The Poetry Corner

Conversation.

By William Cowper

Nam neque me tantum venientis sibilus austri, Nec percussa juvant fluctu tam litora, nec quae Saxosas inter decurrunt flumina valles. - Virg. Ecl. 5. Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense To every man his modicum of sense, And Conversation in its better part May be esteemd a gift, and not an art, Yet much depends, as in the tillers toil, On culture, and the sowing of the soil. Words learnd by rote a parrot may rehearse, But talking is not always to converse; Not more distinct from harmony divine, The constant creaking of a country sign. As alphabets in ivory employ, Hour after hour, the yet unletterd boy, Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee Those seeds of science calld his a b c; So language in the mouths of the adult, Witness its insignificant result, Too often proves an implement of play, A toy to sport with, and pass time away. Collect at evening what the day brought forth, Compress the sum into its solid worth, And if it weigh the importance of a fly, The scales are false, or algebra a lie. Sacred interpreter of human thought, How few respect or use thee as they ought! But all shall give account of every wrong, Who dare dishonour or defile the tongue; Who prostitute it in the cause of vice, Or sell their glory at a market-price; Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon, The dear-bought placeman, and the cheap buffoon. There is a prurience in the speech of some, Wrath stays him, or else God would strike them dumb; His wise forbearance has their end in view, They fill their measure and receive their due. The heathen lawgivers of ancient days, Names almost worthy of a Christians praise, Would drive them forth from the resort of men, And shut up every satyr in his den. Oh, come not ye near innocence and truth, Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth! Infectious as impure, your blighting power Taints in its rudiments the promised flower; Its odour perishd, and its charming hue, Thenceforth tis hateful, for it smells of you. Not een the vigorous and headlong rage Of adolescence, or a firmer age, Affords a plea allowable or just For making speech the pamperer of lust; But when the breath of age commits the fault, Tis nauseous as the vapour of a vault. So witherd stumps disgrace the sylvan scene, No longer fruitful, and no longer green; The sapless wood, divested of the bark, Grows fungous, and takes fire at every spark. Oaths terminate, as Paul observes, all strife Some men have surely then a peaceful life! Whatever subject occupy discourse, The feats of Vestris, or the naval force, Asseveration blustering in your face Makes contradiction such a hopeless case: In every tale they tell, or false or true, Well known, or such as no man ever knew, They fix attention, heedless of your pain, With oaths like rivets forced into the brain; And een when sober truth prevails throughout, They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt. A Persian, humble servant of the sun, Who, though devout, yet bigotry had none, Hearing a lawyer, grave in his address, With adjurations every word impress, Supposed the man a bishop, or at least, Gods name so much upon his lips, a priest; Bowd at the close with all his graceful airs, And beggd an interest in his frequent prayers. Go, quit the rank to which ye stood preferrd, Henceforth associate in one common herd; Religion, virtue, reason, common sense, Pronounce your human form a false pretence: A mere disguise, in which a devil lurks, Who yet betrays his secret by his works. Ye powers who rule the tongue, if such there are, And make colloquial happiness your care, Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate, A duel in the form of a debate. The clash of arguments and jar of words, Worse than the mortal brunt of rival swords, Decide no question with their tedious length, For opposition gives opinion strength, Divert the champions prodigal of breath, And put the peaceably disposed to death. Oh, thwart me not, Sir Soph, at every turn, Nor carp at every flaw you may discern; Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue, I am not surely always in the wrong; Tis hard if all is false that I advance, A fool must now and then be right by chance. Not that all freedom of dissent I blame; Nothere I grant the privilege I claim. A disputable point is no mans ground; Rove where you please, tis common all around. Discourse may want an animatedNo, To brush the surface, and to make it flow; But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease. The mark, at which my juster aim I take, Is contradiction for its own dear sake. Set your opinion at whatever pitch, Knots and impediments make something hitch; Adopt his own, tis equally in vain, Your thread of argument is snappd again; The wrangler, rather than accord with you, Will judge himself