hast made it thine by purchase since,

And overpaid its value with thy blood.

Thy saints proclaim thee king; and in their hearts

Thy title is engraven with a pen

Dipp'd in the fountain of eternal love.

Thy saints proclaim thee king; and thy delay

Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see

The dawn of thy last advent, long desired,

Would creep into the bowels of the hills,

And flee for safety to the falling rocks.

The very spirit of the world is tired

Of its own taunting question, ask'd so long,

"Where is the promise of your Lord's approach?"

The infidel has shot his bolts away,

Till, his exhausted quiver yielding none,

He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoil'd,

And aims them at the shield of Truth again.

The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands,

That hides divinity from mortal eyes;

And all the mysteries to faith proposed,

Insulted and traduced, are cast aside,

As useless, to the moles and to the bats.

They now are deem'd the faithful, and are praised;

Who, constant only in rejecting thee,

Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal,

And quit their office for their error's sake.

Blind, and in love with darkness! yet e'en these

Worthy, compared with sycophants, who kneel

Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man!

So fares thy church. But how thy church may fare

The world takes little thought. Who will may preach,

And what they will. All pastors are alike

To wandering sheep, resolved to follow none.

Two gods divide them all--Pleasure and Gain:

For these they live, they sacrifice to these,

And in their service wage perpetual war

With Conscience and with thee. Lust in their hearts,

And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth

To prey upon each other: stubborn, fierce,

High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace.

Thy prophets speak of such; and, noting down

The features of the last degenerate times,

Exhibit every lineament of these.

Come then, and, added to thy many crowns,

Receive yet one, as radiant as the rest,

Due to thy last and most effectual work,

Thy word fulfill'd, the conquest of a world!

He is the happy man whose life e'en now

Shows somewhat of that happier life to come;

Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state,

Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose,

Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit

Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith,

Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one

Content indeed to sojourn while he must

Below the skies, but having there his home.

The world o'erlooks him in her busy search

Of objects, more illustrious in her view;

And, occupied as earnestly as she,

Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world.

She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not;

He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain.

He cannot skim the ground like summer birds

Pursuing gilded flies; and such he deems

Her honours, her emoluments, her joys.

Therefore in Contemplation is his bliss,

Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth

She makes familiar with a heaven unseen,

And shows him glories yet to be revealed.

Not slothful he, though seeming unemploy'd,

And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams

Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird

That flutters least is longest on the wing.

Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised,

Or what achievements of immortal fame

He purposes, and he shall answer--None.

His warfare is within. There unfatigued

His fervent spirit labours. There he fights,

And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself,

And never-withering wreaths, compared with which

The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds.

Perhaps the self-approving haughty world,

That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks

Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see,

Deems him a cypher in the works of God,

Receives advantage from his noiseless hours,

Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes

Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring

And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes,

When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint

Walks forth to meditate at even-tide,

And think on her, who thinks not for herself.

Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concerns

Of little worth, an idler in the best,

If, author of no mischief and some good,

He seek his proper happiness by means

That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine.

Nor, though he tread the secret path of life,

Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease,

Account him an encumbrance on the state,

Receiving benefits, and rendering none.

His sphere, though humble, if that humble sphere

Shine with his fair example, and though small

His influence, if that influence all be spent

In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife,

In aiding helpless indigence, in works

From which at least a grateful few derive

Some taste of comfort in a world of woe;

Then let the supercilious great confess

He serves his country, recompenses well

The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine

He sits secure, and in the scale of life

Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place.

The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen,

Must drop indeed the hope of public praise;

But he may boast, what few that win it can,

That, if his country stand not by his skill,

At least his follies have not wrought her fall.

Polite Refinement offers him in vain

Her golden tube, through which a sensual world

Draws gross impurity, and likes it well,

The neat conveyance hiding all the offence.

Not that he peevishly rejects a mode

Because that world adopts it. If it bear

The stamp and clear impression of good sense,

And be not costly more than of true worth,

He puts it on, and, for decorum sake,

Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she.

She judges of refinement by the eye,

He by the test of conscience, and a heart

Not soon deceived; aware that what is base

No polish can make sterling; and that vice,

Though well perfumed and elegantly dress'd,

Like an unburied carcass trick'd with flowers

Is but a garnish'd nuisance, fitter far

For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.

So life glides smoothly and by stealth away,

More golden than that age of fabled gold

Renown'd in ancient song; not vex'd with care

Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approved

Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.

So glide my life away! and so, at last,

My share of duties decently fulfill'd,

May some disease, not tardy to perform

Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke,

Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat,

Beneath the turf that I have often trod.

It shall not grieve me then that once, when call'd

To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse,

I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair,

With that light task; but soon, to please her more,

Whom flowers alone I knew would little please,

Let fall the unfinish'd wreath, and roved for fruit;

Roved far, and gather'd much: some harsh, 'tis true,

Pick'd from the thorns and briars of reproof,

But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some

To palates that can taste immortal truth;

Insipid else, and sure to be despised.

But all is in His hand, whose praise I seek.

In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,

If he regard not, though divine the theme.

'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime

And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre,

To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart;

Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,

Whose approbation--prosper even mine.

[816] The Guelder Rose.

[817] Nebaioth and Kedar, the sons of Ishmael, and progenitors

of the Arabs, in the prophetic scripture here alluded to, may

be reasonably considered as representatives of the Gentiles at

large.

AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.

Dear Joseph--five-and-twenty years ago--

Alas, how time escapes!--'tis even so--

With frequent intercourse, and always sweet,

And always friendly, we were wont to cheat

A tedious hour--and now we never meet!

As some grave gentleman in Terence says,

('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days,)

Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings--

Strange fluctuation of all human things!

True. Changes will befall, and friends may part,

But distance only cannot change the heart:

And, were I call'd to prove the assertion true,

One proof should serve--a reference to you.

Whence comes it then, that, in the wane of life,

Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife,

We find the friends we fancied we had won,

Though numerous once, reduced to few or none?

Can gold grow worthless that has stood the touch?

No; gold they seem'd, but they were never such.

Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe,

Swinging the parlour door upon its hinge,

Dreading a negative, and overawed

Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad.

Go, fellow!--whither?--turning short about--

Nay--stay at home--you're always going out.

'Tis but a step, sir, just at the street's end.--

For what?--An please you, sir, to see a friend.--

A friend! Horatio cried, and seem'd to start--

Yea marry shalt thou, and with all my heart.

And fetch my cloak; for though the night be raw,

I'll see him too--the first I ever saw.

I knew the man, and knew his nature mild,

And was his plaything often when a child;

But somewhat at that moment pinch'd him close,

Else he was seldom bitter or morose.

Perhaps, his confidence just then betray'd,

His grief might prompt him with the speech he made;

Perhaps 'twas mere good humour gave it birth,

The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth.

Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind,

Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind.

But not to moralize too much, and strain

To prove an evil of which all complain;

(I hate long arguments verbosely spun;)

One story more, dear Hill, and I have done.

Once on a time an emperor, a wise man,

No matter where, in China or Japan,

Decreed that whosoever should offend

Against the well-known duties of a friend,

Convicted once, should ever after wear

But half a coat, and show his bosom bare.

The punishment importing this, no doubt,

That all was naught within, and all found out.

Oh, happy Britain! we have not to fear

Such hard and arbitrary measure here;

Else, could a law like that which I relate

Once have the sanction of our triple state,

Some few, that I have known in days of old,

Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold;

While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow,

Might traverse England safely to and fro,

An honest man, close-button'd to the chin,

Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within.

TIROCINIUM; OR, A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS.

Κεφαλαιον δη παιδειας ορθη τροφη.--PLATO,

Αρχη κολιτειας απασης τροφα.--DIOG. LAERT.

To the Rev. William Cawthorne Unwin, Rector of Stock in Essex,

the tutor of his two sons, the following poem, recommending

private tuition in preference to an education at school, is

inscribed, by his affectionate friend,

WILLIAM COWPER.

_Olney, Nov. 6, 1784._

It is not from his form, in which we trace

Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace,

That man, the master of this globe, derives

His right of empire over all that lives.

That form, indeed, the associate of a mind

Vast in its powers, ethereal in its kind,

That form, the labour of Almighty skill,

Framed for the service of a freeborn will,

Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control,

But borrows all its grandeur from the soul.

