And gods and goddeffes discarded long
Like useless lumber, or a ftroller's fong,
Are bringing into vogue their heathen train,
And Jupiter bids fair to rule again;
That certain feasts are instituted now,
Where Venus hears the lover's tender vow;
That all Olympus through the country roves,
To confecrate our few remaining groves,
And Echo learns politely to repeat
The praise of names for ages obfolete;
That having proved the weakness, it should seem,
Of revelation's ineffectual beam,
To bring the paffions under sober sway,
And give the moral springs their proper play,
They mean to try what may at last be done,
By stout substantial gods of wood and stone,
And whether Roman rites may not produce
The virtues of old Rome for English use.
May much fuccefs attend the pious plan,
May Mercury once more embellish man,
Grace him again with long forgotten arts,
Reclaim his taste, and brighten up his
Make him athletic as in days of old,
Learn'd at the bar, in the palæstra bold,
Diveft the rougher sex of female airs,
And teach the fofter not to copy theirs :
The change shall please, nor fhall it matter aught Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought.
'Tis time, however, if the case stand thus, For us plain folks, and all who fide with us, To build our altar, confident and bold,
And fay as ftern Elijah faid of old,
The strife now ftands upon a fair award,
If Ifrael's Lord be God, then ferve the Lord:
If he be filent, faith is all a whim,
Then Baal is the God, and worship him.
Digreffion is so much in modern use,
Thought is so rare, and fancy fo profuse,
Some never seem so wide of their intent,
As when returning to the theme they meant;
As mendicants, whose business is to roam,
Make every parish but their own their home.
Though fuch continual zigzags in a book,
Such drunken reelings have an awkward look,
And I had rather creep to what is true,
Than rove and stagger with no mark in view;
Yet to confult a little feem'd no crime,
The freakish humour of the present time:
But now to gather up what seems dispersed,
And touch the subject I defign'd at first,
May prove, though much befide the rules of art,
Best for the public, and my wifeft part.
And first, let no man charge me, that I mean
To close in fable every focial scene,
And give good company a face fevere,
As if they met around a father's bier;
For tell some men, that pleasure all their bent,
And laughter all their work, is life mifpent,
Their wisdom burfts into this fage reply,
Then mirth is fin, and we fhould always cry.
To find the medium asks some share of wit,
And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit.
But though life's valley be a vale of tears,
A brighter scene beyond that vale appears,
Whofe glory, with a light that never fades,
Shoots between scatter'd rocks and opening shades,
And while it shows the land the foul defires,
The language of the land fhe feeks inspires.
Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a facred cure
Of all that was abfurd, profane, impure;
Held within modeft bounds, the tide of speech
Pursues the courfe that Truth and Nature teach;
No longer labours merely to produce
The
pomp
of found, or tinkle without use;
Where'er it winds, the falutary stream,
Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme,
While all the happy man poffeff'd before,
The gift of nature, or the claffic ftore,
Is made fubfervient to the grand design,
For which Heaven form'd the faculty divine.
So fhould an idiot, while at large he strays,
Find the sweet lyre on which an artist plays,
With rafh and awkward force the chords he shakes,
And grins with wonder at the jar he makes;
But let the wife and well instructed hand
Once take the shell beneath his just command,
In gentle founds it seems as it complain'd
Of the rude injuries it late sustain'd,
Till tuned at length to fome immortal fong,
It founds Jehovah's name, and pours
along.
ftudiis florens ignobilis otî.
Virg. Geor. lib. 4.
ACKNEY'D in business, wearied at the
Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no more,
But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low,
All wish, or feem to wifh, they could forego;
The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade,
Pants for the refuge of some rural shade,
Where, all his long anxieties forgot
Amid the charms of a fequefter'd spot,
Or recollected only to gild o'er,
And add a smile to what was sweet before,
He may poffefs the joys he thinks he fees,
Lay his old age upon the lap of ease,
Improve the remnant of his wasted span,
And, having lived a trifler, die a man.
Thus confcience pleads her caufe within the breast,
Though long rebell'd againft, not yet fuppreff'd,
And calls a creature form'd for God alone,
For Heaven's high purposes, and not his own,
Calls him away from felfifh ends and aims,
From what debilitates and what inflames,
From cities humming with a restless crowd,
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,
Whose highest praise is that they live in vain,
The dupes of pleasure, or the flaves of gain,
Where works of man are cluster'd clofe around,
And works of God are hardly to be found,
To regions where, in spite of fin and woe,
Traces of Eden are still seen below,
Where mountain, river, foreft, field, and grove,
Remind him of his Maker's power and love.
'Tis well if, look'd for at fo late a day,
In the last scene of such a senseless play,
True wisdom will attend his feeble call,
And grace his action ere the curtain fall.
Souls, that have long despised their heavenly birth,
Their wishes all impregnated with earth,
For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless care
In catching smoke and feeding upon air,
Converfant only with the ways of men,
Rarely redeem the short remaining ten.
Inveterate habits choke the unfruitful heart,
Their fibres penetrate its tenderest part,
And, draining its nutritious powers to feed
Their noxious growth, ftarve every better feed.
Happy, if full of days-but happier far,
If, ere we yet discern life's evening star,
Sick of the service of a world, that feeds
Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds,
We can escape from custom's idiot sway,
To serve the Sovereign we were born to obey.
Then sweet to mufe upon his skill display'd
(Infinite skill) in all that he has made!
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