Like his to shed illuminating rays
On every scene and subject it surveys,-
Thus graced, the man asserts a poet's name,
And the world cheerfully admits the claim.
Pity Religion has so seldom found

A skilful guide into poetic ground!

The flowers would spring where'er she deigned to stray,

And every muse attend her in her way.

Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend,

And many a compliment politely penned,
But unattired in that becoming vest
Religion weaves for her, and half undressed,
Stands in the desert shivering and forlorn,
A wintry figure, like a withered thorn.
The shelves are full, all other themes are sped,
Hackneyed and worn to the last flimsy thread;
Satire has long since done his best, and curst
And loathsome Ribaldry has done his worst ;
Fancy has sported all her powers away
In tales, in trifles, and in children's play;
And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true,
Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new.
'Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire,

Touched with a coal from heaven, assume the lyre,
And tell the world, still kindling as he sung,
With more than mortal music on his tongue,
That He who died below, and reigns above,
Inspires the song, and that his name is Love.
For, after all, if merely to beguile

By flowing numbers and a flowery style
The tædium that the lazy rich endure,

Which now and then sweet poetry may cure,

Or if to see the name of idol self

Stamped on the well-bound quarto, grace the shelf,
To float a bubble on the breath of fame,

Prompt his endeavour and engage his aim,

Debased to servile purposes of pride,

How are the powers of genius misapplied!
The gift whose office is the Giver's praise,

To trace Him in His word, His works, His ways,
Then spread the rich discovery, and invite
Mankind to share in the divine delight,
Distorted from its use and just design,
To make the pitiful possessor shine,
To purchase at the fool-frequented fair
Of Vanity, a wreath for self to wear,
Is profanation of the basest kind,
Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind.

720

730

740

750

A. Hail Sternhold then, and Hopkins hail! B. Amen.

If flattery, folly, lust employ the pen,

If acrimony, slander and abuse,

Give it a charge to blacken and traduce;

761

Though Butler's wit, Pope's numbers, Prior's ease,
With all that fancy can invent to please,
Adorn the polished periods as they fall,
One madrigal of theirs is worth them all.

A. 'Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe,
To dash the pen through all that you proscribe.

B. No matter;-we could shift when they were not; 770 And should, no doubt, if they were all forgot.

THE PROGRESS OF ERROR.

Si quid loquar audiendum.-HOR. lib. iv. od. 2.

SING, Muse (if such a theme, so dark, so long,
May find a Muse to grace it with a song),
By what unseen and unsuspected arts
The serpent Error twines round human hearts;
Tell where she lurks, beneath what flowery shades
That not a glimpse of genuine light pervades,
The poisonous, black, insinuating worm
Successfully conceals her loathsome form.
Take, if ye can, ye careless and supine,
Counsel and caution from a voice like mine!
Truths that the theorist could never reach,
And observation taught me, I would teach.

Not all, whose eloquence the fancy fills,
Musical as the chime of tinkling rills,
Weak to perform, though mighty to pretend,
Can trace her mazy windings to their end,
Discern the fraud beneath the specious lure,
Prevent the danger, or prescribe the cure.
The clear harangue, and cold as it is clear,
Falls soporific on the listless ear;

Like quicksilver, the rhetoric they display
Shines as it runs, but, grasped at, slips away.

Placed for his trial on this bustling stage,
From thoughtless youth to ruminating age,
Free in his will to choose or to refuse,
Man may improve the crisis, or abuse;
Else, on the fatalist's unrighteous plan,

Say, to what bar amenable were man?

With nought in charge, he could betray no trust,
And, if he fell, would fall because he must;
If love reward him, or if vengeance strike,
His recompense in both unjust alike.
Divine authority within his breast

Brings every thought, word, action, to the test;
Warns him or prompts, approves him or restrains,
As Reason, or as Passion, takes the reins.

Heaven from above, and Conscience from within,
Cry in his startled ear Abstain from sin!"

66

ΙΟ

20

330

40

50

The world around solicits his desire,
And kindles in his soul a treacherous fire;
While, all his purposes and steps to guard,
Peace follows Virtue as its sure reward,
And Pleasure brings as surely in her train
Remorse and Sorrow and vindictive Pain.

Man, thus endued with an elective voice,
Must be supplied with objects of his choice;
Where'er he turns, enjoyment and delight,
Or present or in prospect, meet his sight:
These open on the spot their honeyed store;
Those call him loudly to pursuit of more.
His unexhausted mine, the sordid vice
Avarice shows, and virtue is the price.
Here various motives his ambition raise-

Power, Pomp, and Splendour, and the thirst of praise
There Beauty woos him with expanded arms;
Ev'n Bacchanalian madness has its charms.

Nor these alone, whose pleasures less refined
Might well alarm the most unguarded mind,
Seek to supplant his inexperienced youth,
Or lead him devious from the path of truth;
Hourly allurements on his passions press,
Safe in themselves, but dangerous in the excess.
Hark! how it floats upon the dewy air!
Oh what a dying, dying close was there!
'Tis harmony from yon sequestered bower,
Sweet harmony, that soothes the midnight hour!
Long ere the charioteer of day had run
His morning course, the enchantment was begun
And he shall gild yon mountain's height again,
Ere yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain.

Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent

That Virtue points to? Can a life thus spent
Lead to the bliss she promises the wise,

Detach the soul from earth, and speed her to the skies?

Ye devotees to your adored employ,

Enthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy,

60

70

Love makes the music of the blest above,

Heaven's harmony is universal love;

And earthly sounds, though sweet and well combined,

And lenient as soft opiates to the mind,

80

Leave vice and folly unsubdued behind.

Grey dawn appears; the sportsman and his train

Speckle the bosom of the distant plain;

'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighbouring lairs,—
Save that his scent is less acute than theirs,
For persevering chase, and headlong leaps,
True beagle as the staunchest hound he keeps.
Charged with the folly of his life's mad scene,
He takes offence, and wonders what you mean;
The joy, the danger, and the toil o'erpays→→→

F

90

'Tis exercise, and health, and length of days.
Again impetuous to the field he flies;
Leaps every fence but one, there falls and dies;
Like a slain deer, the tumbrel brings him home,
Unmissed but by his dogs and by his groom.

100

Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place,
Lights of the world, and stars of human race;
But if eccentric ye forsake your sphere,
Prodigies ominous, and viewed with fear;
The comet's baneful influence is a dream;
Yours real and pernicious in the extreme.
What then!- —are appetites and lusts laid down
With the same ease the man puts on his gown?
Will Avarice and Concupiscence give place,
Charmed by the sounds-"Your reverence," or "Your grace?"
No. But his own engagement binds him fast;
Or, if it does not, brands him to the last
What atheists call him-a designing knave,
A mere church juggler, hypocrite, and slave.
Oh laugh, or mourn with me, the rueful jest,
A cassocked huntsman, and a fiddling priest!
He from Italian songsters takes his cue;
Set Paul to music, he shall quote him too.
He takes the field, the master of the pack

Cries "Well done, saint!" and claps him on the back.
Is this the path of sanctity? Is this

To stand a way-mark in the road to bliss?
Himself a wanderer from the narrow way,
His silly sheep, what wonder if they stray?
Go, cast your orders at your bishop's feet,

Send your dishonoured gown to Monmouth Street ;
The sacred function in your hands is made-
Sad sacrilege!-no function, but a trade!
Occiduus is a pastor of renown;

When he has prayed and preached the sabbath down,
With wire and catgut he concludes the day,
Quavering and semiquavering care away.

The full concerto swells upon your ear;

120

All elbows shake. Look in, and you would swear

The Babylonian tyrant with a nod

130

Had summoned them to serve his golden god ;

So well that thought the employment seems to suit,
Psaltery and sackbut, dulcimer and flute.

Oh fie! 'Tis evangelical and pure:

Observe each face, how sober and demure!

Still I insist, though music heretofore

Has charmed me much, (not even Occiduus more,)

Love, joy, and peace make harmony more meet
For Sabbath evenings, and perhaps as sweet.

140

Will not the sickliest sheep of

every flock

Resort to this example as a rock;
There stand and justify the foul abuse
Of Sabbath hours, with plausible excuse?
If apostolic gravity be free

To play the fool on Sundays, why not we?
If he the tinkling harpsichord regards
As inoffensive, what offence in cards?
Strike up the fiddles! let us all be gay!
Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play.

O Italy! thy Sabbaths will be soon

Our Sabbaths, closed with mummery and buffoon.
Preaching and pranks will share the motley scene,
Ours parcelled out, as thine have ever been,
God's worship and the mountebank between.
What says the prophet? Let that day be blest
With holiness and consecrated rest.

Pastime and business both it should exclude,
And bar the door the moment they intrude;

150

160

Nobly distinguished above all the six

By deeds in which the world must never mix.

Hear him again. He calls it a delight,

A day of luxury, observed aright,

When the glad soul is made heaven's welcome guest,
Sits banqueting, and God provides the feast.
But triflers are engaged and cannot come ;
Their answer to the call is-Not at home.

Oh the dear pleasures of the velvet plain !
The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again!
Cards with what rapture, and the polished die,
The yawning chasm of indolence supply!
Then to the dance, and make the sober moon
Witness of joys that shun the sight of noon.
Blame, cynic, if you can, quadrille or ball,
The snug close party, or the splendid hall,

170

Where Night, down-stooping from her ebon throne,
Views constellations brighter than her own.

'Tis innocent and harmless, and refined,

180

The balm of care, elysium of the mind.
Innocent! Oh, if venerable Time
Slain at the foot of Pleasure be no crime,
Then, with his silver beard and magic wand,
Let Comus rise Archbishop of the land;
Let him your rubric and your feasts prescribe,
Grand Metropolitan of all the tribe.

Of manners rough, and coarse athletic cast,
The rank debauch suits Clodio's filthy taste.
Rufillus, exquisitely formed by rule,
Not of the moral but the dancing school,
Wonders at Clodio's follies, in a tone
As tragical as others at his own.

He cannot drink five bottles, bilk the score,
Then kill a constable, and drink five more;

190