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 (Tho' grac'd with polish'd manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. Sacred to neatness and repose-th' 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 privileg'd; and he that hunts Disturbs th' economy of nature's realm, Who, when she form'd, design'd them an abode. As God was free to form them at the first, Who, in his sov'reign 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 defil'd in most By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots, Than cruelty, most dev'lish of them all. And righteous limitation of its act, By which Heav'n moves in pard'ning 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, Will reckon with us roundly for th' 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 their's. Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were giv'n 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 th' expertness of the brute's in their's, Are oft-times vanquish'd and thrown far behind. Some show that nice sagacity of smell, And read with such discernment, in the port That oft we owe our safety to a skill We could not teach, and must despair to learn. Attachment never to be wean'd, or chang'd Can move or warp; and gratitude for small 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 (Oh wonderful effect of music's pow'r!) Messiah's eulogy for Handel's sake! But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve- Much less might serve, when all that we design And give the day to a musician's praise. Or can, the more than Homer of his age? That His most holy book from whom it came But hush!-the muse perhaps is too severe; And, with a gravity beyond the size |