Which now and then sweet poetry may cure; Stamp'd on the well-bound quarto, grace the shelf How are the powers of genius misapplied! A. Hail, Sternhold, then; and, Hopkins, hail- If flattery, folly, lust, employ the pen; If acrimony, slander, and abuse, Give it a charge to blacken and traduce; Though Butler's wit, Pope's numbers, Prior's ease, A. 'Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe, To dash the pen through all that you proscribe. B. No matter we could shift when they were not; And should, no doubt, if they were all forgot. THE PROGRESS OF ERROR Si quid loquar audiendum. HOR. LIB. IV. OD. 2. SING, muse (if such a theme, so dark, so long, Not all, whose eloquence the fancy fills, Placed for his trial on this bustling stage, With nought in charge he could betray no trust; Divine authority within his breast Brings every thought, word, action, to the test; Heaven from above, and conscience from within, Man, thus endued with an elective voice, Here various motives his ambition raise― [praise; Power, pomp, and splendour, and the thirst of There beauty woos him with expanded arms; E'en bacchanalian madness has its charms. Nor these alone, whose pleasures less refined Might well alarm the most unguarded mind, Seek to supplant his inexperienced youth, Or lead him devious from the path of truth; Hourly allurements on his passions press, Safe in themselves, but dangerous in the excess. Hark! how it floats upon the dewy air! O what a dying, dying close was there! 'Tis harmony from yon sequester'd bower, Sweet harmony, that soothes the midnight hour! Long ere the charioteer of day had run His morning course the enchantment was begun ; And he shall gild yon mountain's height again, Ere yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain. Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent, That virtue points to? Can a life thus spent Lead to the bliss she promises the wise, Detach the soul from earth, and speed her to the Ye devotees to your adored employ, Enthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy, Heaven's harmony is universal love; [skies? And earthly sounds, though sweet and well comAnd lenient as soft opiates to the mind, [bined, Leave vice and folly unsubdued behind. 'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighbouring lairs; Leaps every fence but one, there falls and dies; 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 view'd with fear: The comet's baneful influence is a dream; Yours real, and pernicious in the extreme. What then!—are appetites and lusts laid down With the same ease that man puts on his gown Will avarice and concupiscence give place, Charm'd 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 cassock'd huntsman, and a fiddling priest! He from Italian songsters takes his cue: Set Paul to music, he shall quote him too. |