And measure of th' offence, rebukes a deed Less impious than absurd, and owing more When wand'ring Charles, who meant to be the third, 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 The theatre, too small, shall suffocate Its squeez'd contents, and more than it admits 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 call'd the world to worship on the banks Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. Still sacred, and preserves with pious care. -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 '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 state? No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No. That finds out ev'ry crevice of the head 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 poet's work; But, poets having lavishly long since The task now falls into the public hand; If not the virtues, yet the worth, of brutes. May stand between an animal and woe, 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 prophets' 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 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 But, when a poet, or when one like me, |