The Poetical Works of William Cowper (Benham)/The Task/Book 6

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds; And, as the mind is pitch'd, the ear is pleas'd With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave: Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies. How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at intervals upon the ear In cadence sweet, now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where mem'ry slept. Wherever I have heard A kindred melody, the scene recurs, And with it all its pleasures and its pains. Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, That in a few short moments I retrace (As in a map the voyager his course) The windings of my way through many years. Short as in retrospect the journey seems, It seem'd not always short; the rugged path, And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, Mov'd many a sigh at its disheart'ning length. Yet, feeling present evils, while the past Faintly impress the mind, or not at all, How readily we wish time spent revok'd, That we might try the ground again, where once (Through inexperience, as we now perceive) We miss'd that happiness we might have found! Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend! A father, whose authority in show When most severe, and must'ring all its force, Was but the graver countenance of love; Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might low'r, And utter now and then an awful voice, But had a blessing in its darkest frown, Threat'ning at once and nourishing the plant. We lov'd, but not enough, the gentle hand That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allur'd By ev'ry gilded folly, we renounc'd His shelt'ring side, and wilfully forewent That converse which we now in vain regret. How gladly would the man recall to life The boy's neglected sire! a mother too, That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, Might he demand them at the gates of death. Sorrow has, since they went, subdu'd and tam'd The playful humour; he could now endure, (Himself grown sober in the vale of tears) And feel a parent's presence no restraint. But not to understand a treasure's worth Till time has stol'n away the slighted good, Is cause of half the poverty we feel, And makes the world the wilderness it is. The few that pray at all pray oft amiss, And, seeking grace t' improve the prize they hold, Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. The night was winter in his roughest mood; The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon Upon the southern side of the slant hills, And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The season smiles, resigning all its rage. And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling splendour of the scene below. Again the harmony comes o'er the vale; And through the trees I view th' embattled tow'r Whence all the music. I again perceive The soothing influence of the wafted strains, And settle in soft musings as I tread The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. The roof, though moveable through all its length As the wind sways it, has yet well suffic'd, And, intercepting in their silent fall The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. The redbreast warbles still, but is content With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd: Pleas'd with his solitude, and flitting light From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence. Meditation here May think down hours to moments. Here the heart May give an useful lesson to the head, And learning wiser grow without his books. Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have oft-times no connexion. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, The mere materials with which wisdom builds, Till smooth'd and squar'd and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems t' enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. Books are not seldom talismans and spells, By which the magic art of shrewder wits Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd.         Some to the fascination of a name Surrender judgment, hood-wink'd. Some the style Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds Of error leads them by a tune entranc'd. While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear The insupportable fatigue of thought, And swallowing, therefore, without pause or choice, The total grist unsifted, husks and all. But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs, And lanes in which the primrose ere her time Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth, Not shy, as in the world, and to be won By slow solicitation, seize at once The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. What prodigies can pow'r divine perform More grand than it produces year by year, And all in sight of inattentive man? Familiar with th' effect we slight the cause, And, in the constancy of nature's course, The regular return of genial months, And renovation of a faded world, See nought to wonder at. Should God again, As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race Of the undeviating and punctual sun, How would the world admire! but speaks it less An agency divine, to make him know His moment when to sink and when to rise, Age after age, than to arrest his course? All we behold is miracle; but, seen So duly, all is miracle in vain. Where now the vital energy that mov'd, While summer was, the pure and subtile lymph Through th' imperceptible meand'ring veins Of leaf and flow'r? It sleeps; and th' icy touch Of unprolific winter has impress'd A cold stagnation on th' intestine tide. But let the months go round, a few short months, And all shall be restor'd. These