deceived, and prove it too. Vociferated logic kills me quite, A noisy man is always in the right, I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare, And, when I hope his blunders are all out, Reply discreetlyTo be sureno doubt! Dubius is such a scrupulous good man Yesyou may catch him tripping, if you can. He would not, with a peremptory tone, Assert the nose upon his face his own; With hesitation admirably slow, He humbly hopespresumesit may be so. His evidence, if he were calld by law To swear to some enormity he saw, For want of prominence and just relief, Would hang an honest man and save a thief. Though constant dread of giving truth offence, He ties up all his hearers in suspense; Knows what he knows as if he knew it not; What he remembers seems to have forgot; His sole opinion, whatsoeer befall, Centring at last in having none at all. Yet, though he tease and balk your listening ear, He makes one useful point exceeding clear; Howeer ingenious on his darling theme A sceptic in philosophy may seem, Reduced to practice, his beloved rule Would only prove him a consummate fool; Useless in him alike both brain and speech, Fate having placed all truth above his reach, His ambiguities his total sum, He might as well be blind, and deaf, and dumb. Where men of judgment creep and feel their way, The positive pronounce without dismay; Their want of light and intellect supplied By sparks absurdity strikes out of pride. Without the means of knowing right from wrong, They always are decisive, clear, and strong. Where others toil with philosophic force, Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course; Flings at your head conviction in the lump, And gains remote conclusions at a jump: Their own defect, invisible to them, Seen in another, they at once condemn; And, though self-idolised in every case, Hate their own likeness in a brothers face. The cause is plain, and not to be denied, The proud are always most provoked by pride. Few competitions but engender spite; And those the most, where neither has a right. The point of honour has been deemd of use, To teach good manners and to curb abuse: Admit it true, the consequence is clear, Our polishd manners are a mask we wear, And at the bottom barbarous still and rude; We are restraind indeed, but not subdued. The very remedy, however sure, Springs from the mischief it intends to cure, And savage in its principle appears, Tried, as it should be, by the fruit it bears. Tis hard, indeed, if nothing will defend Mankind from quarrels but their fatal end; That now and then a hero must decease, That the surviving world may live in peace. Perhaps at last close scrutiny may shew The practice dastardly, and mean, and low; That men engage in it compelld by force; And fear, not courage, is its proper source. The fear of tyrant custom, and the fear Lest fops should censure us, and fools should sneer. At least to trample on our Makers laws, And hazard life for any or no cause, To rush into a fixd eternal state Out of the very flames of rage and hate, Or send another shivering to the bar With all the guilt of such unnatural war, Whatever use may urge, or honour plead, On reasons verdict is a madmans deed. Am I to set my life upon a throw, Because a bear is rude and surly? No A moral, sensible, and well-bred man Will not affront me, and no other can. Were I empowerd to regulate the lists, They should encounter with well loaded fists; A Trojan combat would be something new, Let Dares beat Entellus black and blue; Then each might shew, to his admiring friends, In honourable bumps his rich amends, And carry, in contusions of his skull, A satisfactory receipt in full. A story, in which native humour reigns, Is often useful, always entertains: A graver fact, enlisted on your side, May furnish illustration, well applied; But sedentary weavers of long tales Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails. Tis the most asinine employ on earth, To hear them tell of parentage and birth, And echo conversations dull and dry, Embellishd withHe said,and, So said I. At every interview their route the same, The repetition makes attention lame: We bustle up with unsuccessful speed, And in the saddest part cryDroll indeed! The path of narrative with care pursue, Still making probability your clue; On all the vestiges of truth attend, And let them guide you to a decent end. Of all ambitious man may entertain, The worst that can invade a sickly brain, Is that which angles hourly for surprise, And baits its hook with prodigies and lies. Credulous infancy, or age as weak, Are fittest auditors for such to seek, Who to please others will themselves disgrace, Yet please not, but affront you to your face. A great retailer of this curious ware, Having unloaded and made many stare, Can this be true?an arch observer cries; Yes (rather moved), I saw it with these eyes! Sir! I