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Drew a rough copy of the Christian face,
Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace;
The dark and sullen humour of the time
Judged every effort of the Muse a crime;
Verse, in the finest mould of fancy cast,
Was lumber in an age so void of taste;
But when the second Charles assumed the sway,
And arts revived beneath a softer day,
Then, like a bow long forced into a curve,
The mind, released from too constrain'd a nerve,
Flew to its first position with a spring

That made the vaulted roofs of pleasure ring.
His court, the dissolute and hateful school
Of wantonness, where vice was taught by rule,
Swarm'd with a scribbling herd, as deep inlaid
With brutal lust as ever Čirce made.
From these a long succession in the rage
Of rank obscenity debauch'd their age,
Nor ceased till, ever anxious to redress
The abuses of her sacred charge, the press,
The Muse instructed a well-nurtur'd train
Of abler votaries to cleanse the stain,
And claim the palm for purity of song,
That lewdness had usurp'd and worn so long.
Then decent pleasantry and sterling sense,
That neither gave nor would endure offence,
Whipp'd out of sight, with satire just and keen,
The puppy pack that had defiled the scene.
In front of these came Addison. In him
Humour in holiday and sightly trim,
Sublimity and attic taste combined,
To polish, furnish, and delight the mind.
Then Pope, as harmony itself exact,

In verse well disciplined, complete, compact,
Gave virtue and morality a grace

That, quite eclipsing pleasure's painted faces
Levied a tax of wonder and applause,

Even on the fools that trampled on their laws.
But he (his musical finesse was such,

So nice his ear, so delicate his touch)

Made poetry a mere mechanic art,

And every warbler had his tune by heart.

Nature imparting her satiric gift,

Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift,
With droll sobriety they raise a smile

At folly's cost, themselves unmoved the while.
That constellation set, the world in vain
Must hope to look upon their like again.

A. Are we then left-B. Not wholly in the dark; Wit now and then, struck smartly, shews a spark, Sufficient to redeem the modern race

From total night and absolute disgrace.
While servile trick and imitative knack
Confine the million in the beaten track,
Perhaps some courser, who disdains the road,
Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad.
Contemporaries all surpass'd, see one,
Short his career indeed, but ably run.
Churchill, himself unconscious of his powers,
In penury consumed his idle hours,
And, like a scatter'd seed at random sown,
Was left to spring by vigour of his own.
Lifted at length, by dignity of thought
And dint of genius, to an affluent lot,
He laid his head in luxury's soft lap,
And took too often there his easy nap.
If brighter beams than all he threw not forth,
'Twas negligence in him, not want of worth.
Surly and slovenly, and bold and coarse,
Too proud for art, and trusting in mere force,
Spendthrift alike of money and of wit,
Always at speed, and never drawing bit,
He struck the lyre in such a careless mood,
And so disdain'd the rules he understood,
The laurel seem'd to wait on his command,
He snatch'd it rudely from the Muse's hand.
Nature, exerting an unwearied power,
Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower ;
Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads
The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads;
She fills profuse ten thousand little throats
With music, modulating all their notes,

And charms the woodland scenes and wilds unknown,
With artless airs and concerts of her own :

But seldom (as if fearful of expense)
Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence-
Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought,
Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought;
Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky
Brings colours, dipp'd in heaven, that never die;
A soul exalted above earth; a mind

Skill'd in the characters that form mankind;
And, as the sun, in rising beauty dress'd,
Looks to the westward from the dappled east,
And marks, whatever clouds may interpose
Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close,

An eye like his to catch the distant goal,
Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll,
Like his to shed illuminating rays

On every scene and subject it surveys,
Thus graced, the man asserts a poet's name,
And the world cheerfully admits the claim.
Pity Religion has so seldom found

A skilful guide into poetic ground!

The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to stray,
And every Muse attend her in her way.

Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend,
And many a compliment politely penn'd ;
But, unattired in that becoming vest
Religion weaves for her, and half undress'd,
Stands in the desert, shivering and forlorn,
A wintry figure, like a wither'd thorn.

The shelves are full, all other themes are sped,
Hackney'd and worn to the last flimsy thread;
Satire has long since done his best, and curst
And loathsome ribaldry has done his worst;
Fancy has sported all her powers away
In tales, in trifles, and in children's play;
And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true,
Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new.
"Twere new indeed, to see a bard all fire,

Touch'd with a coal from Heaven, assume the lyre,
And tell the world, still kindling as he sung,
With more than mortal music on his tongue,
That He, who died below, and reigns above,
Inspires the song, and that His name is Love.
For, after all, if merely to beguile,

By flowing numbers and a flowery style,
The tedium that the lazy.rich endure,

Which now and then sweet poetry may cure;

Or, if to see the name of idol self,

Stamp'd on the well-bound quarto, grace the shelf,
To float a bubble on the breath of fame,
Prompt his endeavour, and engage his aim,
Debased to servile purposes of pride,
How are the powers of genius misapplied!
The gift whose office is the Giver's praise,
To trace Him in His word, His works, His ways,
Then spread the rich discovery, and invite
Mankind to share in the divine delight;
Distorted from its use and just design,
To make the pitiful possessor shine,
To purchase at the fool-frequented fair
Of vanity, a wreath for self to wear,

Is profanation of the basest kind—
Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind.

A. Hail, Sternhold then, and Hopkins, hail!*
B.

If flattery, folly, lust, employ the pen;
If acrimony, slander, and abuse,

Give it a charge to blacken and traduce;

Amen.

Though Butler's wit, Pope's numbers, Prior's ease,
With all that fancy can invent to please,
Adorn the polish'd periods as they fall,

One madrigal of theirs is worth them all.

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

* Authors of the old version of the Palms.

EXPOSTULATION.

ARGUMENT.

Expostulation with the Muse-England's apparently prosperous condition-State of Israel when the prophet wept over it-The Babylonian captivity-When nations decline, the evil commences in the Church-State of the Jews in the time of our SaviourEvidences of their having been the most favoured of nations-Causes of their downfall-Lesson taught by it-Warning to Britain-The hand of Providence to be traced in adverse events-England's transgressions-Her vain-glory--Her conduct towards India-Abuse of the sacrament-Obduracy-Character of the Clergy-The poet adverts to the state of the ancient Britons-Beneficial influence of the Roman power-England under papal supremacy-Favours bestowed on her by ProvidenceReasons for gratitude to God and for seeking to secure His favour-With that she may defy a world in arms The poet anticipates little effect from his warning.

"Tantane, tam patiens, nullo certamine tolli
Dona sines?"

VIRG.

WHY weeps the Muse for England? What appears

In England's case to move the Muse to tears ?

From side to side of her delightful isle

Is she not clothed with a perpetual smile?
Can Nature add a charm, or Art confer,

A new found luxury not seen in her ?

Where under heaven is pleasure more pursued,
Or where does cold reflection less intrude ?
Her fields a rich expanse of wavy corn
Pour'd out from Plenty's overflowing horn;
Ambrosial gardens, in which art supplies
The fervour and the force of Indian skies;
Her peaceful shores, where busy Commerce w ita
To pour his golden tide through all her gates;
Whom fiery suns that scorch the russet spice
Of eastern groves, and oceans floor'd with ice,
Forbid in vain to push his daring way
To darker climes, or climes of brighter day;
Whom the winds waft where'er the billows roll,
From the world's girdle to the frozen pole';
The chariots bounding in her wheel-worn streets;
Her vaults below, where every vintage meets;

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