naked shoots, Barren as lances, among which the wind Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes, Shall put their graceful foliage on again, And, more aspiring, and with ampler spread, Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost. Then, each in its peculiar honours clad, Shall publish, even to the distant eye, Its family and tribe. Laburnum, rich In streaming gold; syringa, iv'ry pure; The scentless and the scented rose; this red And of an humbler growth, the other tall, And throwing up into the darkest gloom Of neighb'ring cypress, or more sable yew, Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf That the wind severs from the broken wave; The lilac, various in array, now white, Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set With purple spikes pyramidal, as if, Studious of ornament, yet unresolv'd         Which hue she most approv'd, she chose them all; Copious of flow'rs the woodbine, pale and wan, But well compensating her sickly looks With never-cloying odours, early and late; Hypericum, all bloom, so thick a swarm Of flow'rs, like flies clothing her slender rods, That scarce a leaf appears, mezereon, too, Though leafless, well attir'd, and thick beset With blushing wreaths, investing ev'ry spray; Althæa with the purple eye; the broom, Yellow and bright, as bullion unalloy'd, Her blossoms; and, luxuriant above all, The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd leaf Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more The bright profusion of her scatter'd stars.— These have been, and these shall be in their day; And all this uniform, uncolour'd scene, Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load, And flush into variety again. From dearth to plenty, and from death to life, Is Nature's progress when she lectures man In heav'nly truth; evincing, as she makes The grand transition, that there lives and works A soul in all things, and that soul is God. The beauties of the wilderness are his, That make so gay the solitary place Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms That cultivation glories in, are his. He sets the bright procession on its way, And marshals all the order of the year; He marks the bounds which winter may not pass, And blunts his pointed fury; in its case, Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ, Uninjur'd, with inimitable art; And, ere one flow'ry season fades and dies, Designs the blooming wonders of the next. Some say that, in the origin of things, When all creation started into birth, The infant elements receiv'd a law, From which they swerve not since. That under force Of that controlling ordinance they move, And need not his immediate hand, who first Prescrib'd their course, to regulate it now. Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God Th' incumbrance of his own concerns, and spare The great Artificer of all that moves The stress of a continual act, the pain Of unremitted vigilance and care, As too laborious and severe a task. So man, the moth, is not afraid, it seems, To span omnipotence, and measure might That knows no measure, by the scanty rule And standard of his own, that is to-day, And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down! But how should matter occupy a charge Dull as it is, and satisfy a law So vast in its demands, unless impell'd To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force, And under pressure of some conscious cause? The Lord of all, himself through all diffus'd, Sustains, and is the life of all that lives. Nature is but a name for an effect, Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire By which the mighty process is maintain'd, Who sleeps not, is not weary; in whose sight Slow circling ages are as transient days; Whose work is without labour; whose designs No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts; And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. Him blind antiquity profan'd, not serv'd, With self-taught rites, and under various names, Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, And Flora, and Vertumnus; peopling earth With tutelary goddesses and gods That were not; and commending, as they would, To each some province, garden, field, or grove. But all are under one. One spirit — His Who wore the plaited thorns with bleeding brows — Rules universal nature. Not a flow'r         But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. Happy who walks with him! whom what he finds Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flow'r, Or what he views of beautiful or grand In nature, from the broad majestic oak To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, Prompts with remembrance of a present God! His presence, who made all so fair, perceiv'd, Makes all still fairer. As with him no scene Is dreary, so with him all seasons please. Though winter had been none, had man been true, And earth be punish'd for its tenant's sake, Yet not in vengeance; as this smiling sky, So soon succeeding such an angry night, And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream Recov'ring fast its liquid music, prove. Who then, that has a mind well strung and tun'd To contemplation, and within his reach A scene so friendly to his fav'rite task, Would waste attention at the chequer'd board, His host of wooden warriors to and fro Marching and counter-marching, with an eye As fixt as marble, with a forehead ridg'd And furrow'd into storms, and with a hand Trembling, as if eternity were hung In balance on his conduct of a pin? — Nor envies he aught more their idle sport, Who pant with application misapplied To trivial toys, and, pushing iv'ry balls Across a velvet level, feel a joy Akin to rapture when the bauble finds