believe it on that ground alone; I could not had I seen it with my own. A tale should be judicious, clear, succint; The language plain, the incidents well linkd; Tell not as new what everybody knows, And, new or old, still hasten to a close; There, centring in a focus round and neat, Let all your rays of information meet. What neither yields us profit nor delight Is like a nurses lullaby at night; Guy Earl of Warwick and fair Eleanore, Or giant-killing Jack, would please me more. The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a sentence at a time enough; The dozing sages drop the drowsy strain, Then pause, and puffand speak, and pause again. Such often, like the tube they so admire, Important triflers! have more smoke than fire. Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to societys chief joys, Thy worst effect is banishing for hours The sex whose presence civilizes ours; Thou art indeed the drug a gardener wants To poison vermin that infest his plants; But are we so to wit and beauty blind, As to despise the glory of our kind, And shew the softest minds and fairest forms As little mercy as he grubs and worms? They dare not wait the riotous abuse Thy thirst-creating steams at length produce, When wine has given indecent language birth, And forced the floodgates of licentious mirth; For seaborn Venus her attachment shews Still to that element from which she rose, And, with a quiet which no fumes disturb, Sips meek infusions of a milder herb. The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose, In contact inconvenient, nose to nose, As if the gnomon on his neighbours phiz, Touchd with the magnet, had attracted his. His whisperd theme, dilated and at large, Proves after all a wind-guns airy charge, An extract of his diaryno more, A tasteless journal of the day before. He walkd abroad, oertaken in the rain, Calld on a friend, drank tea, steppd home again, Resumed his purpose, had a world of talk With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk. I interrupt him with a sudden bow, Adieu, dear sir! lest you should lose it now. I cannot talk with civet in the room, A fine puss gentleman thats all perfume; The sights enoughno need to smell a beau Who thrusts his head into a raree-show? His odoriferous attempts to please Perhaps might prosper with a swarm of bees; But we that make no honey, though we sting, Poets, are sometimes apt to maul the thing. Tis wrong to bring into a mixd resort, What makes some sick, and others -la-mort, An argument of cogence, we may say, Why such a one should keep himself away. A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see, Quite as absurd, though not so light as he: A shallow brain behind a serious mask, An oracle within an empty cask, The solemn fop; significant and budge; A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge. He says but little, and that little said, Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead. His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home: Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage, Some handsome present, as your hopes presage; Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove An absent friends fidelity and love, But when unpackd, your disappointment groans To find it stuffd with brickbats, earth, and stones. Some men employ their health, an ugly trick, In making known how oft they have been sick, And give us, in recitals of disease, A doctors trouble, but without the fees; Relate how many weeks they kept their bed, How an emetic or cathartic sped; Nothing is slightly touchd, much less forgot, Nose, ears, and eyes, seem present on the spot. Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill, Victorious seemd, and now the doctors skill; And nowalas for unforeseen mishaps! They put on a damp nightcap, and relapse; They thought they must have died, they were so bad: Their peevish hearers almost wish they had. Some fretful tempers wince at every touch, You always do too little or too much: You speak with life, in hopes to entertain, Your elevated voice goes through the brain; You fall at once into a lower key, Thats worsethe drone-pipe of an humble-bee. The southern sash admits too strong a light, You rise and drop the curtainnow tis night. He shakes with coldyou stir the fire and strive To make blazethats roasting him alive. Serve him with venison, and he wishes fish; With solethats just the sort he would not wish. He takes what he at first professd to loathe, And in due time feeds heartily on both; Yet still, oerclouded with a constant frown, He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. Your hope to please him vain on every plan, Himself should work that wonder if he can Alas! his efforts double his distress, He likes yours little, and his own still less. Thus always teasing others, always teased, His only pleasure is to be displeased. I pity