Views him in all; ascribes to the grand cause The grand effect; acknowledges with joy His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. But never yet did philosophic tube, That brings the planets home into the eye Of observation, and discovers, else
Not visible, his family of worlds,
Discover him that rules them; such a veil Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, And dark in things divine. Full often, too,
Our wayward intellect, the more we learn Of nature, overlooks her Author more; From instrumental causes proud to draw Conclusions retrograde, and mad mistake. But if his word once teach us, shoot a ray Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal Truths undiscern'd but by that holy light, Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptiz'd In the pure fountain of eternal love, Has eyes, indeed; and viewing all she sees As meant to indicate a God to man, Gives HIM his praise, and forfeits not her own. Learning has born such fruit in other days On all her branches: piety has found
Friends in the friends of science, and true pray'r Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage! Sagacious reader of the works of God, And in his word sagacious. Such too thine, Milton, whose genius had angelic wings,
And fed on manna! And such thiñe, in whom Our British Themis gloried with just cause, Immortal Hale! for deep discernment prais'd, And sound integrity, not more than fam'd For sanctity of manners undefil'd.
All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades Like the fair flow'r dishevell'd in the wind; Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream : The man we celebrate must find a tomb, And we that worship him ignoble graves. Nothing is proof against the gen❜ral curse Of vanity, that seizes all below.
The only amaranthine flow'r on earth Is virtue; th' only lasting treasure, truth. But what is truth? 'twas Pilate's question, put To truth itself, that deign'd him no reply. And wherefore? will not God impart his light To them that ask it ?-Freely-'tis his joy, His glory, and his nature, to impart. But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, Or negligent inquirer, not a spark.
What's that which brings contempt upon a book, And him who writes it; though the style be neat, The method clear, and argument exact?
That makes a minister in holy things
The joy of many, and the dread of more,
His name a theme for praise and for reproach ?— That, while it gives us worth in God's account, Depreciates and undoes us in our own? What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy,
That learning is too proud to gather up ; But which the poor, and the despis'd of all, Seek and obtain, and often find unsought? Tell me and I will tell thee what is truth.
O, friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domestic life in rural leisure pass'd!
Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets; Though many boast thy favours, and affect To understand and choose thee for their own. But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss, Ev'n as his first progenitor, and quits, Though plac'd in paradise, (for earth has still Some traces of her youthful beauty left) Substantial happiness for transient joy.
Scenes form'd for contemplation, and to nurse The growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest,
By ev'ry pleasing image they present,
Reflections such as meliorate the heart, Compose the passions, and exalt the mind; Scenes such as these 'tis his supreme delight To fill with riot, and defile with blood. Should some contagion, kind to the poor We persecute, annihilate the tribes
That draw the sportsman over hill and dale, Fearless, and rapt away from all his cares; Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again, Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye;
Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song, Be quell'd in all our summer-months' retreat;
How many self-deluded nymphs and swains,
Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves, Would find them hideous nurs'ries of the spleen, And crowd the roads, impatient for the town! They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence and its shade. Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity, or a mind
Cultur'd and capable of sober thought, For all the savage din of the swift pack, And clamours of the field?-Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain; That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endu’d With eloquence, that agonies inspire, Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs? Vain tears, alas, and sighs, that never find A corresponding tone in jovial souls! Well-one at least is safe. One shelter'd hare Has never heard the sanguinary yell Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. Innocent partner of my peaceful home,
Whom ten long years' experience of my care Has made at last familiar; she has lost Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. Yes-thou may'st eat thy bread, and lick the hand That feeds thee; thou may'st frolic on the floor At ev'ning, and at night retire secure
To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm'd;
For I have gain'd thy confidence, have pledg'd All that is human in me to protect Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. If I survive thee I will dig thy grave; And, when I place thee in it, sighing, say, I knew at least one hare that had a friend.
How various his employments, whom the world Calls idle; and who justly, in return, Esteems that busy world an idler too! Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry enjoy'd at home,
And nature in her cultivated trim Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad- Can he want occupation who has these? Will he be idle who has much t' enjoy? Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease, Not slothful; happy to deceive the time, Not waste it; and aware that human life Is but a loan to be repaid with use,
When HE shall call his debtors to account From whom are all our blessings; bus'ness finds Ev'n here: while sedulous I seek t' improve, At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd, The mind he gave me; driving it, though slack Too oft, and much impeded in its work By causes not to be divulg'd in vain, To its just point-the service of mankind. He that attends to his interior self,
That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind
That hungers, and supplies it; and who seeks
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