Hers is the state, the splendour, and the throne,

An intellectual kingdom, all her own.

For her the memory fills her ample page

With truths pour'd down from every distant age;

For her amasses an unbounded store,

The wisdom of great nations, now no more;

Though laden, not encumber'd with her spoil;

Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil;

When copiously supplied, then most enlarged;

Still to be fed, and not to be surcharged.

For her the Fancy, roving unconfined,

The present muse of every pensive mind,

Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue

To Nature's scenes than Nature ever knew.

At her command winds rise and waters roar,

Again she lays them slumbering on the shore;

With flower and fruit the wilderness supplies,

Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise.

For her the Judgment, umpire in the strife

That Grace and Nature have to wage through life,

Quick-sighted arbiter of good and ill,

Appointed sage preceptor to the Will,

Condemns, approves, and with a faithful voice

Guides the decision of a doubtful choice.

Why did the fiat of a God give birth

To yon fair Sun and his attendant Earth?

And, when descending he resigns the skies,

Why takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise,

Whom Ocean feels through all his countless waves,

And owns her power on every shore he laves?

Why do the seasons still enrich the year,

Fruitful and young as in their first career?

Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees,

Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze;

Summer in haste the thriving charge receives

Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves,

Till Autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews

Dye them at last in all their glowing hues.--

'Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste,

Power misemploy'd, munificence misplaced,

Had not its Author dignified the plan,

And crown'd it with the majesty of man.

Thus form'd, thus placed, intelligent, and taught,

Look where he will, the wonders God has wrought,

The wildest scorner of his Maker's laws

Finds in a sober moment time to pause,

To press the important question on his heart,

"Why form'd at all, and wherefore as thou art?"

If man be what he seems, this hour a slave,

The next mere dust and ashes in the grave;

Endued with reason only to descry

His crimes and follies with an aching eye;

With passions, just that he may prove, with pain,

The force he spends against their fury vain;

And if, soon after having burnt, by turns,

With every lust with which frail Nature burns,

His being end where death dissolves the bond,

The tomb take all, and all be blank beyond;

Then he, of all that Nature has brought forth,

Stands self-impeach'd the creature of least worth,

And, useless while he lives, and when he dies,

Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies.

Truths that the learn'd pursue with eager thought

Are not important always as dear-bought,

Proving at last, though told in pompous strains,

A childish waste of philosophic pains;

But truths on which depends our main concern,

That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn,

Shine by the side of every path we tread

With such a lustre, he that runs may read.

'Tis true that, if to trifle life away

Down to the sunset of their latest day,

Then perish on futurity's wide shore

Like fleeting exhalations, found no more,

Were all that heaven required of human kind,

And all the plan their destiny design'd,

What none could reverence all might justly blame,

And man would breathe but for his Maker's shame.

But reason heard, and nature well perused,

At once the dreaming mind is disabused.

If all we find possessing earth, sea, air,

Reflect His attributes who placed them there,

Fulfil the purpose, and appear design'd

Proofs of the wisdom of the all-seeing mind,

'Tis plain the creature, whom he chose to invest

With kingship and dominion o'er the rest,

Received his nobler nature, and was made

Fit for the power in which he stands arrayed;

That first, or last, hereafter, if not here,

He too might make his author's wisdom clear,

Praise him on earth, or, obstinately dumb,

Suffer his justice in a world to come.

This once believed, 'twere logic misapplied

To prove a consequence by none denied,

That we are bound to cast the minds of youth

Betimes into the mould of heavenly truth,

That taught of God they may indeed be wise,

Nor ignorantly wandering miss the skies.

In early days the conscience has in most

A quickness, which in later life is lost:

Preserved from guilt by salutary fears,

Or guilty soon relenting into tears.

Too careless often, as our years proceed,

What friends we sort with, or what books we read,

Our parents yet exert a prudent care

To feed our infant minds with proper fare;

And wisely store the nursery by degrees

With wholesome learning, yet acquired with ease.

Neatly secured from being soil'd or torn

Beneath a pane of thin translucent horn,

A book (to please us at a tender age

'Tis call'd a book, though but a single page)

Presents the prayer the Saviour deign'd to teach,

Which children use, and parsons--when they preach.

Lisping our syllables, we scramble next

Through moral narrative, or sacred text;

And learn with wonder how this world began,

Who made, who marr'd, and who has ransom'd man:

Points which, unless the Scripture made them plain,

The wisest heads might agitate in vain.

Oh thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing

Back to the season of life's happy spring,

I pleased remember, and, while memory yet

Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget;

Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale

Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail;

Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style,

May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile;

Witty, and well employ'd, and, like thy Lord,

Speaking in parables his slighted word;

I name thee not, lest so despised a name

Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame;

Yet e'en in transitory life's late day,

That mingles all my brown with sober grey,

Revere the man whose PILGRIM marks the road,

And guides the PROGRESS of the soul to God.

'Twere well with most, if books that could engage

Their childhood pleased them at a riper age;

The man, approving what had charm'd the boy,

Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy,

And not with curses on his heart, who stole

The gem of truth from his unguarded soul.

The stamp of artless piety impress'd

By kind tuition on his yielding breast,

The youth, now bearded and yet pert and raw,

Regards with scorn, though once received with awe;

And, warp'd into the labyrinth of lies,

That babblers, call'd philosophers, devise,

Blasphemes his creed, as founded on a plan

Replete with dreams, unworthy of a man.

Touch but his nature in its ailing part,

Assert the native evil of his heart,

His pride resents the charge, although the proof[818]

Rise in his forehead, and seem rank enough:

Point to the cure, describe a Saviour's cross

As God's expedient to retrieve his loss,

The young apostate sickens at the view,

And hates it with the malice of a Jew.

How weak the barrier of mere nature proves,

Opposed against the pleasures nature loves!

While self-betray'd, and wilfully undone,

She longs to yield, no sooner wooed than won.

Try now the merits of this blest exchange

Of modest truth for wit's eccentric range.

Time was, he closed as he began the day,

With decent duty, not ashamed to pray;

The practice was a bond upon his heart,

A pledge he gave for a consistent part;

Nor could he dare presumptuously displease

A power confess'd so lately on his knees.

But now farewell all legendary tales,

The shadows fly, philosophy prevails;

Prayer to the winds, and caution to the waves;

Religion makes the free by nature slaves.

Priests have invented, and the world admired

What knavish priests promulgate as inspired;

Till Reason, now no longer overawed,

Resumes her powers, and spurns the clumsy fraud;

And, common sense diffusing real day,

The meteor of the Gospel dies away.

Such rhapsodies our shrewd discerning youth

Learn from expert inquirers after truth;

Whose only care, might truth presume to speak,

Is not to find what they profess to seek.

And thus, well tutor'd only while we share

A mother's lectures and a nurse's care;

And taught at schools much mythologic stuff,[819]

But sound religion sparingly enough;

Our early notices of truth disgraced,

Soon lose their credit, and are all effaced.

Would you your son should be a sot or dunce,

Lascivious, headstrong, or all these at once;

That in good time the stripling's finish'd taste

For loose expense and fashionable waste

Should prove your ruin, and his own at last;

Train him in public with a mob of boys,

Childish in mischief only and in noise,

Else of a mannish growth, and five in ten

In infidelity and lewdness men.

There shall he learn, ere sixteen winters old,

That authors are most useful pawn'd or sold;

That pedantry is all that schools impart,

But taverns teach the knowledge of the heart;

There waiter Dick, with bacchanalian lays,

Shall win his heart, and have his drunken praise,

His counsellor and bosom friend shall prove,

And some street-pacing harlot his first love.

Schools, unless discipline were doubly strong,

Detain their adolescent charge too long;

The management of tiros of eighteen

Is difficult, their punishment obscene.

The stout tall captain, whose superior size

The minor heroes view with envious eyes,

Becomes their pattern, upon whom they fix

Their whole attention, and ape all his tricks.

His pride, that scorns to obey or to submit,

With them is courage; his effrontery wit.

His wild excursions, window-breaking feats,

Robbery of gardens, quarrels in the streets,

His hairbreadth 'scapes, and all his daring schemes,

Transport them, and are made their favourite themes.

In little bosoms such achievements strike

A kindred spark: they burn to do the like.