Its destin'd goal, of difficult access. — Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noon To miss, the mercer's plague, from shop to shop Wand'ring, and litt'ring with unfolded silks The polish'd counter, and approving none, Or promising with smiles to call again. — Nor him, who by his vanity seduc'd, And sooth'd into a dream that he discerns The diff'rence of a Guido from a daub, Frequents the crowded auction: station'd there As duly as the Langford of the show, With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand, And tongue accomplish'd in the fulsome cant And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease; Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls He notes it in his book, then raps his box, Swears 'tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate That he has let it pass — but never bids! Here, unmolested, through whatever sign The sun proceeds, I wander. Neither mist, Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me, Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy. Ev'n in the spring and play-time of the year, That calls th' unwonted villager abroad With all her little ones, a sportive train, To gather king-cups in the yellow mead, And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook, These shades are all my own. The tim'rous hare, Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, Scarce shuns me; and the stock-dove, unalarm'd, Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends His long love-ditty for my near approach. Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm That age or injury has hollow'd deep, Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves, He has outslept the winter, ventures forth To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun, The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play: He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, Ascends the neighb'ring beech; there whisks his brush, And perks his ears, and stamps and cries aloud, With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm, And anger insignificantly fierce. The heart is hard in nature, and unfit For human fellowship, as being void Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike To love and friendship both, that is not pleas'd With sight of animals enjoying life, Nor feels their happiness augment his own. The bounding fawn, that darts across the glade When none pursues, through mere delight of heart, And spirits buoyant with excess of glee; The horse as wanton, and almost as fleet, That skims the spacious meadow at full speed, Then stops and snorts, and, throwing high his heels, Starts to the voluntary race again; The very kine that gambol at high noon, The total herd receiving first from one That leads the dance a summons to be gay, Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth Their efforts, yet resolv'd with one consent To give such act and utt'rance as they may To ecstasy too big to be suppress'd — These, and a thousand images of bliss, With which kind nature graces ev'ry scene Where cruel man defeats not her design, Impart to the benevolent, who wish All that are capable of pleasure pleas'd, A far superior happiness to theirs, The comfort of a reasonable joy. Man scarce had ris'n, obedient to his call Who form'd him from the dust, his future grave, When he was crown'd as never king was since. God set the diadem upon his head, And angel choirs attended. Wond'ring stood The new-made monarch, while before him pass'd, All happy, and all perfect in their kind, The creatures summon'd from their various haunts To see their sov'reign, and confess his sway. Vast was his empire, absolute his pow'r, Or bounded only by a law, whose force 'Twas his sublimest privilege to feel And own — the law of universal love. He rul'd with meekness, they obey'd with joy; No cruel purpose lurk'd within his heart, And no distrust of his intent in theirs. So Eden was a scene of harmless sport, Where kindness on his part who rul'd the whole Begat a tranquil confidence in all, And fear as yet was not, nor cause for fear. But sin marr'd all; and the revolt of man, That source of evils not exhausted yet, Was punish'd with revolt of his from him. Garden of God, how terrible the change Thy groves and lawns then witness'd! Ev'ry heart, Each animal of ev'ry name, conceiv'd A jealousy and an instinctive fear, And, conscious of some danger, either fled Precipitate the loath'd abode of man, Or growl'd defiance in such angry sort, As taught him, too, to tremble in his turn. Thus harmony and family accord Were driv'n from Paradise; and in that hour The seeds of cruelty, that since have swell'd To such gigantic and enormous growth, Were sown in human nature's fruitful soil. Hence date the persecution and the pain That man inflicts on all inferior kinds, Regardless of their plaints. To make him sport, To gratify the frenzy of his wrath, Or his base gluttony, are causes good And just, in his account, why bird and beast Should suffer torture, and the streams be dyed With blood of their inhabitants impal'd. Earth groans beneath the burden of a war Wag'd with defenceless innocence, while he, Not satisfied to prey on all around, Adds tenfold bitterness to death by pangs Needless, and first torments ere he devours. Now happiest they that occupy the scenes The most remote from his abhorr'd resort, Whom once, as delegate of God on earth, They fear'd, and, as his perfect image, lov'd.         