And read with such discernment, in the port And figure of the man, his secret aim,
That oft we owe our safety to a skill
We could not teach, and must despair to learn. But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop To quadruped instructors, many a good And useful quality, and virtue too, Rarely exemplified among ourselves; Attachment never to be wean'd, or chang'd By any change of fortune; proof alike Against unkindness, absence, and neglect; Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat Can move or warp; and gratitude for small And trivial favours, lasting as the life, And glist'ning even in the dying eye.
Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms Wins publick honour; and ten thousand sit Patiently present at a sacred song, Commemoration-mad; content to hear (O wonderful effect of musick's pow'r!) Messiah's eulogy for Handel's sake.
But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve, (For, was it less, what heathen would have dar'd To strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath, And hang it up in honour of a man?)
Much less might serve, when all that we design Is but to gratify an itching ear,
And give the day to a musician's praise. Remember Handel? Who, that was not born Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets,
Or can, the more than Homer of his age Yes-we remember him; and, while we praise 16*
A talent so divine, remember too
That His most holy book, from whom it came, Was never meant, was never us'd before, To buckram out the mem'ry of a man. But hush!-the muse perhaps is too severe; And with a gravity beyond the size
And measure of th' 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 wand'ring 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 mem❜ry next, When time had sowewhat mellow'd it, and made The idol of our worship while he liv'd
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 squeez'd 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 fram'd the rites
And solemn ceremonial of the day,
And call'd the world to worship on the banks Of Avon, fam'd in song. Ah, pleasant proof That piety has still in human hearts
Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. The mulb'rry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths; The mulb'rry-tree stood centre of the dance; The mulb'rry-tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs; And from his touchwood trunk the mulb'rry-tree Supplied such relicks 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 sties, 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's eyes, and bless him. Maidens wave Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy: While others, not so satisfied, unhorse The gilded equipage, and, turning loose His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve. Why? what has charm'd them? Hath he sav'd the
No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No. Enchanting novelty, that moon at full, That finds out ev'ry crevice of the head That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is 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 lodg'd already there. Encomium in old time was poets' work; But poets, having lavishly long since Exhausted all materials of the art,
The task now falls into the publick hand; And I, contented with an humbler theme, Have pour'd my stream of panegyrick down The vale of Nature, where it creeps, and winds Among her lovely works with a secure And unambitious course, reflecting clear, If not the virtues, yet the worth, of brutes. And I am recompens'd, and deem the toils Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine May stand between an animal and wo, And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.
The groans of Nature in this nether world, Which Heav'n has heard for ages, have an end. Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung, Whose fire was kindled at the prophet' lamp, The time of rest, the promis'd 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 mov'd him, and his wrath is hot,
Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend Propitious in his chariot pav'd with love; And what his storms have blasted and defac'd 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 musick, and not suffer loss. But when a poet, or when one like me, Happy to rove among poetick flow'rs, Though pour 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 t' 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
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