Thus, half accomplish'd ere he yet begin

To show the peeping down upon his chin;

And, as maturity of years comes on,

Made just the adept that you design'd your son;

To ensure the perseverance of his course,

And give your monstrous project all its force,

Send him to college. If he there be tamed,

Or in one article of vice reclaim'd,

Where no regard of ordinances is shown

Or look'd for now, the fault must be his own.

Some sneaking virtue, lurks in him, no doubt,

Where neither strumpets' charms, nor drinking bout,

Nor gambling practices can find it out.

Such youths of spirit, and that spirit too,

Ye nurseries of our boys, we owe to you:

Though from ourselves the mischief more proceeds,

For public schools 'tis public folly feeds.

The slaves of custom and establish'd mode,

With packhorse constancy we keep the road,

Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells,

True to the jingling of our leader's bells.

To follow foolish precedents, and wink

With both our eyes, is easier than to think:

And such an age as ours balks no expense,

Except of caution and of common sense;

Else sure notorious fact, and proof so plain,

Would turn our steps into a wiser train.

I blame not those who, with what care they can,

O'erwatch the numerous and unruly clan;

Or, if I blame, 'tis only that they dare

Promise a work of which they must despair.

Have ye, ye sage intendants of the whole,

A ubiquarian presence and control,

Elisha's eye, that, when Gehazi stray'd,

Went with him, and saw all the game he play'd?

Yes--ye are conscious; and on all the shelves

Your pupils strike upon have struck yourselves.

Or if, by nature sober, ye had then,

Boys as ye were, the gravity of men,

Ye knew at least, by constant proofs address'd

To ears and eyes, the vices of the rest.

But ye connive at what ye cannot cure,

And evils not to be endured endure,

Lest power exerted, but without success,

Should make the little ye retain still less.

Ye once were justly famed for bringing forth

Undoubted scholarship and genuine worth;

And in the firmament of fame still shines

A glory, bright as that of all the signs,

Of poets raised by you, and statesmen, and divines.

Peace to them all! those brilliant times are fled,

And no such lights are kindling in their stead.

Our striplings shine indeed, but with such rays

As set the midnight riot in a blaze;

And seem, if judged by their expressive looks,

Deeper in none than in their surgeons' books.

Say, muse, (for education made the song,

No muse can hesitate, or linger long,)

What causes move us, knowing, as we must,

That these _ménageries_ all fail their trust,

To send our sons to scout and scamper there,

While colts and puppies cost us so much care?

Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise,

We love the play-place of our early days;

The scene is touching, and the heart is stone

That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.

The wall on which we tried our graving skill,

The very name we carved subsisting still;

The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd,

Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroy'd;

The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot,

Playing our games, and on the very spot;

As happy as we once, to kneel and draw

The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw;

To pitch the ball into the grounded hat,

Or drive it devious with a dextrous pat;

The pleasing spectacle at once excites

Such recollection of our own delights,

That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtain

Our innocent sweet simple years again.

This fond attachment to the well-known place,

Whence first we started into life's long race,

Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway,

We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day.

Hark! how the sire of chits, whose future share

Of classic food begins to be his care,

With his own likeness placed on either knee,

Indulges all a father's heartfelt glee;

And tells them, as he strokes their silver locks,

That they must soon learn Latin, and to box;

Then turning, he regales his listening wife

With all the adventures of his early life;

His skill in coachmanship, or driving chaise,

In bilking tavern-bills, and spouting plays;

What shifts he used, detected in a scrape,

How he was flogg'd, or had the luck to escape;

What sums he lost at play, and how he sold

Watch, seals, and all--till all his pranks are told.

Retracing thus his frolics, ('tis a name

That palliates deeds of folly and of shame,)

He gives the local bias all its sway;

Resolves that where he play'd his sons shall play,

And destines their bright genius to be shown

Just in the scene where he display'd his own.

The meek and bashful boy will soon be taught

To be as bold and forward as he ought;

The rude will scuffle through with ease enough,

Great schools suit best the sturdy and the rough.

Ah, happy designation, prudent choice,

The event is sure; expect it, and rejoice!

Soon see your wish fulfill'd in either child,

The pert made perter, and the tame made wild.

The great indeed, by titles, riches, birth,

Excused the incumbrance of more solid worth,

Are best disposed of where with most success

They may acquire that confident address,

Those habits of profuse and lewd expense,

That scorn of all delights but those of sense,

Which, though in plain plebeians we condemn,

With so much reason, all expect from them.

But families of less illustrious fame,

Whose chief distinction is their spotless name,

Whose heirs, their honours none, their income small,

Must shine by true desert, or not at all,

What dream they of, that, with so little care

They risk their hopes, their dearest treasure, there?

They dream of little Charles or William graced

With wig prolix, down flowing to his waist;

They see the attentive crowds his talents draw,

They hear him speak--the oracle of law.

The father, who designs his babe a priest,

Dreams him episcopally such at least;

And, while the playful jockey scours the room

Briskly, astride upon the parlour broom,

In fancy sees him more superbly ride

In coach with purple lined, and mitres on its side.

Events improbable and strange as these,

Which only a parental eye foresees,

A public school shall bring to pass with ease.

But how? resides such virtue in that air,

As must create an appetite for prayer?

And will it breathe into him all the zeal

That candidates for such a prize should feel,

To take the lead and be the foremost still

In all true worth and literary skill?

"Ah, blind to bright futurity, untaught

The knowledge of the World, and dull of thought!

Church-ladders are not always mounted best

By learned clerks and Latinists profess'd.

The exalted prize demands an upward look,

Not to be found by poring on a book.

Small skill in Latin, and still less in Greek,

Is more than adequate to all I seek.

Let erudition grace him, or not grace,

I give the bauble but the second place;

His wealth, fame, honours, all that I intend,

Subsist and centre in one point--a friend.

A friend, whate'er he studies or neglects,

Shall give him consequence, heal all defects.

His intercourse with peers and sons of peers--

There dawns the splendour of his future years:

In that bright quarter his propitious skies

Shall blush betimes, and there his glory rise.

Your Lordship, and Your Grace! what school can teach

A rhetoric equal to those parts of speech?

What need of Homer's verse or Tully's prose,

Sweet interjections! if he learn but those?

Let reverend churls his ignorance rebuke,

Who starve upon a dog's ear'd Pentateuch,

The parson knows enough who knows a duke."

Egregious purpose! worthily begun

In barbarous prostitution of your son;

Press'd on his part by means that would disgrace

A scrivener's clerk, or footman out of place,

And ending, if at last its end be gain'd,

In sacrilege, in God's own house profaned.

It may succeed; and, if his sins should call

For more than common punishment, it shall;

The wretch shall rise, and be the thing on earth

Least qualified in honour, learning, worth,

To occupy a sacred, awful post,

In which the best and worthiest tremble most.

The royal letters are a thing of course,

A king, that would, might recommend his horse;

And deans, no doubt, and chapters, with one voice,

As bound in duty, would confirm the choice.

Behold your bishop! well he plays his part,

Christian in name, and infidel in heart,

Ghostly in office, earthly in his plan,

A slave at court, elsewhere a lady's man.

Dumb as a senator, and as a priest

A piece of mere church furniture at best;

To live estranged from God his total scope,

And his end sure, without one glimpse of hope.

But, fair although and feasible it seem,

Depend not much upon your golden dream;

For Providence, that seems concern'd to exempt

The hallow'd bench from absolute contempt,

In spite of all the wrigglers into place,

Still keeps a seat or two for worth and grace;

And therefore 'tis, that, though the sight be rare,

We sometimes see a Lowth or Bagot there.

Besides, school friendships are not always found,

Though fair in promise, permanent and sound;

The most disinterested and virtuous minds,

In early years connected, time unbinds

New situations give a different cast

Of habit, inclination, temper, taste;

And he, that seem'd our counterpart at first,

Soon shows the strong similitude reversed.

Young heads are giddy, and young hearts are warm,

And make mistakes for manhood to reform.

Boys are, at best, but pretty buds unblown,

Whose scent and hues are rather guess'd than known;

Each dreams that each is just what he appears,

But learns his error in maturer years,

When disposition, like a sail unfurl'd,

Shows all its rents and patches to the world.

