Page:The poetical works of William Cowper (IA poeticalworksof00cowp).pdf/150

66 '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 tumbril brings him home, Unmissed but by his dogs and by his groom. Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place, Lights of the world, and stars of human race — But if eccentric ye forsake your sphere, Prodigious, ominous, and viewed with fear. The comets 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 wand'rer 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, Quav'ring and semiquav'ring care away. The full concerto swells upon your ear; All elbows shake. Look in, and you would swear The Babylonian tyrant with a nod Had summoned them to serve his golden God. So well that thought the employment seems to suit, Psalt'ry and sackbut, dulcimer, and flute. Oh fie! 'Tis evangelical and pure, Observe each face, how sober and demure, Extasy sets her stamp on ev'ry mien, Chins fall'n, and not an eye-ball to be seen. Still I insist, though music heretofore Has charmed me much, not ev'n Occiduus more, Love, joy and peace make harmony, more meet For sabbath evenings, and perhaps as sweet. Will not the sickliest sheep of ev'ry flock,