bashful men, who feel the pain Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain, And bear the marks upon a blushing face Of needless shame and self-imposed disgrace. Our sensibilities are so acute, The fear of being silent makes us mute. We sometimes think we could a speech produce Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose; But, being tried, it dies upon the lip, Faint as a chickens note that has the pip: Our wasted oil unprofitably burns, Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns. Few Frenchmen of this evil have complaind; It seems as if we Britons were ordaind, By way of wholesome curb upon our pride, To fear each other, fearing none beside. The cause perhaps inquiry may descry, Self-searching with an introverted eye, Conceald within an unsuspected part, The vainest corner of our own vain heart: For ever aiming at the worlds esteem, Our self-importance ruins its own scheme; In other eyes our talents rarely shewn, Become at length so splendid in our own, We dare not risk them into public view, Lest they miscarry of what seems their due. True modesty is a discerning grace, And only blushes in the proper place; But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, Where tis a shame to be ashamed to appear: Humility the parent of the first, The last by vanity produced and nursed. The circle formd, we sit in silent state, Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate; Yes, maam, and No, maam, utterd softly, shew Every five minutes how the minutes go; Each individual, suffering a constraint Poetry may, but colours cannot, paint; And, if in close committee on the sky, Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry; And finds a changing clime a happy source Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse. We next inquire, but softly and by stealth, Like conservators of the public health, Of epidemic throats, if such there are, And coughs, and rheums, and phthisic, and catarrh. That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues, Filld up at last with interesting news; Who danced with whom, and who are like to wed, And who is hangd, and who is brought to bed: But fear to call a more important cause, As if twere treason against English laws. The visit paid, with ecstacy we come, As from a seven years transportation, home, And there resume an unembarrassd brow, Recovering what we lost, we know not how, The faculties that seemd reduced to nought, Expression and the privilege of thought. The reeking, roaring hero of the chase, I give him over as a desperate case. Physicians write in hopes to work a cure, Never, if honest ones, when death is sure; And though the fox he follows may be tamed, A mere fox-follower never is reclaimd. Some farrier should prescribe his proper course, Whose only fit companion is his horse; Or if, deserving of a better doom, The noble beast judge otherwise, his groom. Yet een the rogue that serves him, though he stand To take his honours orders, cap in hand, Prefers his fellow grooms with much good sense, Their skill a truth, his masters a pretence. If neither horse nor groom affect the squire, Where can at last his jockeyship retire? Oh, to the club, the scene of savage joys, The school of coarse good fellowship and noise; There, in the sweet society of those Whose friendship from his boyish years he chose, Let him improve his talent if he can, Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man. Mans heart had been impenetrably seald, Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field, Had not his Makers all-bestowing hand Given him a soul, and bade him understand; The reasoning power vouchsafed, of course inferrd The power to clothe that reason with his word; For all is perfect that God works on earth, And he that gives conception aids the birth. If this be plain, tis plainly understood, What uses of his boon the Giver would. The mind despatchd upon her busy toil, Should range where Providence has blessd the soil; Visiting every flower with labour meet, And gathering all her treasures sweet by sweet, She should imbue the tongue with what she sips, And shed the balmy blessing on the lips, That good diffused may more abundant grow, And speech may praise the power that bids it flow. Will the sweet warbler of the livelong night, That fills the listening lover with delight, Forget his harmony, with rapture heard, To learn the twittering of a meaner bird? Or make the parrots mimicry his choice, That odious libel on a human voice? Nonature, unsophisticate by man, Starts not aside from her Creators plan; The melody, that was at first designd To cheer the rude forefathers of mankind, Is note for note deliverd in our ears, In the last scene of her six thousand years. Yet Fashion, leader of a chattering train, Whom man for his own hurt permits to reign, Who shifts and changes all things but his shape, And