If, therefore, e'en when honest in design,

A boyish friendship may so soon decline,

'Twere wiser sure to inspire a little heart

With just abhorrence of so mean a part,

Than set your son to work at a vile trade

For wages so unlikely to be paid.

Our public hives of puerile resort,

That are of chief and most approved report,

To such base hopes, in many a sordid soul,

Owe their repute in part, but not the whole.

A principle, whose proud pretensions pass

Unquestion'd, though the jewel be but glass--

That with a world, not often over-nice,

Ranks as a virtue, and is yet a vice;

Or rather a gross compound, justly tried,

Of envy, hatred, jealousy, and pride--

Contributes most, perhaps, to enhance their fame;

And emulation is its specious name.

Boys, once on fire with that contentious zeal,

Feel all the rage that female rivals feel;

The prize of beauty in a woman's eyes

Not brighter than in theirs the scholar's prize.

The spirit of that competition burns

With all varieties of ill by turns;

Each vainly magnifies his own success,

Resents his fellow's, wishes it were less,

Exults in his miscarriage if he fail,

Deems his reward too great if he prevail,

And labours to surpass him day and night,

Less for improvement than to tickle spite.

The spur is powerful, and I grant its force;

It pricks the genius forward in its course,

Allows short time for play, and none for sloth;

And, felt alike by each, advances both:

But judge, where so much evil intervenes,

The end, though plausible, not worth the means.

Weigh, for a moment, classical desert

Against a heart depraved and temper hurt;

Hurt too perhaps for life; for early wrong

Done to the nobler part affects it long;

And you are staunch indeed in learning's cause,

If you can crown a discipline, that draws

Such mischiefs after it, with much applause.

Connexion form'd for interest, and endear'd

By selfish views, thus censured and cashier'd;

And emulation, as engendering hate,

Doom'd to a no less ignominious fate:

The props of such proud seminaries fall,

The Jachin and the Boaz of them all.

Great schools rejected then, as those that swell

Beyond a size that can be managed well,

Shall royal institutions miss the bays,

And small academies win all the praise?

Force not my drift beyond its just intent,

I praise a school as Pope a government;

So take my judgment in his language dress'd,

"Whate'er is best administer'd is best."

Few boys are born with talents that excel,

But all are capable of living well;

Then ask not, whether limited or large?

But, watch they strictly, or neglect their charge?

If anxious only that their boys may learn,

While morals languish, a despised concern,

The great and small deserve one common blame,

Different in size, but in effect the same.

Much zeal in virtue's cause all teachers boast,

Though motives of mere lucre sway the most;

Therefore in towns and cities they abound,

For there the game they seek is easiest found;

Though there, in spite of all that care can do,

Traps to catch youth are most abundant too.

If shrewd, and of a well-constructed brain,

Keen in pursuit, and vigorous to retain,

Your son come forth a prodigy of skill;

As, wheresoever taught, so form'd, he will;

The pedagogue, with self-complacent air,

Claims more than half the praise as his due share.

But if, with all his genius, he betray,

Not more intelligent than loose and gay,

Such vicious habits as disgrace his name,

Threaten his health, his fortune, and his fame;

Though want of due restraint alone have bred

The symptoms that you see with so much dread;

Unenvied there, he may sustain alone

The whole reproach, the fault was all his own.

Oh! 'tis a sight to be with joy perused,

By all whom sentiment has not abused;

New-fangled sentiment, the boasted grace

Of those who never feel in the right place;

A sight surpass'd by none that we can show,

Though Vestris on one leg still shine below;

A father blest with an ingenuous son,

Father, and friend, and tutor, all in one.

How!--turn again to tales long since forgot,

Æsop, and Phædrus, and the rest?--Why not?

He will not blush, that has a father's heart,

To take in childish plays a childish part;

But bends his sturdy back to any toy

That youth takes pleasure in, to please his boy:

Then why resign into a stranger's hand

A task as much within your own command,

That God and nature, and your interest too,

Seem with one voice to delegate to you?

Why hire a lodging in a house unknown

For one whose tenderest thoughts all hover round your own?

This second weaning, needless as it is,

How does it lacerate both your heart and his!

The indented stick, that loses day by day,

Notch after notch, till all are smooth'd away,

Bears witness, long ere his dismission come,

With what intense desire he wants his home.

But though the joys he hopes beneath your roof

Bid fair enough to answer in the proof,

Harmless, and safe, and natural, as they are,

A disappointment waits him even there:

Arrived, he feels an unexpected change;

He blushes, hangs his head, is shy and strange,

No longer takes, as once, with fearless ease,

His favourite stand between his father's knees,

But seeks the corner of some distant seat,

And eyes the door, and watches a retreat,

And, least familiar where he should be most,

Feels all his happiest privileges lost.

Alas, poor boy!--the natural effect

Of love by absence chill'd into respect.

Say, what accomplishments, at school acquired,

Brings he, to sweeten fruits so undesired?

Thou well deserv'st an alienated son,

Unless thy conscious heart acknowledge--none;

None that, in thy domestic snug recess,

He had not made his own with more address,

Though some, perhaps, that shock thy feeling mind,

And better never learn'd, or left behind.

Add too, that, thus estranged, thou canst obtain

By no kind arts his confidence again;

That here begins with most that long complaint

Of filial frankness lost, and love grown faint,

Which, oft neglected, in life's waning years

A parent pours into regardless ears.

Like caterpillars, dangling under trees

By slender threads, and swinging in the breeze,

Which filthily bewray and sore disgrace

The boughs in which are bred the unseemly race;

While every worm industriously weaves

And winds his web about the rivell'd leaves;

So numerous are the follies that annoy

The mind and heart of every sprightly boy;

Imaginations noxious and perverse,

Which admonition can alone disperse.

The encroaching nuisance asks a faithful hand,

Patient, affectionate, of high command,

To check the procreation of a breed

Sure to exhaust the plant on which they feed.

'Tis not enough that Greek or Roman page,

At stated hours, his freakish thoughts engage;

E'en in his pastimes he requires a friend

To warn, and teach him safely to unbend;

O'er all his pleasures gently to preside,

Watch his emotions, and control their tide;

And levying thus, and with an easy sway,

A tax of profit from his very play,

To impress a value, not to be erased,

On moments squander'd else, and running all to waste.

And seems it nothing in a father's eye

That unimproved those many moments fly?

And is he well content his son should find

No nourishment to feed his growing mind,

But conjugated verbs and nouns declined?

For such is all the mental food purveyed

By public hackneys in the schooling trade;

Who feed a pupil's intellect with store

Of syntax, truly, but with little more;

Dismiss their cares when they dismiss their flock,

Machines themselves, and govern'd by a clock.

Perhaps a father, blest with any brains,

Would deem it no abuse, or waste of pains,

To improve this diet, at no great expense,

With savoury truth and wholesome common sense;

To lead his son, for prospects of delight,

To some not steep, though philosophic, height,

Thence to exhibit to his wondering eyes

Yon circling worlds, their distance, and their size,

The moons of Jove, and Saturn's belted ball,

And the harmonious order of them all;

To show him in an insect or a flower

Such microscopic proof of skill and power,

As, hid from ages past, God now displays

To combat atheists with in modern days;

To spread the earth before him, and commend,

With designation of the finger's end,

Its various parts to his attentive note,

Thus bringing home to him the most remote;

To teach his heart to glow with generous flame,

Caught from the deeds of men of ancient fame;

And, more than all, with commendation due,

To set some living worthy in his view,

Whose fair example may at once inspire

A wish to copy what he must admire.

Such knowledge, gain'd betimes, and which appears,

Though solid, not too weighty for his years,

Sweet in itself, and not forbidding sport,

When health demands it, of athletic sort,

Would make him--what some lovely boys have been,

And more than one perhaps that I have seen--

An evidence and reprehension both

Of the mere schoolboy's lean and tardy growth.

