But is amusement all? Studious of song, And yet ambitious not to sing in vain, I would not trifle merely, though the world Be loudest in their praise, who do no more. Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay? It may correct a foible, may chastise The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, Retrench a swordblade, or displace a patch; But where are it's sublimer trophies found? What vice has it subdued? whose heart reclaim'd By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform? Alas! Leviathan is not so tam'd:
Laugh'd at he laughs again; and stricken hard Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales, That fear no discipline of human hands.
The pulpit, therefore (and I name it fill'd With solemn awe, that bids me well bewar With what intent I touch that holy thing)— The pulpit (when the sat'rist has at last, Strutting and vap'ring in an empty school, Spent all his force and made no proselyte)- I say the pulpit (in the sober use Of it's legitimate, peculiar pow'rs)
Must stand acknowledg'd, while the world shall
The most important and effectual guard,
Support, and ornament, of Virtue's cause.
There stands the messenger of truth: there stands The legate of the skies! His theme divine, His office sacred, his credentials clear.
By him the violated law speaks out
It's thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. He stablishes the strong, restores the weak, Reclaims the wand'rer, binds the broken heart, And, arm'd himself in panoply complete Of heav'nly temper, furnishes with arms Bright as his own, and trains by ev'ry rule Of holy discipline, to glorious war
The sacramental host of God's elect!
Are all such teachers?-would to Heav'n all were! But hark-the doctor's voice!-fast wedg'd between Two empirics he stands, and with swoln cheeks Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far Than all invective is his bold harangue, While through that public organ of report He hails the clergy; and, defying shame,
Announces to the world his own and theirs!
He teaches those to read, whom schools dismiss'd And colleges, untaught; sells accent, tone,
And emphasis in score, and gives to pray'r Th' adagio and andante it demands.
He grinds divinity of other days
Down into modern use; transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the
Of gall'ry critics by a thousand arts.
Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware? O, name it not in Gath!-it cannot be,
That grave and learned clerks should need such aid. He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, Assuming thus a rank unknown before- Grand caterer and drynurse of the church!
I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life,
Coincident, exhibit lucid proof,
That he is honest in the sacred cause.
To such I render more than mere respect, Whose actions say, that they respect themselves. But loose in morals, and in manners vain,
In conversation frivolous, in dress
Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse; Frequent in park with lady at his side, Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes;
But rare at home, and never at his books, Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card; Constant at routs, familiar with a round Of ladyships, a stranger to the poor; Ambitious of preferment for it's gold, And well-prepar'd, by ignorance and sloth, By infidelity and love of world,
To make God's work a sinecure; a slave To his own pleasures and his patron's pride; From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, Preserve the church! and lay not careless hands On sculls, that cannot teach, and will not learn.
Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, Were he on Earth, would hear, approve, and own, Paul should himself direct me. I would trace His master-strokes, and draw from his design. I would express him simple, grave, sincere; In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, And plain in manner; detent, solemn, chaste,
And natural in gesture; much impress'd
Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too; affectionate in look,
And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guilty men. Behold the picture!-Is it like?-Like whom? The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, And then skip down again; pronounce a text; Cry-hem; and reading what they never wrote Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, And with a wellbred whisper close the scene!
In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers And serves the altar, in my soul I loath All affectation. "Tis my perfect scorn; Object of my implacable disgust.
What!—will a man play tricks, will he indulge A silly fond conceit of his fair form, And just proportion, fashionable mien, And pretty face, in presence of his God? Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, As with the diamond on his lily hand,
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