would degrade her votary to an ape, The fruitful parent of abuse and wrong, Holds a usurpd dominion oer his tongue; There sits and prompts him with his own disgrace, Prescribes the theme, the tone, and the grimace, And, when accomplishd in her wayward school, Calls gentleman whom she has made a fool. Tis an unalterable fixd decree, That none could frame or ratify but she, That heaven and hell, and righteousness and sin, Snares in his path, and foes that lurk within, God and his attributes (a field of day Where tis an angels happiness to stray), Fruits of his love and wonders of his might, Be never named in ears esteemd polite; That he who dares, when she forbids, be grave, Shall stand proscribed, a madman or a knave, A close designer not to be believed, Or, if excused that charge, at least deceived. Oh, folly worthy of the nurses lap, Give it the breast, or stop its mouth with pap! Is it incredible, or can it seem A dream to any except those that dream, That man should love his Maker, and that fire, Warming his heart, should at his lips transpire? Know then, and modestly let fall your eyes, And veil your daring crest that braves the skies; That air of insolence affronts your God, You need his pardon, and provoke his rod: Now, in a posture that becomes you more Than that heroic strut assumed before, Know, your arrears with every hour accrue For mercy shewn, while wrath is justly due. The time is short, and there are souls on earth, Though future pain may serve for present mirth, Acquainted with the woes that fear or shame, By fashion taught, forbade them once to name, And, having felt the pangs you deem a jest, Have proved them truths too big to be expressd. Go seek on revelations hallowd ground, Sure to succeed, the remedy they found; Touchd by that power that you have dared to mock, That makes seas stable, and dissolves the rock, Your heart shall yield a life-renewing stream, That fools, as you have done, shall call a dream. It happend on a solemn eventide, Soon after He that was our surety died, Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined, The scene of all those sorrows left behind, Sought their own village, busied as they went In musings worthy of the great event: They spake of Him they loved, of Him whose life, Though blameless, had incurrd perpetual strife, Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts, A deep memorial graven on their hearts. The recollection, like a vein of ore, The farther traced, enrichd them still the more; They thought him, and they justly thought him, one Sent to do more than he appeard to have done; To exalt a people, and to place them high, Above all else, and wonderd he should die. Ere yet they brought their journey to an end, A stranger joind them, courteous as a friend, And askd them, with a kind engaging air, What their affliction was, and beggd a share. Informd, he gatherd up the broken thread, And, truth and wisdom gracing all he said, Explaind, illustrated, and searchd so well The tender theme on which they chose to dwell, That, reaching home, the night, they said, is near, We must not now be parted, sojourn here The new acquaintance soon became a guest, And, made so welcome at their simple feast, He blessd the bread, but vanishd at the word. And left them both exclaiming, Twas the Lord! Did not our hearts feel all he deignd to say, Did they not burn within us by the way? Now theirs was converse, such as it behoves Man to maintain, and such as God approves: Their views indeed were indistinct and dim, But yet successful, being aimd at him. Christ and his character their only scope, Their object, and their subject, and their hope, They felt what it became them much to feel, And, wanting him to loose the sacred seal, Found him as prompt as their desire was true, To spread the new-born glories in their view. Wellwhat are ages and the lapse of time Matchd against truths, as lasting as sublime? Can length of years on God himself exact? Or make that fiction which was once a fact? Nomarble and recording brass decay, And, like the gravers memory, pass away; The works of man inherit, as is just, Their authors frailty, and return to dust: But truth divine for ever stands secure, Its head is guarded as its base is sure: Fixd in the rolling flood of endless years, The pillar of the eternal plan appears, The raving storm and dashing wave defies, Built by that Architect who built the skies. Hearts may be found, that harbour at this hour That love of Christ, and all its quickening power; And lips unstaind by folly or by strife, Whose wisdom, drawn from the deep well of life, Tastes of its healthful origin, and flows A Jordan for the ablution of our woes. Oh, days of heaven, and nights of equal praise, Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days, When souls drawn upwards in communion sweet Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat, Discourse, as if released and safe at home, Of dangers past, and wonders yet to come, And spread the sacred treasures of the breast Upon the lap of covenanted rest! What, always dreaming over heavenly things, Like angel-heads in stone with pigeon-wings? Canting and whining out all day the word, And half the night?fanatic and absurd! Mine be the friend less frequent in his prayers, Who makes no bustle with his souls affairs, Whose wit can brighten up a wintry day, And chase the splenetic dull hours away; Content on earth in earthly things to shine, Who waits for heaven ere he becomes divine, Leaves saints to enjoy those altitudes they teach, And plucks the fruit placed more within his reach. Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame, Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name. Is sparkling wit the worlds exclusive right? The fixd fee-simple of the vain and light? Can hopes of heaven, bright prospects of an hour, That come to waft us out of sorrows power, Obscure or quench a faculty that finds Its happiest soil in the serenest minds? Religion curbs indeed its wanton play, And brings the trifler under rigorous sway, But gives it usefulness unknown before, And purifying, makes it shine the more, A Christians wit is inoffensive light, A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight; Vigorous in age as in the flush of youth; Tis always active on the side of truth; Temperance and peace insure its healthful state, And make it brightest at its latest date. Oh, I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain, Ere life go down, to see such sights again) A veteran warrior in the Christian field, Who never saw the sword he could not wield; Grave without dulness, learned without pride, Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-eyed; A man that would have foild at their own play A dozen would-bes of the modern day; Who, when occasion justified its use, Had wit as bright as ready to produce, Could fetch from records of an earlier age, Or from philosophys enlightend page, His rich materials, and regale your ear With strains it was a privilege to hear: Yet above all his luxury supreme, And his chief glory, was the gospel theme; There he was copious as old Greece or Rome, His happy eloquence seemd there at home, Ambitious not to shine or to excel, But to treat justly what he loved so well. It moves me more perhaps than folly ought, When some green heads, as void of wit as thought, Suppose themselves monopolists of sense, And wiser mens ability pretence. Though time will wear us, and we must grow old, Such men are not forgot as soon as cold, Their fragrant memory will outlast their tomb, Embalmd for ever in its own perfume. And to say truth, though in its early prime, And when unstaind with any grosser crime, Youth has a sprightliness and fire to boast, That in the valley of decline are lost, And virtue with peculiar charms appears, Crownd with the garland of lifes blooming years; Yet age, by long experience well informd, Well read, well temperd, with religion warmd, That fire abated which impels rash youth, Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth, As time improves the grapes authentic juice, Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use, And claims a reverence in its shortening day, That tis an honour and a joy to pay. The fruits of age, less fair, are yet more sound, Than those a brighter season pours around; And, like the stores autumnal suns mature, Through wintry rigours unimpaird endure. What is fanatic frenzy, scornd so much, And dreaded more than a contagious touch? I grant it dangerous, and approve your fear, That fire is catching, if you draw too near; But sage observers oft mistake the flame, And give true piety that odious name. To tremble (as the creature of an hour Ought at the view of an almighty power) Before His presence, at whose awful throne All tremble in all worlds, except our own, To supplicate his mercy, love his ways, And prize them above pleasure, wealth, or praise, Though common sense, allowd a casting voice, And free from bias, must approve the choice, Convicts a man fanatic in the extreme, And wild as madness in the worlds esteem. But that disease, when soberly defined, Is the false fire of an oerheated mind; It views the truth with a distorted eye, And either warps or lays it useless by; Tis narrow, selfish, arrogant, and draws Its sordid nourishment from mans applause; And, while at heart sin unrelinquishd lies, Presumes itself chief favourite of the skies. Tis such a light as putrefaction breeds In fly-blown flesh, whereon the maggot feeds, Shines in the dark, but, usherd into day, The stench remains, the lustre dies away. True bliss, if man may reach it, is composed Of hearts in union mutually disclosed; And, farewell else all hope of pure delight, Those hearts should be reclaimd, renewd, upright. Bad