The wilderness is their's, with all its caves, Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains, Unvisited by man. There they are free, And howl and roar as likes them, uncontroll'd; Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play. Woe to the tyrant, if he dare intrude Within the confines of their wild domain! The lion tells him — I am monarch here! And, if he spare him, spares him on the terms Of royal mercy, and through gen'rous scorn To rend a victim trembling at his foot. In measure, as by force of instinct drawn, Or by necessity constrain'd, they live Dependent upon man; those in his fields, These at his crib, and some beneath his roof. They prove too often at how dear a rate He sells protection. — Witness at his foot, The spaniel dying, for some venial fault, Under dissection of the knotted scourge — Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yells Driv'n to the slaughter, goaded, as he runs, To madness; while the savage at his heels Laughs at the frantic suff'rer's fury, spent Upon the guiltless passenger o'erthrown. He, too, is witness, noblest of the train That wait on man, the flight-performing horse: With unsuspecting readiness he takes His murd'rer on his back, and, push'd all day, With bleeding sides and flanks that heave for life, To the far-distant goal, arrives and dies. So little mercy shows who needs so much! Does law, so jealous in the cause of man, Denounce no doom on the delinquent? — None. He lives, and o'er his brimming beaker boasts (As if barbarity were high desert) Th' inglorious feat, and, clamorous in praise Of the poor brute, seems wisely to suppose The honours of his matchless horse his own! But many a crime, deem'd innocent on earth, Is register'd in heav'n; and these, no doubt, Have each their record, with a curse annex'd. Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, But God will never. When he charg'd the Jew T' assist his foe's down-fallen beast to rise; And when the bush-exploring boy, that seiz'd The young, to let the parent bird go free; Prov'd he not plainly that his meaner works Are yet his care, and have an int'rest all, All, in the universal Father's love? On Noah, and in him on all mankind, The charter was conferr'd, by which we hold The flesh of animals in fee, and claim O'er all we feed on pow'r of life and death. But read the instrument, and mark it well: Th' oppression of a tyrannous control Can find no warrant there. Feed then, and yield Thanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin, Feed on the slain, but spare the living brute! The Governor of all, himself to all So bountiful, in whose attentive ear The unfledg'd raven and the lion's whelp Plead not in vain for pity on the pangs Of hunger unassuag'd, has interpos'd, Not seldom, his avenging arm, to smite Th' injurious trampler upon nature's law, That claims forbearance even for a brute. He hates the hardness of a Balaam's heart; And, prophet as he was, he might not strike The blameless animal, without rebuke, On which he rode. Her opportune offence Sav'd him, or th' unrelenting seer had died. He sees that human equity is slack To interfere, though in so just a cause; And makes the task his own. Inspiring dumb And helpless victims with a sense so keen Of injury, with such knowledge of their strength, And such sagacity to take revenge, That oft the beast has seem'd to judge the man. An ancient, not a legendary tale, By one of sound intelligence rehears'd,         (If such who plead for Providence may seem In modern eyes) shall make the doctrine clear. —  Where England, stretch'd towards the setting sun, Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave, Dwelt young Misagathus; a scorner he Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent, Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce. He journey'd; and his chance was as he went To join a trav'ller, of far different note — Evander, fam'd for piety, for years Deserving honour, but for wisdom more. Fame had not left the venerable man A stranger to the manners of the youth, Whose face, too, was familiar to his view. Their way was on the margin of the land, O'er the green summit of the rocks, whose base Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high. The charity that warm'd his heart was mov'd At sight of the man monster. With a smile Gentle, and affable, and full of grace, As fearful of offending whom he wish'd Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths Not harshly thunder'd forth or rudely press'd, But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet. "And dost thou dream," th' impenetrable man Exclaim'd, "that me the lullabies of age, And fantasies of dotards, such as thou, Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in me? Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave Need no such aids as superstition lends         To steel their hearts against the dread of death." He spoke, and to the precipice at hand Push'd with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks, And the blood thrills and curdles, at the thought Of such a gulph as he design'd his grave. But, though the felon on his back could dare The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed Declin'd the death, and wheeling swiftly round, Or e'er his hoof had press'd the crumbling verge, Baffled his rider, sav'd against his will! The frenzy of the brain may be redress'd By med'cine well applied, but without grace The heart's insanity admits no cure. Enrag'd the more, by what might have reform'd His horrible intent, again he sought Destruction, with a zeal to be destroy'd, With sounding whip, and rowels dyed in blood. But still in vain. The Providence, that meant A longer date to the far nobler beast, Spar'd yet again th' ignobler, for his sake. And now, his prowess prov'd, and his sincere Incurable obduracy evinc'd, His rage grew cool; and, pleas'd perhaps t' have earn'd So cheaply the renown of that attempt, With looks of some complacence he resum'd His