Obrazy na stronie
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His unexhausted mine the sordid vice
Avarice shows, and virtue is the price.
Her various motives his ambition raise-
Pow'r, pomp, and splendour, and the thirst of praise;
There Beauty wooes him with expanded arms;
E’en Bacchanalian madness has its charms.
Nor these alone, whose pleasures less refin'd
Might well alarm the most unguarded mind,
Seek to supplant his inexperienc'd youth,
Or lead him devious from the path of truth;
Hourly allurements on his passions press,
Safe in themselves, but dang'rous in th’ excess.
Hark! how it floats upon the dewy air!
O what a dying, dying close was there !
'Tis harmony from yon sequester'd bow'r,
Sweet harmony, that soothes the midnight hour!
Long ere the charioteer of day had run
His morning course, th’ 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
skies
Ye devotees to your ador'd employ,
Enthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy,
Love makes the musick of the blest above,
Heav'n's harmony is universal love:
And earthly sounds tho’sweet and well combin'd,
And lenient as soft opiates to the mind,
Leave Vice and Folly unsubdu'd behind.

Gray dawn appears; the sportsman and his train Speckle the bosom of the distant plain; 'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighb'ring lairs; Save that his scent is less acute than theirs; For persevering chase, and headlong leaps, True beagle as the staunchest hound he keeps: Charg’d with the folly of his life's mad scene, He takes offence, and wonders what you mean; The joy the danger and the toil o'erpays— 'Tis exercise, and health, and length of days. Again impetuous to the field he flies; Leaps ev’ry fence but one, there falls and dies; Like a slain deer, the tumbrel brings him home, Unmiss'd but by his dogs and by his groom.

Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place, Lights of the world, and stars of human race; But if eccentrick ye forsake your sphere, Prodigies ominous, and view’d with fear; The comet’s baneful influence is a dream; Yours, real and pernicious in th” extreme. What then!—are appetites and lusts laid down, With the same ease that man puts on his gown? Will Av'rice and Concupiscence give place, Charm'd by the sounds—Your Rev'rence, 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 ruefuljest,
A cassock'd huntsman, and a fiddling priest!

He from Italian songsters takes his cue:
Set Paul to musick, he shall quote him too.
He takes the field, the master of the pack
Cries-Well done, saint! and claps him on the back.
Is this the path of sanctity ? Is this
To stand a waymark in the road to bliss:
Himself a wand’rer from the narrow way,
His silly sheep, what wonder if they stray
Go, cast your orders at your bishop's feet,
Send your dishonour’d gownto Monmouth-street!
The sacred function in your hands is made—
Sad sacrilege! no function, but a trade 1
Occiduus is a pastor of renown,
When he has pray’d and preach'd the sabbathdown,
With wire and catgut he concludes the day,
Quav'ring and semiquav'ring care away.
The full concerto swells upon your ear;
All elbows shake. Lookin, and you would swear
The Babylonian tyrant with a nod
Had summon'd them to serve his golden god.
So well that thought th’ employment seems to suit,
Psalt'ry and sackbut, dulcimer and flute.
O fie! 'tis evangelical and pure:
Observe each face, how sober and demure'
Ecstacy sets her stamp on ev'ry mien;
Chins fall’n, and not an eye-ball to be seen.
Still I insist, though musick heretofore
Has charm'd me much, (not e'en Occiduus more,)
Love, joy, and peace, make harmony more meet
For sabbath ev’nings, and perhaps as sweet.
Will not the sickliest sheep of ev'ry flock
Resort to this example as a rock;

There stand, and justify the foul abuse
Of sabbath-hours with plausible excuse?
If apostolick gravity be free
To play the fool on Sundays, why not we ?
If he the tinkling harpsichord regards
Asinoffensive, what offence in cards?
Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay,
Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play.
Oh Italy!—Thy sabbaths will be soon
Our sabbaths, clos'd with mumm'ry and buffoon.
Preaching and pranks will share the motley scene,
Ours parcell'd out, as thine have ever been,
God’s worship and the mountebank between.
What says the prophet? Let that day be blest
With holiness and consecrated rest.
Pastime and business both it should exclude,
And bar the door the moment they intrude:
Nobly distinguish’d above all the six
By deeds, in which the world must never mix.
Hear him again. He calls it a delight,
A day of luxury observ'd aright,
When the glad soul is made Heav'n's welcome
guest,
Sits banquetting, and God provides the feast.
But triflers are engag’d and cannot come;
Their answer to the call is—JWot at home.
O the dear pleasures of the velvet plain,
The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again!
Cards with what rapture, and the polish’d die,
The yawning chasm of indolence supply!
Then to the dance, and make the sober moon
Witness of joys that shun the sight of noon.

Blame, cynick, if you can, quadrille or ball,
The snug close party, or the splendid hall,
Where Night, down-stooping from her ebon throne,
Views constellations brighter than her own.
*Tis innocent, and harmless, and refin'd,
The balm of care, Elysium of the mind.
Innocent! Oh if venerable Time
Slain at the foot of Pleasure be no crime,
Then, with his silver beard and magick wand,
Let Comus rise archbishop of the land;
Let him your rubrick and your feasts prescribe,
Grand metropolitan of all the tribe.
Of manners rough, and coarse athletick cast,
The rank debauch suits Clodio's filthy taste.
Rufillus, exquisitely form'd by rule,
Not of the moral but the dancing school,
Wonders at Clodio's follies, in a tone
As tragical, as others at his own.
He cannot drink five bottles, bilk the score,
Then kill a constable, and drink five more;
But he can draw a pattern, make a tart,
"And has the ladies' etiquette by heart.
Go, fool; and, arm in arm with Clodio, plead
Your cause before a bar you little dread;
But know, the law, that bids the drunkard die,
Is far too just to pass the trifler by.
Both baby-featur'd, and of infant size,
View'd from a distance, and with heedless eyes,
Folly and Innocence are so alike,
The diff'rence, though essential, fails to strike.
Yet Folly ever has a vacant stare,
A simp'ring count'nance, and a trifling air;

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