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Remember Handel ? Who that was not born
Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets,
Or can, the more than Homer of his age ?
Yes—we remember him ; and while we praise
A talent so divine, remember too
That His most holy book from whom it came
Was never meant, was never us'd before,
To buckram out the mein'ry of a man.
But hush !-the muse perhaps is too severe,
And with a gravity beyond the size
And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed
Less impious than absurd, and owing more.
To want of judgment than to wrong design,
So in the chapel of old Ely House,
When wand'ring Charles, who meant to be the
Had Aled from William, and the news was fresh,
The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce,
And eke did rear right merrily, two staves,
Sung to the praise and glory of King George.
- Man praises man, and Garrick's mem'ry next,
When time hath somewhat mellow'd it, and made
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
In pilgrimage to bow before his thrine.
The theatre, too small, shall suffocate
Its squeez’d contents, and more than it admits
Shall sígh at their exclusion, 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 a&t.
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 song. Ah, pleasant proof!
That piety has ftill in human hearts
Some place, a spark or two not yet extina.
The mulb'ry-tree was hung with blooming
The mulb'ry-tree stood center of the dance ;
The mulb'ry-tree was hymn’d with dulcet airs ;
And from his touchwood trunk, the mulb’ry-tree
Supplied fuch relies, as devotion holds
Still sacred, and preserves with pious care.
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 slow-moving pageant comes.
Some thout him, and some hang upon his ear,
To gaze in's eyes, and bless him. Maidens wave
Their 'kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy;
While others, not fo fatisfied, 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 falvation ? No., ...
Inchanting novelty, that moon at full,
That finds out ey’ry crevice of the head
That is not found and perfe&, hath in theirs
Wrought this disturbance.' But the wane is near,
And his own cattle must sulliçe 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, '
The talk 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, refleding.clear,
If not the virtues, yet the worth of brutes.
And I am recompens’d, and deem the toils
Of poetry not lof, 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 fung, .
Whose fire.was kindled at the prophets' lamp,
The time of rest, the promis'd fabbath 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,
Is merely as the working of a sea .
Before a calm, that rocks itself to reft :
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 blafted 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 lofs.
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 spur he feels
To give it praise proportion's to its worth,.'
That not tattempt it, arduous as he deems
The labor, were a task. more arduous ftill."'.
Oh scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, Scenes of accomplish'd bliss! which who can see Though but in distant profpea, and not feel His soul refresh'd with foretaste of the joy? Rivers of gladness water all the earth, : ;*," And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach Of barrenness 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 curse repeal'd.' The various season's woven into one, And that one season an eternal spring,
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