Art thou a man professionally tied,

With all thy faculties elsewhere applied,

Too busy to intend a meaner care

Than how to enrich thyself, and next thine heir;

Or art thou (as, though rich, perhaps thou art)

But poor in knowledge, having none to impart:--

Behold that figure, neat, though plainly clad;

His sprightly mingled with a shade of sad;

Not of a nimble tongue, though now and then

Heard to articulate like other men;

No jester, and yet lively in discourse,

His phrase well chosen, clear, and full of force;

And his address, if not quite French in ease,

Not English stiff, but frank, and form'd to please;

Low in the world, because he scorns its arts;

A man of letters, manners, morals, parts;

Unpatronized, and therefore little known;

Wise for himself and his few friends alone--

In him thy well-appointed proxy see,

Arm'd for a work too difficult for thee;

Prepared by taste, by learning, and true worth,

To form thy son, to strike his genius forth;

Beneath thy roof, beneath thine eye, to prove

The force of discipline when back'd by love;

To double all thy pleasure in thy child,

His mind inform'd, his morals undefiled.

Safe under such a wing, the boy shall show

No spots contracted among grooms below,

Nor taint his speech with meannesses, design'd

By footman Tom for witty and refined.

There, in his commerce with the liveried herd,

Lurks the contagion chiefly to be fear'd;

For since (so fashion dictates) all, who claim

A higher than a mere plebeian fame,

Find it expedient, come what mischief may,

To entertain a thief or two in pay,

(And they that can afford the expense of more,

Some half a dozen, and some half a score,)

Great cause occurs to save him from a band

So sure to spoil him, and so near at hand;

A point secured, if once he be supplied

With some such Mentor always at his side.

Are such men rare? perhaps they would abound

Were occupation easier to be found,

Were education, else so sure to fail,

Conducted on a manageable scale,

And schools, that have outlived all just esteem,

Exchanged for the secure domestic scheme.--

But, having found him, be thou duke or earl,

Show thou hast sense enough to prize the pearl,

And, as thou wouldst the advancement of thine heir

In all good faculties beneath his care,

Respect, as is but rational and just,

A man deem'd worthy of so dear a trust.

Despised by thee, what more can he expect

From youthful folly than the same neglect?

A flat and fatal negative obtains

That instant upon all his future pains;

His lessons tire, his mild rebukes offend,

And all the instructions of thy son's best friend

Are a stream choked, or trickling to no end.

Doom him not then to solitary meals;

But recollect that he has sense, and feels;

And that, possessor of a soul refined,

An upright heart, and cultivated mind,

His post not mean, his talents not unknown,

He deems it hard to vegetate alone.

And, if admitted at thy board he sit,

Account him no just mark for idle wit;

Offend not him, whom modesty restrains

From repartee, with jokes that he disdains;

Much less transfix his feelings with an oath;

Nor frown, unless he vanish with the cloth.--

And, trust me, his utility may reach

To more than he is hired or bound to teach;

Much trash unutter'd, and some ills undone,

Through reverence of the censor of thy son.

But, if thy table be indeed unclean,

Foul with excess, and with discourse obscene,

And thou a wretch, whom, following her old plan,

The world accounts an honourable man,

Because forsooth thy courage has been tried,

And stood the test, perhaps on the wrong side;

Though thou hadst never grace enough to prove

That any thing but vice could win thy love;--

Or hast thou a polite, card-playing wife,

Chain'd to the routs that she frequents for life;

Who, just when industry begins to snore,

Flies, wing'd with joy, to some coach-crowded door;

And thrice in every winter throngs thine own

With half the chariots and sedans in town

Thyself meanwhile e'en shifting as thou mayst;

Not very sober though, nor very chaste;

Or is thine house, though less superb thy rank,

If not a scene of pleasure, a mere blank,

And thou at best, and in thy soberest mood,

A trifler vain, and empty of all good;--

Though mercy for thyself thou canst have none,

Hear Nature plead, show mercy to thy son.

Saved from his home, where every day brings forth

Some mischief fatal to his future worth,

Find him a better in a distant spot,

Within some pious pastor's humble cot,

Where vile example (yours I chiefly mean,

The most seducing, and the oftenest seen)

May never more be stamp'd upon his breast,

Not yet perhaps incurably impress'd.

Where early rest makes early rising sure,

Disease or comes not, or finds easy cure,

Prevented much by diet neat and plain;

Or, if it enter, soon starved out again:

Where all the attention of his faithful host,

Discreetly limited to two at most,

May raise such fruits as shall reward his care,

And not at last evaporate in air:

Where, stillness aiding study, and his mind

Serene, and to his duties much inclined,

Not occupied in day dreams, as at home,

Of pleasures past, or follies yet to come,

His virtuous toil may terminate at last

In settled habit and decided taste.--

But whom do I advise? the fashion-led,

The incorrigibly wrong, the deaf, the dead!

Whom care and cool deliberation suit

Not better much than spectacles a brute;

Who, if their sons some slight tuition share,

Deem it of no great moment whose, or where;

Too proud to adopt the thoughts of one unknown,

And much too gay to have any of their own.

But courage, man! methought the Muse replied,

Mankind are various, and the world is wide:

The ostrich, silliest of the feather'd kind,

And form'd of God without a parent's mind,

Commits her eggs, incautious, to the dust,

Forgetful that the foot may crush the trust;

And, while on public nurseries they rely,

Not knowing, and too oft not caring, why,

Irrational in what they thus prefer,

No few, that would seem wise, resemble her.

But all are not alike. Thy warning voice

May here and there prevent erroneous choice;

And some, perhaps, who, busy as they are,

Yet make their progeny their dearest care,

(Whose hearts will ache, once told what ills may reach

Their offspring, left upon so wild a beach,)

Will need no stress of argument to enforce

The expedience of a less adventurous course:

The rest will slight thy counsel, or condemn;

But they have human feelings--turn to them.

To you, then, tenants of life's middle state,

Securely placed between the small and great,

Whose character, yet undebauch'd, retains

Two-thirds of all the virtue that remains,

Who, wise yourselves, desire your sons should learn

Your wisdom and your ways--to you I turn.

Look round you on a world perversely blind;

See what contempt is fallen on human kind;

See wealth abused, and dignities misplaced,

Great titles, offices, and trusts disgraced,

Long lines of ancestry, renown'd of old,

Their noble qualities all quench'd and cold;

See Bedlam's closeted and handcuff'd charge

Surpass'd in frenzy by the mad at large;

See great commanders making war a trade,

Great lawyers, lawyers without study made;

Churchmen, in whose esteem their best employ

Is odious, and their wages all their joy,

Who, far enough from furnishing their shelves

With Gospel lore, turn infidels themselves;

See womanhood despised, and manhood shamed

With infamy too nauseous to be named,

Fops at all corners, ladylike in mien,

Civited fellows, smelt ere they are seen,

Else coarse and rude in manners, and their tongue

On fire with curses, and with nonsense hung,

Now flush'd with drunkenness, now with whoredom pale,

Their breath a sample of last night's regale;

See volunteers in all the vilest arts,

Men well endow'd, of honourable parts,

Design'd by Nature wise, but self-made fools;

All these, and more like these, were bred at schools.

And if it chance, as sometimes chance it will,

That though school-bred the boy be virtuous still;

Such rare exceptions, shining in the dark,

Prove, rather than impeach, the just remark:

As here and there a twinkling star descried

Serves but to show how black is all beside.

Now look on him, whose very voice in tone

Just echoes thine, whose features are thine own,

And stroke his polish'd cheek of purest red,

And lay thine hand upon his flaxen head,

And say, My boy, the unwelcome hour is come,

When thou, transplanted from thy genial home,

Must find a colder soil and bleaker air,

And trust for safety to a stranger's care;

What character, what turn thou wilt assume

From constant converse with I know not whom;

Who there will court thy friendship, with what views,

And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose;

Though much depends on what thy choice shall be,

Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me.

Canst thou, the tear just trembling on thy lids,

And while the dreadful risk foreseen forbids;

Free too, and under no constraining force,

Unless the sway of custom warp thy course;

Lay such a stake upon the losing side,

Merely to gratify so blind a guide?

Thou canst not! Nature, pulling at thine heart,

Condemns the unfatherly, the imprudent part.

Thou wouldst not, deaf to Nature's tenderest plea,

Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea,

Nor say, Go thither, conscious that there lay

A brood of asps, or quicksands in his way;

Then, only govern'd by the self-same rule

Of natural pity, send him not to school.

No--guard him better. Is he not thine own,

Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thy bone?