road, deriding much the blank amaze Of good Evander, still where he was left Fixt motionless, and petrified with dread. So on they far'd. Discourse on other themes Ensuing, seem'd t' obliterate the past; And, tamer far for so much fury shown, (As in the course of rash and fiery men) The rude companion smil'd, as if transform'd. But 'twas a transient calm. A storm was near, An unsuspected storm. His hour was come. The impious challenger of Pow'r divine Was now to learn that Heav'n, tho' slow to wrath, Is never with impunity defied. His horse, as he had caught his master's mood, Snorting, and starting into sudden rage, Unbidden, and not now to be controlled, Rush'd to the cliff, and, having reach'd it, stood. At once the shock unseated him: he flew Sheer o'er the craggy barrier; and, immers'd Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not, The death he had deserv'd — and died alone! So God wrought double justice; made the fool The victim of his own tremendous choice, And taught a brute the way to safe revenge. I would not enter on my list of friends (Tho' grac'd with polish'd manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. An inadvertent step may crush the snail That crawls at ev'ning in the public path; But he that has humanity, forewarn'd, Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, And charg'd perhaps with venom, that intrudes, A visitor unwelcome, into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose — th' alcove, The chamber, or refectory — may die: A necessary act incurs no blame. Not so when, held within their proper bounds, And guiltless of offence, they range the air, Or take their pastime in the spacious field: There they are privileg'd; and he that hunts Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, Disturbs th' economy of nature's realm, Who, when she form'd, design'd them an abode. The sum is this. — If man's convenience, health, Or safety, interfere, his rights and claims Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. Else they are all — the meanest things that are — As free to live, and to enjoy that life, As God was free to form them at the first, Who, in his sov'reign wisdom, made them all. Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons To love it too. The spring time of our years Is soon dishonour'd and defil'd in most By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots, If unrestrain'd, into luxuriant growth, Than cruelty, most devilish of them all. Mercy to him that shows it is the rule And righteous limitation of its act, By which Heav'n moves in pard'ning guilty man; And he that shows none, being ripe in years, And conscious of the outrage he commits, Shall seek it, and not find it, in his turn. Distinguish'd much by reason, and still more By our capacity of grace divine, From creatures that exist but for our sake, Which, having serv'd us, perish, we are held Accountable; and God, some future day, Will reckon with us roundly for th' abuse Of what he deems no mean or trivial trust. Superior as we are, they yet depend Not more on human help than we on theirs. Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were giv'n         In aid of our defects. In some are found Such teachable and apprehensive parts, That man's attainments in his own concerns, Match'd with th' expertness of the brutes in theirs, Are oft-times vanquish'd and thrown far behind. Some show that nice sagacity of smell, And read with such discernment, in the port And figure of the man, his secret aim, That oft we owe our safety to a skill We could not teach, and must despair to learn. But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop To quadruped instructors, many a good And useful quality, and virtue too, Rarely exemplified among ourselves. Attachment never to be wean'd, or chang'd By any change of fortune; proof alike Against unkindness, absence, and neglect; Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat Can move or warp; and gratitude for small And trivial favours, lasting as the life, And glist'ning even in the dying eye. Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms Wins public honour; and ten thousand sit Patiently present at a sacred song, Commemoration-mad; content to hear (Oh wonderful effect of music's pow'r!) Messiah's eulogy for Handel's sake! But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve — (For, was it less, what heathen would have dar'd To strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath,         And hang it up in honour of a man?) Much less might serve, when all that we design Is but to gratify an itching ear, And give the day to a musician's praise. 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 mem'ry of a man. But hush! — the muse perhaps is too severe; And, with a gravity beyond the size And measure of th' 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 third, Had fled 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 shrine. The theatre, too small, shall suffocate Its squeez'd contents, and more than it admits Shall sigh at their exclusion, and return Ungratified. For there some 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 solemn 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 still in human hearts Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct! The mulberry tree was hung with blooming wreaths; The mulberry tree stood centre of the dance; The mulberry tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs; And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry tree Supplied such relics 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 shout him, and some hang upon his car, To gaze 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 sav'd the