men, profaning friendships hallowd name, Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame. A dark confederacy against the laws Of virtue, and religions glorious cause. They build each other up with dreadful skill, As bastions set point-blank against Gods will; Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt, Deeply resolved to shut a Saviour out; Call legions up from hell to back the deed; And, cursed with conquest, finally succeed. But souls, that carry on a blest exchange Of joys they meet with in their heavenly range, And with a fearless confidence make known The sorrows sympathy esteems its own, Daily derive increasing light and force From such communion in their pleasant course, Feel less the journeys roughness and its length, Meet their opposers with united strength, And, one in heart, in interest, and design, Gird up each other to the race divine. But Conversation, choose what theme we may, And chiefly when religion leads the way, Should flow, like waters after summer showers, Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers. The Christian, in whose soul, though now distressd, Lives the dear thought of joys he once possessd, When all his glowing language issued forth With Gods deep stamp upon its current worth, Will speak without disguise, and must impart, Sad as it is, his undissembling heart, Abhors constraint, and dares not feign a zeal, Or seem to boast a fire, he does not feel. The song of Sion is a tasteless thing, Unless, when rising on a joyful wing, The soul can mix with the celestial bands, And give the strain the compass it demands. Strange tidings these to tell a world, who treat All but their own experience as deceit! Will they believe, though credulous enough To swallow much upon much weaker proof, That there are blest inhabitants of earth, Partakers of a new ethereal birth, Their hopes, desires, and purposes estranged From things terrestrial, and divinely changed, Their very language of a kind that speaks The souls sure interest in the good she seeks, Who deal with Scripture, its importance felt, As Tully with philosophy once dealt, And, in the silent watches of the night, And through the scenes of toil-renewing light, The social walk, or solitary ride, Keep still the dear companion at their side? Noshame upon a self-disgracing age, Gods work may serve an ape upon a stage With such a jest as filld with hellish glee Certain invisibles as shrewd as he; But veneration or respect finds none, Save from the subjects of that work alone. The World grown old, her deep discernment shews, Claps spectacles on her sagacious nose, Peruses closely the true Christians face, And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace; Usurps Gods office, lays his bosom bare, And finds hypocrisy close lurking there; And, serving God herself through mere constraint, Concludes his unfeignd love of him a feint. And yet, God knows, look human nature through (And in due time the world shall know it too), That since the flowers of Eden felt the blast, That after mans defection laid all waste, Sincerity towards the heart-searching God Has made the new-born creature her abode, Nor shall be found in unregenerate souls Till the last fire burn all between the poles. Sincerity! why tis his only pride, Weak and imperfect in all grace beside, He knows that God demands his heart entire, And gives him all his just demands require. Without it, his pretensions were as vain As, having it, he deems the worlds disdain; That great defect would cost him not alone Mans favourable judgment, but his own; His birthright shaken, and no longer clear Than while his conduct proves his heart sincere. Retort the charge, and let the world be told She boasts a confidence she does not hold; That, conscious of her crimes, she feels instead A cold misgiving and a killing dread: That while in health the ground of her support Is madly to forget that life is short; That sick she trembles, knowing she must die, Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie; That while she dotes and dreams that she believes, She mocks her Maker and herself deceives, Her utmost reach, historical assent, The doctrines warpd to what they never meant; That truth itself is in her head as dull And useless as a candle in a skull, And all her love of God a groundless claim, A trick upon the canvas, painted flame. Tell her again, the sneer upon her face, And all her censures of the work of grace, Are insincere, meant only to conceal A dread she would not, yet is forced to feel; That in her heart the Christian she reveres, And, while she seems to scorn him, only fears. A poet does not work by square or line, As smiths and joiners perfect a design; At least we moderns, our attention less, Beyond the example of our sires digress, And claim a right to scamper and run wide, Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide. The