And hopest thou not, ('tis every father's hope,)

That, since thy strength must with thy years elope,

And thou wilt need some comfort to assuage

Health's last farewell, a staff of thine old age,

That then, in recompence of all thy cares,

Thy child shall show respect to thy grey hairs,

Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft,

And give thy life its only cordial left?

Aware then how much danger intervenes,

To compass that good end, forecast the means.

His heart, now passive, yields to thy command;

Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand;

If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide,

Nor heed what guests there enter and abide,

Complain not if attachments lewd and base

Supplant thee in it and usurp thy place.

But, if thou guard its sacred chambers sure

From vicious inmates and delights impure,

Either his gratitude shall hold him fast,

And keep him warm and filial to the last;

Or, if he prove unkind, (as who can say

But, being man, and therefore frail, he may?)

One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart,

Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part.

Oh, barbarous! wouldst thou with a Gothic hand

Pull down the schools--what!--all the schools i' th' land;

Or throw them up to livery-nags and grooms,

Or turn them into shops and auction-rooms?

A captious question, sir, (and yours is one,)

Deserves an answer similar, or none.

Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ

(Apprised that he is such) a careless boy,

And feed him well, and give him handsome pay,

Merely to sleep, and let them run astray?

Survey our schools and colleges, and see

A sight not much unlike my simile.

From education, as the leading cause,

The public character its colour draws;

Thence the prevailing manners take their cast,

Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste.

And though I would not advertise them yet,

Nor write on each--_This Building to be Let_,

Unless the world were all prepared to embrace

A plan well worthy to supply their place;

Yet, backward as they are, and long have been,

To cultivate and keep the MORALS clean,

(Forgive the crime,) I wish them, I confess,

Or better managed, or encouraged less.

[818] See 2 Chron. xxvi. 19.

[819] The author begs leave to explain.--Sensible that, without

such knowledge, neither the ancient poets nor historians can be

tasted, or indeed understood, he does not mean to censure the

pains that are taken to instruct a schoolboy in the religion of

the heathen, but merely that neglect of Christian culture which

leaves him shamefully ignorant of his own.

THE YEARLY DISTRESS, OR TITHING TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX.

Verses addressed to a Country Clergyman, complaining of the

sisagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the

Dues at the Parsonage.

Come, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,

To laugh it would be wrong,

The troubles of a worthy priest,

The burden of my song.

This priest he merry is and blithe

Three quarters of a year:

But oh! it cuts him like a scythe,

When tithing time draws near.

He then is full of fright and fears,

As one at point to die,

And long before the day appears,

He heaves up many a sigh.

For then the farmers come jog, jog,

Along the miry road,

Each heart as heavy as a log,

To make their payments good.

In sooth the sorrow of such days

Is not to be express'd,

When he that takes and he that pays

Are both alike distress'd.

Now all unwelcome at his gates

The clumsy swains alight,

With rueful faces and bald pates--

He trembles at the sight.

And well he may, for well he knows

Each bumpkin of the clan,

Instead of paying what he owes,

Will cheat him if he can.

So in they come--each makes his leg,

And flings his head before,

And looks as if he came to beg,

And not to quit a score.

"And how does miss and madam do,

The little boy and all?"

"All tight and well. And how do you,

Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?"

The dinner comes, and down they sit,

Were e'er such hungry folk?

There's little talking, and no wit;

It is no time to joke.

One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,

One spits upon the floor,

Yet not to give offence or grieve,

Holds up the cloth before.

The punch goes round, and they are dull

And lumpish still as ever;

Like barrels with their bellies full,

They only weigh the heavier.

At length the busy time begins.

"Come, neighbours, we must wag"--

The money chinks, down drop their chins,

Each lugging out his bag.

One talks of mildew and of frost,

And one of storms of hail,

And one of pigs that he has lost

By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one, "A rarer man than you

In pulpit none shall hear:

But yet, methinks, to tell you true,

You sell it plaguy dear."

O why are farmers made so coarse,

Or clergy made so fine?

A kick, that scarce would move a horse,

May kill a sound divine.

Then let the boobies stay at home;

'Twould cost him, I dare say,

Less trouble taking twice the sum

Without the clowns that pay.

SONNET, ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.

On his emphatical and interesting Delivery of the Defence of

Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House of Lords.

Cowper, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard,

Legends prolix delivers in the ears

(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers,

Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.

Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,

Expending late on all that length of plea

Thy generous powers, but silence honour'd thee,

Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside

Both heart and head; and couldst with music sweet

Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone,

Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide

Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet

Of _others'_ speech, but magic of _thy own_.

LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,

AUTHOR OF "THE BOTANIC GARDEN."

Two Poets,[820] (poets, by report,

Not oft so well agree,)

Sweet harmonist of Flora's court!

Conspire to honour thee.

They best can judge a poet's worth,

Who oft themselves have known

The pangs of a poetic birth

By labours of their own.

We therefore pleased extol thy song,

Though various, yet complete,

Rich in embellishment as strong,

And learned as 'tis sweet.

No envy mingles with our praise,

Though, could our hearts repine

At any poet's happier lays,

They would--they must at thine.

But we, in mutual bondage knit

Of friendship's closest tie,

Can gaze on even Darwin's wit

With an unjaundiced eye;

And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be,

And howsoever known,

Who would not twine a wreath for thee,

Unworthy of his own.

[820] Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied these

lines.

ON MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER-HANGINGS.

The birds put off their every hue

To dress a room for Montagu.

The peacock sends his heavenly dyes,

His rainbows and his starry eyes;

The pheasant plumes, which round enfold

His mantling neck with downy gold;

The cock his arch'd tail's azure show;

And, river-blanch'd, the swan his snow.

All tribes beside of Indian name,

That glossy shine, or vivid flame,

Where rises, and where sets the day,

Whate'er they boast of rich and gay,

Contribute to the gorgeous plan,

Proud to advance it all they can.

This plumage neither dashing shower,

Nor blasts, that shake the dripping bower,

Shall drench again or discompose,

But, screen'd from every storm that blows,

It boasts a splendour ever new,

Safe with protecting Montagu.

To the same patroness resort,

Secure of favour at her court,

Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought

Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought,

Which, though new-born, with vigour move,

Like Pallas springing arm'd from Jove--

Imagination scattering round

Wild roses over furrow'd ground,

Which Labour of his frown beguile,

And teach Philosophy a smile--

Wit flashing on Religion's side,

Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied,

The gem, though luminous before,

Obtrude on human notice more,

Like sunbeams on the golden height

Of some tall temple playing bright--

Well tutor'd Learning, from his books

Dismiss'd with grave, not haughty, looks,

Their order on his shelves exact,

Not more harmonious or compact

Than that to which he keeps confined

The various treasures of his mind--

All these to Montagu's repair,

Ambitious of a shelter there.

There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit,

Their ruffled plumage calm refit,

(For stormy troubles loudest roar

Around their flight who highest soar,)

And in her eye, and by her aid,

Shine safe without a fear to fade.

She thus maintains divided sway

With yon bright regent of the day;

The Plume and Poet both we know

Their lustre to his influence owe;

And she the works of Phoebus aiding,

Both Poet saves and Plume from fading.

* * * * *

VERSES,

Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary

abode in the island of Juan Fernandez.

I am monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute;

From the centre all round to the sea

I am lord of the fowl and the brute.

O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?

Better dwell in the midst of alarms

Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone,

Never hear the sweet music of speech,

I start at the sound of my own.

The beasts, that roam over the plain,

My form with indifference see;

They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestow'd upon man,

O, had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again!

My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth,

Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word!

More precious than silver and gold

Or all that this earth can afford.

But the sound of the church-going bell

These valleys and rocks never heard,

Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd.

Ye winds, that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.

My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?

O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is the glance of the mind!

Compared with the speed of its flight,

The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light.

When I think of my own native land,

In a moment I seem to be there;

But alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair;

Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.

There's mercy in every place,

And mercy, encouraging thought!

Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

ON OBSERVING SOME NAMES OF LITTLE NOTE

RECORDED IN THE BIOGRAPHIA BRITANNICA.

Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot

To names ignoble, born to be forgot!

In vain recorded in historic page,

They court the notice of a future age:

Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land

Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand;

Lethæan gulfs receive them as they fall,

And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all.