state? No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No. Enchanting novelty, that moon at full, That finds out ev'ry crevice of the head That is not sound 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, 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 lost, 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, Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp, The time of rest, the promis'd Sabbath, 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 rest: 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 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, some theme divinely fair, Such is the impulse and the spur he feels To give it praise proportion'd to its worth, That not t' attempt it, arduous as he deems The labour, were a task more arduous still. Oh scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, Scenes of accomplish'd bliss! which who can see, Though but in distant prospect, 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 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 common stream. Antipathies are none. No foe to man Lurks in the serpent now: the mother sees, 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 uncontam'nate blood Holds it due course, nor fears the frost of age. One song 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 distant mountains catch the flying joy; Till, nation after nation taught the strain, Earth rolls the rapturous hosanna round. Behold the measure of the promise fill'd; See Salem built, the labour of a God! Bright as a sun the sacred city shines; All kingdoms and all princes of the earth Flock to that light; the glory of all lands Flows into her; unbounded is her joy, And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there; The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind, And Saba's spicy groves, pay tribute there. Praise is in all her gates: upon her walls, And in her streets, and in her spacious courts, Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there Kneels with the native of the farthest west; And Æthiopia spreads abroad the hand, And worships. Her report has travell'd forth Into all lands. From ev'ry clime they come To see thy beauty and to share thy joy, O Sion! an assembly such as earth Saw never, such as heav'n stoops down to see. Thus heav'n-ward all things tend. For all were once Perfect, and all must be at length restor'd. So God has greatly purpos'd; who would else In his dishonour'd works himself endure Dishonour, and be wrong'd without redress. Haste, then, and wheel away a shatter'd world, Ye slow-revolving seasons! we would see (A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet) A world that does not dread and hate his laws, And suffer for its crime; would learn how fair The creature is that God pronounces good, How pleasant in itself what pleases him. Here ev'ry drop of honey hides a sting, Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flow'rs; And ev'n the joy that haply some poor heart Derives from heav'n, pure as the fountain is, Is sullied in the stream, taking a taint From touch of human lips, at best impure. Oh for a world in principle as chaste As this is gross and selfish! over which Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway, That govern all things here, should'ring aside The meek and modest truth, and forcing her To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men:— Where violence shall never lift the sword, Nor cunning justify the proud man's wrong, Leaving the poor no remedy but tears:— Where he that fills an office shall esteem Th' occasion it presents of doing good More than the perquisite; — where law shall speak Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts And equity; not jealous more to guard A worthless form, than to decide aright:— Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse, Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace) With lean performance ape the work of love! Come then, and, added to thy many crowns, Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth, Thou who alone art worthy! It was thine By ancient covenant, ere nature's birth; And thou hast made it thine by purchase since, And overpaid its value with thy blood. Thy saints proclaim thee king; and in their hearts Thy title is engraven with a pen Dipt in the fountain of eternal love. Thy saints proclaim thee king; and thy delay Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see The dawn of thy last advent, long-desir'd, Would creep into the bowels of the hills, And flee for safety to the falling rocks. The very spirit of the world is tir'd Of its own taunting question, ask'd so long, "Where is the promise of your Lord's approach?" The infidel has shot his bolts away, Till, his exhausted quiver yielding none, He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoil'd, And aims them at the shield of truth again. The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands, That hides divinity from mortal eyes; And all the mysteries to faith propos'd, Insulted and traduc'd, are cast aside, As useless, to the moles and to the bats. They now are deem'd the faithful, and are prais'd, Who, constant only in rejecting thee, Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal, And quit their office for their error's sake. Blind, and in love with darkness! yet ev'n these Worthy, compar'd with sycophants, who knee Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man! So fares thy church. But how thy church may fare The world takes little thought. Who will may preach. And what they will. All pastors are alike To wand'ring sheep, resolv'd to follow none. Two gods divide them all — Pleasure and Gain: For these they live, they sacrifice to these, And in their