Their weekly dole of edifying strains, Attend to their own music? have they faith In what with such solemnity of tone And gesture they propound to our belief? Nay-conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice Is but an instrument, on which the priest May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, The unequivocal, authentic deed,
We find sound argument, we read the heart." Such reas'nings (if that name must needs belong T'excuses in which reason has no part) Serve to compose a spirit well-inclin'd To live on terms of amity with vice, And sin without disturbance. Often urg'd, (As often as libidinous discourse Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes Of theological and grave import,) They gain at last his unreserv'd assent;
Till, harden'd his heart's temper in the forge
Of lust, and on the anvil of despair,
And for a time insure, to his lov'd land The sweets of liberty and equal laws; But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed In confirmation of the noblest claim, Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, To walk with God, to be divinely free, To soar, and to anticipate the skies. Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown, Till Persecution dragg'd them into fame, And chas'd them up to Heav'n. Their ashes flew -No marble tells us whither. With their names No bard embalms and sanctifies his song: And History, so warm on meaner themes, Is cold on this. She execrates, indeed, The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire, But gives the glorious suff'rers little praise.
He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain, That hellish foes, confed'rate for his harm,
He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves, Can wind around him, but he casts it off, Or nothing much, his constancy in ill; Vain temp'ring has but foster'd his disease; 'Tis desp'rate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. Haste now, philosopher, and set him free. Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear Of rectitude and fitness, moral truth How lovely, and the moral sense how sure, Consulted and obey'd, to guide his steps Directly to the FIRST AND ONLY FAIR.
Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the pow'rs Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise: Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, And with poetic trappings grace thy prose, Till it outmantle all the pride of verse.- Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high-sounding brass, Smitten in vain! such music cannot charm The eclipse, that intercepts truth's heav'nly beam, And chills and darkens a wide-wand'ring soul. The STILL SMALL VOICE is wanted. He must speak, Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect; Who calls for things that are not, and they come. Grace makes the slave a freeman. "Tis a change, That turns to ridicule the turgid speech And stately tone of moralists, who boast, As if, like him of fabulous renown, They had, indeed, ability to smooth The shag of savage nature, and were each An Orpheus, and omnipotent in song: But transformation of apostate man From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, Is work for Him that made him. He alone, And he by means in philosophic eyes Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves The wonder; humanizing what is brute In the lost kind, extracting from the lips Of asps their venom, overpow'ring strength By weakness, and hostility by love.
Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's cause Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve, Receive proud recompense. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. Th' historic Muse, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn, Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass To guard them, and t' immortalize her trust: But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, To those, who, posted at the shrine of Truth, Have fall'n in her defence. A patriot's blood, Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed,
With as much ease as Samson his green withes. He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature, and though poor, perhaps, compar'd With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scen'ry all his own. His are the mountains, and the valleys his, And the resplendent rivers. His t' enjoy With a propriety that none can feel, But who, with filial confidence inspir'd, Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say-"My father made them all!" Are they not his by a peculiar right, And by an emphasis of int'rest his, Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love That plann'd, and built, and still upholds, a world So cloth'd with beauty for rebellious man? Yes-ye may fill your garments, ye that reap The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good In senseless riot; but ye will not find In feast, or in the chase, in song or dance, A liberty like his, who, unimpeach'd Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, Appropriates nature as his Father's work, And has a richer use of yours than you. He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth Of no mean city; plann'd or ere the hills Were built, the fountains open'd, or the sea With all his roaring multitude of waves. His freedom is the same in ev'ry state; And no condition of this changeful life, So manifold in cares, whose ev'ry day Brings its own evil with it, makes it less : For he has wings, that neither sickness, pain, Nor penury, can cripple or confine.
No nook so narrow but he spreads them there With ease, and is at large. Th' oppressor holds His body bound; but knows not what a range His spirit takes unconscious of a chain; And that to bind him is a vain attempt, Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells.
Acquaint thyself with God, if thou wouldst taste His works. Admitted once to his embrace, Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before. Thine eye shall be instructed, and thine heart Made pure shall relish with divine delight Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought Brutes graze the mountain-top, with faces prone,
And eyes intent upon the scanty herb It yields them; or, recumbent on its brow, Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away From inland regions to the distant main. Man views it, and admires; but rests content With what he views. The landscape has his praise, But not its author. Unconcern'd who form'd The Paradise he sees, he finds it such, And, such well-pleas'd to find it, asks no more. Not so the mind, that has been touch'd from Heav'n, And in the school of sacred wisdom taught, To read his wonders, in whose thought the World, Fair as it is, existed ere it was.
