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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 figh at their exclufion, and return
Ungratified. For there fome 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 folemn ceremonial of the day, And call'd the world to worship on the banks Of Avon, fam'd in fong. Ah, pleasant proof! That piety has still in human hearts Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. The mulb'ry tree was hung with blooming

wreaths ; The mulb'ry tree stood centre of the dance; The mulb'ry tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs ; And from his touchwood trunk, the mulb'ry

tree Supplied such relics, as devotion holds Still sacred, and preserves with pious care.


To gaze

So 'twas an 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 flow-moving pageant comes.
Some thout him, and some hang upon his ear,

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 fav'd

the state ?
No. ` Doth he purpose its falvation ? No.
Inchanting novelty, that moon at full,
That finds out ev'ry crevice of the head
That is not found 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 poet's work ;
But poets having lavishly long since
Exhausted all materials of the art,


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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 recompens'd, and deem the toils
Of poetry not loft, 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 Heav'n has heard for ages, have an end
Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung,
Whofe fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp,
The time of reft, the promis'd fabbath comes.
Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh
Fulfilld 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 fin hath mov’d him, and his wrath is hot,
Shall visit earth in mercy; shall defcend
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 music, and not suffer loss. But when a poet, or when one like me, Happy to rove among poetic flow'rs, Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last On some fair theme, fome theme divinely fair, Such is the impulse and the fpur he feels To give it praise proportion'd to its worth, That not t' attempt it, arduous as he deems The labour, were a talk more arduous still.

Oh scenes surpasting fable, and yet true, Scenes of accomplish'd bliss ! which who can fee Though but in diftant prospect, and not feel His foul refresh'd with foretaste of the joy ? Rivers of gladness water all the earth, And clothe all climes with beauty ; the reproach Of barrennefs 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 curfe 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

Antipathies are none. No foe to man
Lurks in the serpent now; the mother fees,
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 driv'n away :
The breath of heav'n has chas'd 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 fong 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 diftant mountains catch the flying joy, Till nation after nation taught the strain, Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. Behold the measure of the promise fillid; See Salem built, the labour of a God!


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