THE PRESAGES OF REVELATION,
Given up as a College Exercise on Christmas Day,
WHO shall awake the Theban lyre
With holy numbers, holy fire?
O! back recoil each jealous string
From the loose orgies of profane Desire,
And mad Intemperance's earth-born quire,
Unfit to borrow Inspiration's wing.
Ah! rather may its tones engage
The gifted call, the rapt presage,
Wide-echoing through the shade of time;
Till at some impulse of diviner rage
Its chords resound and from an awe-struck age
Elicit choral notes, and symphony sublime.
From that oblivious gulf of years
O'er whose dim verge Enquiry peers
With gaze intense, and aching eye,
Some voice entranc'd Imagination hears
In strains too faint to visit waking ears
Chanting the wild notes of Mythology.
When first the Soul of humankind' The source from which she sprang, divin'd, She prompted oft the wistful sigh; And, in the secret texture of the mind, Bright hope with dark solicitude she twin'd, Mysterious pledge of Immortality!
In woods that, high o'er Ganges' stream,
Defied the equinoctial beam,
As rapt her favour'd Bramins lay,
By Allegory's many-colour'd light
Was caught a glimpse of prospects bright-
Then fail'd the dubious ray.
Oft too, amid his polar night,
The Scandinavian's startled sight
Recall'd the forms of elder time,
Obsequious to the Runic rhyme.
'Twas Truth herself by Fiction's aid,
In Horror's magic weeds array'd,
Truth, who, on the destin'd day,
Must fling the figur'd stole away.
But hush'd be every accent rude,
"That strain was of a higher mood!"
Who bids such sphere-taught tencts flow?
Thou, Socrates, thy spells alone
Invoke from her empyreal throne
Wisdom, best gift of Heaven to man below.
SECOND ANTISTROPHE..
Not by Reason's measur'd springs,
Not on Fancy's lawless wings,
To her blest shrine thy course was won:
Nor to the Bard who struck the potent strings,
Or him whose genius trac'd the laws of things
Pervious the path which Grace vouchsaf'd her son.*
Through Vice's thorns, through Error's shade
Wild and worn the nations stray'd,
Unsure their march, unsafe their stay;
Yet oft, from Virtue's eminence sublime,
The godlike few of every age and clime
Wav'd high the torch of Faith to guide them on
their way.
Inscribed on the monument of the Reverend William Bag▾ shaw Stevens, in Repton Church, Derbyshire. died 1800..
READER, if thee each sacred worth inspire,
The Patriot's ardor, and the Poet's fire,
Unsullied honour, friendship's generous glow,
Sky-pointing Hope, that smiles on finite woe,
Such STEVENS was, and thy congenial tear
Drops on the Scholar, Bard, and Christian's bier,
* Socrates (see the Meno of Plato) asserted that virtue or moral wisdom was neither a natural faculty nor an acquired habit but divine gift. How consonant this doctrine to the language of the Gospel!
THE Poet of to-night his tribute pays,
To social order, and to female praise;
He calls the chaste maternal feelings forth,
He builds an altar to domestic Worth:
A theme unusual on the modern stage,
Yet not unuseful to the rising age,
While Dissipation holds her giddy court,
And bids the World with sacred duties sport,
And bold examples youthful breasts enflame,
To build their reputation on their shame.
Nor pomp of numbers tow'ring to the spheres,
Nor swelling epithet assails your ears.
More suited to his theme our Author chose
The simpler vehicle of humble prose.
No wire-drawn sentiments of senseless love,
No tumid rant shall vain applauses move.
Oft has capricious France with lavish hand,
Sow'd the rank crop of follies in our land:
Oft has she sent the soft voluptuous page,
In virgin breasts to kindle amorous rage.
'Mid Faction's anarchy, and War's alarms*,
Still she supplies fair Virtue's foe with arms.
For mad Philosophy, with idle dreams,
Refinements false, and visionary schemes,
With fatal genius, and unhappy skill,
Removes the bounds of moral good and ill:
And rends the sacred Union, whence arise
The purest pleasures, and the dearest ties,
That all the charities of life maintains,
Source of our joys, and solace of our pains.
Seductive tomes, with Reason's semblance fraught,
Diffuse their poison thro' infected Thought.-
What healing art an antidote shall bring?
What heav'n-taught hand extract the poison'd sting?
In moral dignity and sober rage,
Rise, mighty Master of th' Athenian stage +:
And bid thy model of a perfect wife
Adorn again the scenes of wedded life.
Vain, vain the wish! yet, if an humble hand
Gives useful lessons to the youthful band;
The virtuous purpose, in the fable shewn,
May crown the Bard for merits not his own.
* Alluding particularly to the Law of Divorce then past in France.
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