So when a child, as playful children use,

Has burnt to tinder a stale last year's news,

The flame extinct, he views the roving fire--

There goes my lady, and there goes the squire,

There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark!

And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk!

REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE,

NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS.

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose,

The spectacles set them unhappily wrong;

The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,

To which the said spectacles ought to belong.

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause

With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning;

While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,

So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear,

And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find,

That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear,

Which amounts to possession time out of mind.

Then holding the spectacles up to the court--

Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle,

As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short,

Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle.

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose

('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again)

That the visage or countenance had not a Nose,

Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?

On the whole it appears, and my argument shows,

With a reasoning the court will never condemn,

That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,

And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.

Then shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how,)

He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes:

But what were his arguments few people know,

For the court did not think they were equally wise.

So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone,

Decisive and clear, without one if or but--

That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,

By daylight or candlelight--Eyes should be shut!

ON THE PROMOTION OF EDWARD THURLOW, ESQ.

TO THE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OF ENGLAND.

Round Thurlow's head in early youth,

And in his sportive days,

Fair Science pour'd the light of truth,

And Genius shed his rays.

See! with united wonder cried

The experienced and the sage,

Ambition in a boy supplied

With all the skill of age!

Discernment, eloquence, and grace,

Proclaim him born to sway

The balance in the highest place,

And bear the palm away.

The praise bestow'd was just and wise;

He sprang impetuous forth,

Secure of conquest, where the prize

Attends superior worth.

So the best courser on the plain

Ere yet he starts is known,

And does but at the goal obtain

What all had deem'd his own.

ODE TO PEACE.

Come, peace of mind, delightful guest!

Return, and make thy downy nest

Once more in this sad heart:

Nor riches I nor power pursue,

Nor hold forbidden joys in view;

We therefore need not part.

Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,

From avarice and ambition free,

And pleasure's fatal wiles?

For whom, alas! dost thou prepare

The sweets that I was wont to share,

The banquet of thy smiles?

The great, the gay, shall they partake

The heaven that thou alone canst make?

And wilt thou quit the stream

That murmurs through the dewy mead,

The grove and the sequestered shed,

To be a guest with them?

For thee I panted, thee I prized,

For thee I gladly sacrificed

Whatever I loved before;

And shall I see thee start away,

And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say--

Farewell! we meet no more?

HUMAN FRAILTY.

Weak and irresolute is man;

The purpose of to-day,

Woven with pains into his plan,

To-morrow rends away.

The bow well bent, and smart the spring,

Vice seems already slain;

But Passion rudely snaps the string,

And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent

Finds out his weaker part;

Virtue engages his assent,

But Pleasure wins his heart.

'Tis here the folly of the wise

Through all his art we view;

And, while his tongue the charge denies,

His conscience owns it true.

Bound on a voyage of awful length

And dangers little known,

A stranger to superior strength,

Man vainly trusts his own.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail

To reach the distant coast;

The breath of Heaven must swell the sail,

Or all the toil is lost.

THE MODERN PATRIOT.

Rebellion is my theme all day;

I only wish 'twould come

(As who knows but perhaps it may?)

A little nearer home.

Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight

On t'other side the Atlantic,

I always held them in the right,

But most so when most frantic.

When lawless mobs insult the court,

That man shall be my toast,

If breaking windows be the sport,

Who bravely breaks the most.

But O! for him my fancy culls

The choicest flowers she bears,

Who constitutionally pulls

Your house about your ears.

Such civil broils are my delight,

Though some folks can't endure them,

Who say the mob are mad outright,

And that a rope must cure them.

A rope! I wish we patriots had

Such strings for all who need 'em--

What! hang a man for going mad!

Then farewell British freedom.

ON THE BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY,

TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS. BY THE MOB, IN THE MONTH OF JUNE, 1780.

So then--the Vandals of our isle,

Sworn foes to sense and law,

Have burnt to dust a nobler pile

Than ever Roman saw!

And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swift,

And many a treasure more,

The well-judged purchase, and the gift

That graced his letter'd store.

Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn,

The loss was his alone;

But ages yet to come shall mourn

The burning of his own.

ON THE SAME.

When wit and genius meet their doom

In all devouring flame,

They tell us of the fate of Rome,

And bid us fear the same.

O'er Murray's loss the muses wept,

They felt the rude alarm,

Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept

His sacred head from harm.

There Memory, like the bee that's fed

From Flora's balmy store,

The quintessence of all he read

Had treasured up before.

The lawless herd, with fury blind,

Have done him cruel wrong;

The flowers are gone--but still we find

The honey on his tongue.

THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED;

OR, HYPOCRISY DETECTED.[821]

[821] It may be proper to inform the reader, that this piece has

already appeared in print, having found its way, though with

some unnecessary additions by an unknown hand, into the _Leeds

Journal_, without the author's privity.

Thus says the prophet of the Turk,

Good Mussulman, abstain from pork;

There is a part in every swine

No friend or follower of mine

May taste, whate'er his inclination,

On pain of excommunication.

Such Mahomet's mysterious charge,

And thus he left the point at large.

Had he the sinful part express'd,

They might with safety eat the rest;

But for one piece they thought it hard

From the whole hog to be debarr'd;

And set their wit at work to find

What joint the prophet had in mind.

Much controversy straight arose,

These choose the back, the belly those;

By some 'tis confidently said

He meant not to forbid the head;

While others at that doctrine rail,

And piously prefer the tail.

Thus, conscience freed from every clog,

Mahometans eat up the hog.

You laugh--'tis well--the tale applied

May make you laugh on t'other side.

Renounce the world--the preacher cries.

We do--a multitude replies.

While one as innocent regards

A snug and friendly game at cards;

And one, whatever you may say,

Can see no evil in a play;

Some love a concert, or a race;

And others shooting, and the chase.

Reviled and loved, renounced and follow'd,

Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow'd;

Each thinks his neighbour makes too free,

Yet likes a slice as well as he:

With sophistry their sauce they sweeten,

Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH.

Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red

With tears o'er hapless favourites shed,

O share Maria's grief!

Her favourite, even in his cage,

(What will not hunger's cruel rage?)

Assassin'd by a thief.

Where Rhenus strays his vines among,

The egg was laid from which he sprung;

And, though by nature mute,

Or only with a whistle blest,

Well taught he all the sounds express'd

Of flageolet or flute.

The honours of his ebon poll

Were brighter than the sleekest mole,

His bosom of the hue

With which Aurora decks the skies,

When piping winds shall soon arise,

To sweep away the dew.

Above, below, in all the house,

Dire foe alike of bird and mouse

No cat had leave to dwell;

And Bully's cage supported stood

On props of smoothest shaven wood,

Large-built and latticed well.

Well latticed--but the grate, alas!

Not rough with wire of steel or brass,

For Bully's plumage sake,

But smooth with wands from Ouse's side,

With which, when neatly peel'd and dried,

The swains their baskets make.

Night veil'd the pole: all seem'd secure:

When, led by instinct sharp and sure,

Subsistence to provide,

A beast forth sallied on the scout,

Long back'd, long tail'd, with whisker'd snout,

And badger-colour'd hide.

He, entering at the study door,

Its ample area 'gan explore;

And something in the wind

Conjectured, sniffing round and round,

Better than all the books he found,

Food chiefly for the mind.

Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,

A dream disturb'd poor Bully's rest;

In sleep he seem'd to view

A rat fast clinging to the cage,

And, screaming at the sad presage,

Awoke and found it true.

For, aided both by ear and scent,

Right to his mark the monster went--

Ah, muse! forbear to speak

Minute the horrors that ensued;

His teeth were strong, the cage was wood--

He left poor Bully's beak.

O had he made that too his prey;

That beak, whence issued many a lay

Of such mellifluous tone,

Might have repaid him well, I wote,

For silencing so sweet a throat,

Fast stuck within his own.

Maria weeps--the Muses mourn--

So when, by Bacchanalians torn,

On Thracian Hebrus' side

The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell,

His head alone remain'd to tell

The cruel death he died.

THE ROSE.

The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower,

Which Mary to Anna convey'd,

The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower,

And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,

And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left, with regret,

On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,

And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!

I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part

Some act by the delicate mind,

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart

Already to sorrow resign'd.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner a while;

And the tear, that is wiped with a little address,

May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

THE DOVES.