Not for its own sake merely, but for his Much more, who fashion'd it, he gives it praise; Praise that from Earth resulting, as it ought, To Earth's acknowledg'd sovereign finds at once Its only just proprietor in Him.
The soul that sees him or receives sublim'd New faculties, or learns at least t' employ More worthily the pow'rs she own'd before, Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze Of ignorance, till then she overlook'd, A ray of heavenly light, gilding all forms Terrestrial in the vast and the minute; The unambiguous footsteps of the God, Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing, And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds. Much conversant with Heav'n, she often holds With those fair ministers of light to man, That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp, Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were they With which Heav'n rang, when ev'ry star in haste To gratulate the new-created Earth, Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God Shouted for joy.-"Tell me, ye shining hosts, That navigate a sea that knows no storms, Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, If from your elevation, whence ye view Distinctly scenes invisible to man, And systems, of whose birth no tidings yet Have reach'd this nether world, ye spy a race Favor'd as ours; transgressors from the womb, And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise, And to possess a brighter Heav'n than yours? As one, who, long detain'd on foreign shores, Pants to return, and when he sees afar His country's weather-bleach'd and batter'd rocks From the green wave emerging, darts an eye Radiant with joy towards the happy land; So I with animated hopes behold, And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, That show like beacons in the blue abyss, Ordain'd to guide th' embodied spirit home From toilsome life to never-ending rest. Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires, That give assurance of their own success,
And that, infus'd from Heav'n, must thither tend." So reads he nature, whom the lamp of truth Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word! Which whoso sees no longer wanders lost, With intellects bemaz'd in endless doubt, But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built With means, that were not till by thee employ'd, Worlds, that had never been hadst thou in strength Been less, or less benevolent than strong. They are thy witnesses, who speak thy pow'r And goodness infinite, but speak in ears
That hear not, or receive not their report.
In vain thy creatures testify of thee, Till thou proclaim thyself. Theirs is indeed A teaching voice; but 'tis the praise of thine, That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, And with the boon gives talents for its use. Till thou art heard, imaginations vain Possess the heart, and fables false as Hell; Yet deem'd oracular, lure down to death The uninform'd and heedless souls of men. We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blinɑ The glory of thy work; which yet appears Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, Challenging human scrutiny, and prov'd Then skilful most when most severely judg'd. But chance is not; or is not where thou reign'st: Thy providence forbids that fickle pow'r (If pow'r she be, that works but to confound) To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws. Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can Instruction, and inventing to ourselves
Gods such as guilt makes welcome; gods that sleep Or disregard our follies, or that sit Amus'd spectators of this bustling stage. Thee we reject, unable to abide
Thy purity, till pure as thou art pure,
Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause, For which we shunn'd and hated thee before. Then we are free. Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heav'n Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.
A voice is heard, that mortal ears hear not, Till thou hast touch'd them; 'tis the voice of song A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works; Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, And adds his rapture to the gen'ral praise. In that blest moment Nature, throwing wide Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile The author of her beauties, who, retir'd Behind his own creation, works unseen By the impure, and hears his pow'r denied. Thou art the source and centre of all minds, Their only point of rest, eternal Word! From thee departing they are lost, and rove At random without honor, hope, or peace. From thee is all, that soothes the life of man, His high endeavor, and his glad success, His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. But O thou bounteous giver of all good, Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown! Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor; And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.