service wage perpetual war With conscience and with thee. Lust in their hearts, And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth To prey upon each other: stubborn, fierce, High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace. Thy prophets speak of such; and, noting down The features of the last degen'rate times, Exhibit ev'ry lineament of these. Come then, and, added to thy many crowns, Receive yet one, as radiant as the rest, Due to thy last and most effectual work, Thy word fulfill'd, the conquest of a world! He is the happy man, whose life ev'n now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state, Is pleas'd with it, and, were he free to choose, Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one Content indeed to sojourn while he must Below the skies, but having there his home. The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Of objects, more illustrious in her view; And, occupied as earnestly as she, Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not; He seeks not hers, for he has prov'd them vain. He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Pursuing gilded flies; and such he deems Her honours, her emoluments, her joys. Therefore in contemplation is his bliss, Whose pow'r is such, that whom she lifts from earth She makes familiar with a heav'n unseen, And shows him glories yet to be reveal'd. Not slothful he, though seeming unemploy'd, And censur'd oft as useless. Stillest streams Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird That flutters least is longest on the wing. Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has rais'd, Or what achievements of immortal fame He purposes, and he shall answer — None. His warfare is within. There unfatigu'd, His fervent spirit labours. There he fights, And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, And never-with'ring wreaths, compar'd with which The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds. Perhaps the self-approving haughty world, That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see, Deems him a cypher in the works of God, Receives advantage from his noiseless hours, Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring And plenteous harvest, to the pray'r he makes, When, Isaac like, the solitary saint Walks forth to meditate at even tide, And think on her, who thinks not for herself. Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concerns Of little worth, an idler in the best, If, author of no mischief and some good, He seek his proper happiness by means That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine. Nor, though he tread the secret path of life, Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, Account him an incumbrance on the state, Receiving benefits, and rend'ring none. His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere Shine with his fair example, and though small His influence, if that influence all be spent In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, In aiding helpless indigence, in works From which at least a grateful few derive Some taste of comfort in a world of woe, Then let the supercilious great confess He serves his country, recompenses well The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine He sits secure, and in the scale of life Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place. The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen, Must drop indeed the hope of public praise; But he may boast what few that win it can — That if his country stand not by his skill, At least his follies have not wrought her fall. Polite refinement offers him in vain Her golden tube, through which a sensual world Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, The neat conveyance hiding all th' offence. Not that he peevishly rejects a mode Because that world adopts it. If it bear The stamp and clear impression of good sense, And be not costly more than of true worth, He puts it on, and, for decorum sake, Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she. She judges of refinement by the eye, He by the test of conscience, and a heart Not soon deceiv'd; aware that what is base No polish can make sterling; and that vice, Though well perfum'd and elegantly dress'd, Like an unburied carcase trick'd with flow'rs, Is but a garnish'd nuisance, fitter far For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, More golden than that age of fabled gold Renown'd in ancient song; not vex'd with care Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approv'd Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. So glide my life away! and so at last, My share of duties decently fulfill'd, May some disease, not tardy to perform Its destin'd office, yet with gentle stroke, Dismiss me, weary, to a safe retreat, Beneath the turf that I have often trod. It shall not grieve me, then, that once, when call'd To dress a Sofa with the flow'rs of verse, I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair, With that light task; but soon, to please her more, Whom flow'rs alone I knew would little please, Let fall th' unfinish'd wreath, and rov'd for fruit; Rov'd far, and gather'd much: some harsh, 'tis true, Pick'd from the thorns and briers of reproof, But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some To palates that can taste immortal truth; Insipid else, and sure to be despis'd. But all is in his hand whose praise I seek. In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, If he regard not, though divine the theme. 'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre, To charm his ear, whose eye is on the heart; Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, Whose approbation — prosper even mine.