world and I fortuitously met; I owed a trifle, and have paid the debt; She did me wrong, I recompensed the deed, And, having struck the balance, now proceed. Perhaps, however, as some years have passd Since she and I conversed together last, And I have lived recluse in rural shades, Which seldom a distinct report pervades, Great changes and new manners have occurrd, And blest reforms that I have never heard, And she may now be as discreet and wise, As once absurd in all discerning eyes. Sobriety perhaps may now be found Where once intoxication pressd the ground; The subtle and injurious may be just, And he grown chaste that was the slave of lust; Arts once esteemd may be with shame dismissd: Charity may relax the misers fist; The gamester may have cast his cards away, Forgot to curse, and only kneel to pray. It has indeed been told me (with what weight, How credibly, tis hard for me to state), That fables old, that seemd for ever mute, Revived, are hastening into fresh repute, And gods and goddesses, discarded long, Like useless lumber or a strollers song, Are bringing into vogue their heathen train, And Jupiter bids fair to rule again; That certain feasts are instituted now, Where Venus hears the lovers tender vow; That all Olympus through the country roves, To consecrate our few remaining groves, And Echo learns politely to repeat The praise of names for ages obsolete; That, having proved the weakness, it should seem, Of revelations ineffectual beam, To bring the passions under sober sway, And give the moral springs their proper play, They mean to try what may at last be done, By stout substantial gods of wood and stone, And whether Roman rites may not produce The virtues of old Rome for English use. May such success attend the pious plan, May Mercury once more embellish man. Grace him again with long-forgotten arts, Reclaim his taste, and brighten up his parts, Make him athletic as in days of old, Learnd at the bar, in the palaestra bold, Divest the rougher sex of female airs, And teach the softer not to copy theirs: The change shall please, nor shall it matter aught, Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought. Tis time, however, if the case stands thus, For us plain folks, and all who side with us, To build our altar, confident and bold, And say, as stern Elijah said of old, The strife now stands upon a fair award, If Israels Lord be God, then serve the Lord: If he be silent, faith is all a whim, Then Baal is the God, and worship him. Digression is so much in modern use, Thought is so rare, and fancy so profuse, Some never seem so wide of their intent, As when returning to the theme they meant; As mendicants, whose business is to roam, Make every parish but their own their home. Though such continual zig-zags in a book, Such drunken reelings have an awkward look, And I had rather creep to what is true, Than rove and stagger with no mark in view; Yet to consult a little, seemd no crime, The freakish humour of the present time: But now to gather up what seems dispersed, And touch the subject I designd at first, May prove, though much beside the rules of art, Best for the public, and my wisest part. And first, let no man charge me, that I mean To clothe in sable every social scene, And give good company a face severe, As if they met around a fathers bier; For tell some men that, pleasure all their bent, And laughter all their work, is life misspent, Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply, Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry. To find the medium asks some share of wit, And therefore tis a mark fools never hit. But though lifes valley be a vale of tears, A brighter scene beyond that vale appears, Whose glory, with a light that never fades, Shoots between scatterd rocks and opening shades, And, while it shews the land the soul desires, The language of the land she seeks inspires. Thus touchd, the tongue receives a sacred cure Of all that was absurd, profane, impure; Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech Pursues the course that truth and nature teach; No longer labours merely to produce The pomp of sound, or tinkle without use: Whereer it winds, the salutary stream, Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme, While all the happy man possessd before, The gift of nature, or the classic store, Is made subservient to the grand design, For which Heaven formd the faculty divine. So, should an idiot, while at large he strays, Find the sweet lyre on which an artist plays, With rash and awkward force the chords he shakes, And grins with wonder at the jar he makes; But let the wise and well-instructed hand Once take the shell beneath his just command, In gentle sounds it seems as it complaind Of the rude injuries it late sustaind, Till, tuned at length to some immortal song, It sounds Jehovahs name, and pours his praise along.