Reasoning at every step he treads,

Man yet mistakes his way

While meaner things, whom instinct leads,

Are rarely known to stray.

One silent eve I wander'd late,

And heard the voice of love;

The turtle thus address'd her mate,

And soothed the listening dove:

Our mutual bond of faith and truth

No time shall disengage,

Those blessings of our early youth

Shall cheer our latest age:

While innocence without disguise,

And constancy sincere,

Shall fill the circles of those eyes,

And mine can read them there;

Those ills, that wait on all below,

Shall ne'er be felt by me,

Or gently felt, and only so,

As being shared with thee.

When lightnings flash among the trees,

Or kites are hovering near,

I fear lest thee alone they seize,

And know no other fear.

'Tis then I feel myself a wife,

And press thy wedded side,

Resolved a union form'd for life

Death never shall divide.

But oh! if, fickle and unchaste,

(Forgive a transient thought,)

Thou couldst become unkind at last,

And scorn thy present lot,

No need of lightnings from on high,

Or kites with cruel beak;

Denied the endearments of thine eye,

This widow'd heart would break.

Thus sang the sweet sequester'd bird,

Soft as the passing wind,

And I recorded what I heard,

A lesson for mankind.

A FABLE.

A raven, while with glossy breast

Her new-laid eggs she fondly press'd,

And, on her wicker-work high mounted,

Her chickens prematurely counted,

(A fault philosophers might blame,

If quite exempted from the same,)

Enjoy'd at ease the genial day;

'Twas April, as the bumpkins say,

The legislature call'd it May.

But suddenly a wind, as high

As ever swept a winter sky,

Shook the young leaves about her ears,

And fill'd her with a thousand fears,

Lest the rude blast should snap the bough,

And spread her golden hopes below.

But just at eve the blowing weather

And all her fears were hush'd together:

And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph,

'Tis over, and the brood is safe;

(For ravens, though, as birds of omen,

They teach both conjurors and old women

To tell us what is to befall,

Can't prophesy themselves at all.)

The morning came, when neighbour Hodge,

Who long had mark'd her airy lodge,

And destined all the treasure there

A gift to his expecting fair,

Climb'd like a squirrel to his dray,

And bore the worthless prize away.

MORAL.

'Tis Providence alone secures

In every change both mine and yours:

Safety consists not in escape

From dangers of a frightful shape;

An earthquake may be bid to spare

The man that's strangled by a hair.

Fate steals along with silent tread,

Found oft'nest in what least we dread,

Frowns in the storm with angry brow,

But in the sunshine strikes the blow.

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.

Patron of all those luckless brains,

That, to the wrong side leaning,

Indite much metre with much pains,

And little or no meaning;

Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,

That water all the nations,

Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,

In constant exhalations;

Why, stooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink,

Apollo, hast thou stolen away

A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapour now,

Impell'd through regions dense and rare,

By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd perhaps, ere summer flies,

Combined with millions more,

To form an iris in the skies,

Though black and foul before.

Illustrious drop! and happy then

Beyond the happiest lot,

Of all that ever pass'd my pen,

So soon to be forgot!

Phoebus, if such be thy design.

To place it in thy bow,

Give wit, that what is left may shine

With equal grace below.

A COMPARISON.

The lapse of time and rivers is the same,

Both speed their journey with a restless stream,

The silent pace, with which they steal away,

No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay;

Alike irrevocable both when past,

And a wide ocean swallows both at last.

Though each resemble each in every part,

A difference strikes at length the musing heart;

Streams never flow in vain; where streams abound,

How laughs the land with various plenty crown'd!

But time, that should enrich the nobler mind,

Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind.

ANOTHER.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade,

Apt emblem of a virtuous maid--

Silent and chaste she steals along,

Far from the world's gay busy throng;

With gentle yet prevailing force,

Intent upon her destined course;

Graceful and useful all she does,

Blessing and blest where'er she goes.

Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass,

And heaven reflected in her face.

THE POET'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

TO MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON.

Maria! I have every good

For thee wish'd many a time,

Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,

But never yet in rhyme.

To wish thee fairer is no need,

More prudent, or more sprightly,

Or more ingenious, or more freed

From temper-flaws unsightly.

What favour then not yet possess'd

Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already blest,

To thy whole heart's desire?

None here is happy but in part:

Full bliss is bliss divine;

There dwells some wish in every heart,

And doubtless one in thine.

That wish on some fair future day,

Which fate shall brightly gild,

('Tis blameless, be it what it may,)

I wish it all fulfill'd.

PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED.

A FABLE.

I shall not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau[822]

[822] it was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher,

that all fables which ascribe reason and speech to animals should

be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception.

but what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, against the

evidence of his senses?

If birds confabulate or no;

'Tis clear, that they were always able

To hold discourse, at least in fable;

And e'en the child who knows no better

Than to interpret, by the letter,

A story of a cock and bull,

Must have a most uncommon skull.

It chanced then on a winter's day,

But warm, and bright, and calm as May,

The birds, conceiving a design

To forestall sweet St. Valentine,

In many an orchard, copse, and grove,

Assembled on affairs of love,

And with much twitter and much chatter

Began to agitate the matter.

At length a Bullfinch, who could boast

More years and wisdom than the most,

Entreated, opening wide his beak,

A moment's liberty to speak;

And, silence publicly enjoin'd,

Deliver'd briefly thus his mind:

My friends! be cautious how ye treat

The subject upon which we meet;

I fear we shall have winter yet.

A Finch, whose tongue knew no control,

With golden wing and satin poll,

A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried

What marriage means, thus pert replied:

Methinks the gentleman, quoth she,

Opposite in the apple tree,

By his good will would keep us single

Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle,

Or (which is likelier to befall)

Till death exterminate us all.

I marry without more ado,

My dear Dick Redcap, what say you?

Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling,

Turning short round, strutting and sideling,

Attested, glad, his approbation

Of an immediate conjugation.

Their sentiments so well express'd

Influenced mightily the rest,

All pair'd, and each pair built a nest.

But, though the birds were thus in haste,

The leaves came on not quite so fast,

And destiny, that sometimes bears

An aspect stern on man's affairs,

Not altogether smiled on theirs.

The wind, of late breathed gently forth,

Now shifted east, and east by north;

Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know,

Could shelter them from rain or snow,

Stepping into their nests, they paddled,

Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled;

Soon every father bird and mother

Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other,

Parted without the least regret,

Except that they had ever met,

And learn'd in future to be wiser,

Than to neglect a good adviser.

MORAL.

Misses! the tale that I relate

This lesson seems to carry--

Choose not alone a proper mate,

But proper time to marry.

THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY.

NO FABLE.

The noon was shady, and soft airs

Swept Ouse's silent tide,

When, 'scaped from literary cares,

I wander'd on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race,

And high in pedigree,

(Two nymphs[823] adorn'd with every grace

That spaniel found for me,)

Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds,

Now starting into sight,

Pursued the swallow o'er the meads

With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse display'd

His lilies newly blown;

Their beauties I intent survey'd,

And one I wish'd my own.

With cane extended far I sought

To steer it close to land;

But still the prize, though nearly caught,

Escaped my eager hand.

Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains

With fix'd considerate face,

And puzzling set his puppy brains

To comprehend the case.

But with a cherup clear and strong

Dispersing all his dream,

I thence withdrew, and follow'd long

The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I return'd;

Beau, trotting far before,

The floating wreath again discern'd,

And plunging, left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropp'd

Impatient swim to meet

My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd

The treasure at my feet.

Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried,

Shall hear of this thy deed:

My dog shall mortify the pride

Of man's superior breed:

But chief myself I will enjoin,

Awake at duty's call,

To show a love as prompt as thine

To Him who gives me all.

[823] Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.

THE WINTER NOSEGAY.

What Nature, alas! has denied

To the delicate growth of our isle,

Art has in a measure supplied,

And winter is deck'd with a smile.

See, Mary, what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that sunny shed,

Where the flowers have the charms of the spring,

Though abroad they are frozen and dead.

'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets,

Where Flora is still in her prime,

A fortress to which she retreats

From the cruel assaults of the clime.

While earth wears a mantle of snow,

These pinks are as fresh and as gay

As the fairest and sweetest that blow

On the beautiful bosom of May.