Bells at a distance. Their effect. A fine noon ir winter. A sheltered walk. Meditation better than books. Our familiarity with the course of nature makes it appear less wonderful than it is. The transformation that Spring effects in a shrubbery described. A mistake concerning the course of nature corrected. God maintains it by an unremitted act. The amusements fashionable at this hour of the day reproved. Animals happy, a delightful sight. Origin of cruelty to animals That it is a great crime, proved from Scripture That proof illustrated by a tale. A line drawn
between the lawful and unlawful destruction of And where the woods fence off the northern blast them. Their good and useful properties insisted The season smiles, resigning all its rage, on. Apology for the encomiums bestowed by the And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue author on animals. Instances of man's extrava- Without a cloud, and white without a speck gant praise of man. The groans of the creation The dazzling splendor of the scene below. shall have an end. A view taken of the restora- Again the harmony comes o'er the vale ; tion of all things. An invocation, and an invita- And through the trees I view th' embattled tow'r, tion of Him who shall bring it to pass. The Whence all the music. I again perceive retired man vindicated from the charge of use- The soothing influence of the wafted strains, lessness. Conclusion. And settle in soft musings as I tread The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, Whose outspread branches over-arch the glade. The roof, though movable through all its length As the wind sways it, has yet well suffic'd, And, intercepting in their silent fall
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 favor, 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 humor; 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 stolen 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.
I 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,
The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. The red-breast 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 hear May give a 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 hoodwink'd. Some the sty 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 roo 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 the effect, we slight the cause, And in the constancy of nature's course, And 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
And eyes intent upon the scanty herb It yields them; or, recumbent on its brow, Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away From inland regions to the distant main. Man views it, and admires; but rests content With what he views. The landscape has his praise, But not its author. Unconcern'd who form'd The Paradise he sees, he finds it such, And, such well-pleas'd to find it, asks no more. Not so the mind, that has been touch'd from Heav'n, And in the school of sacred wisdom taught, To read his wonders, in whose thought the World, Fair as it is, existed ere it was.
Not for its own sake merely, but for his Much more, who fashion'd it, he gives it praise; Praise that from Earth resulting, as it ought, To Earth's acknowledg'd sovereign finds at once Its only just proprietor in Him.
In vain thy creatures testify of thee, Till thou proclaim thyself. Theirs is indeed A teaching voice; but 'tis the praise of thine, That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, And with the boon gives talents for its use. Till thou art heard, imaginations vain Possess the heart, and fables false as Hell; Yet deem'd oracular, lure down to death The uninform'd and heedless souls of men. We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blin The glory of thy work; which yet appears Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, Challenging human scrutiny, and prov'd Then skilful most when most severely judg'd. But chance is not; or is not where thou reign'st. Thy providence forbids that fickle pow'r (If pow'r she be, that works but to confound, To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can Instruction, and inventing to ourselves Gods such as guilt makes welcome; gods that sleep Or disregard our follies, or that sit Amus'd spectators of this bustling stage. Thee we reject, unable to abide Thy purity, till pure as thou art pure, Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause, For which we shunn'd and hated thee before. Then we are free. Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heav'n Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. A voice is heard, that mortal ears hear not, Till thou hast touch'd them; 'tis the voice of song A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works; Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, And adds his rapture to the gen'ral praise. In that blest moment Nature, throwing wide Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile The author of her beauties, who, retir'd Behind his own creation, works unseen By the impure, and hears his pow'r denied. Thou art the source and centre of all minds. Their only point of rest, eternal Word! From thee departing they are lost, and rove At random without honor, hope, or peace. From thee is all, that soothes the life of man, His high endeavor, and his glad success, His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. But O thou bounteous giver of all good, Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown! Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor, And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.
The soul that sees him or receives sublim'd New faculties, or learns at least t' employ More worthily the pow'rs she own'd before, Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze Of ignorance, till then she overlook'd, A ray of heavenly light, gilding all forms Terrestrial in the vast and the minute; The unambiguous footsteps of the God, Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing, And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds. Much conversant with Heav'n, she often holds With those fair ministers of light to man, That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp, Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were they With which Heav'n rang, when ev'ry star in haste To gratulate the new-created Earth, Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God Shouted for joy.-" Tell me, ye shining hosts, That navigate a sea that knows no storms, Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, If from your elevation, whence ye view Distinctly scenes invisible to man,
And systems, of whose birth no tidings yet Have reach'd this nether world, ye spy a race Favor'd as ours; transgressors from the womb, And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise, And to possess a brighter Heav'n than yours? As one, who, long detain'd on foreign shores, Pants to return, and when he sees afar His country's weather-bleach'd and batter'd rocks From the green wave emerging, darts an eye Radiant with joy towards the happy land; So I with animated hopes behold, And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, That show like, beacons in the blue abyss, Ordain'd to guide th' embodied spirit home From toilsome life to never-ending rest. Love kindles as I gaze. Ti desires,
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