Parent of hope, immortal truth! make known
Thy deathless wreaths and triumphs, all thine own:
The silent progress of thy power is such,
Thy means so feeble, and despis'd so much,
That few believe the wonders thou hast wrought,
And none can teach them but whom thou hast taught.
Oh, see me sworn to serve thee, and command
A painter's skill into a poet's hand!
That while I, trembling, trace a work divine,
Fancy may stand aloof from the design,
And light, and shade, and every stroke, be thine.
If ever thou hast felt another's pain, If ever when he sigh'd hast sigh'd again, If ever on thy eye-lid stood the tear
That pity had engender'd, drop one here!
This man was happy-had the world's good word,
And with it every joy it can afford;
Friendship and love seem'd tenderly at strife,
Which most should sweeten his untroubled life;
Politely learn'd, and of a gentle race,
Good breeding and good sense gave all a grace,
And, whether at the toilette of the fair
He laugh'd and trifled, made him welcome there;
Or, if in masculine debate he shar'd,
Ensur'd him mute attention and regard.
Alas, how chang'd !-Expressive of his mind,
His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head reclin'd;
Those awful syllables, hell, death, and sin,
Though whisper'd, plainly tell what works within ;
That conscience there performs her proper part,
And writes a doomsday sentence on his heart!
Forsaking, and forsaken of all friends,
He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends:
Hard task-for one who lately knew no care,
And harder still, as learnt beneath despair!
His hours no longer pass, unmark'd, away,
A dark importance saddens every day;
He hears the notice of the clock, perplex'd,
And cries-perhaps eternity strikes next!
Sweet music is no longer music here,
And laughter sounds like madness in his ear:
His grief the world of all her power disarms;
Wine has no taste, and beauty has no charms;
God's holy word, once trivial in his view,
Now by the voice of his experience true,
Seems, as it is, the fountain whence alone
Must spring that hope he pants to make his own.
Now let the bright reverse be known abroad;
Say man's a worm, and power belongs to God.
As when a felon, whom his country's laws
Have justly doom'd for some atrocious cause,
Expects, in darkness and heart-chilling fears,
The shameful close of all his mis-spent years;
If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne,
A tempest usher in the dreaded morn,
Upon his dungeon walls the lightning play,
The thunder seems to summon him away,
The warder at the door his key applies,
Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies
If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost,
When hope, long lingering, at last yields the ghost,
The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear,
He drops at once his fetters and his fear ;
A transport glows in all he looks and speaks,
And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks.
Joy, far superior joy, that much outweighs
The comfort of a few poor added days,
Invades, possesses, and o'erwhelms, the soul
Of him, whom hope has with a touch made whole.
'Tis heaven, all heaven, descending on the wings
Of the glad legions of the King of kings;
"Tis more 'tis God diffus'd through every part,
'Tis God himself triumphant in his heart!
Oh, welcome now the sun's once hated light,
His noon-day beams were never half so bright.
Not kindred minds alone are call'd t' employ
Their hours, their days, in listening to his joy;
Unconscious nature, all that he surveys,
Rocks, groves, and streams, must join him in his praise.
These are thy glorious works, eternal truth,
The scoff of wither'd age and beardless youth:
These move the censure and illiberal grin
Of fools that hate thee and delight in sin :
But these shall last when night has quench'd the pole,
And heaven is all departed as a scroll :
And when, as justice has long since decreed,
This earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed,
Then these thy glorious works, and they who share
That hope which can alone exclude despair,
Fasting and prayer sit well upon a priest-
A decent caution and reserve, at least.
A soldier's best is courage in the field,
With nothing here that wants to be conceal'd:
Manly deportment, gallant, easy, gay:
A hand as liberal as the light of day.
The soldier thus endow'd, who never shrinks,
Nor closets up his thought, whate'er he thinks,
Who scorns to do an injury by stealth,
Must go to heaven-and I must drink his health.
Sir Smug, he cries, (for lowest at the board-
Just made fifth chaplain of his patron lord,
His shoulders witnessing, by many a shrug,
How much his feelings suffer'd-sat Sir Smug)
Your office is to winnow false from true;
Come, prophet, drink, and tell us-What think you?
Sighing and smiling as he takes his glass,
Which they that woo preferment rarely pass,
Fallible man, the church-bred youth replies,
Is still found fallible, however wise;
And differing judgments serve but to declare
That truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where.
Of all it ever was my lot to read,
Of critics now alive, or long since dead,
The book, of all the world, that charm'd me most,
Was-well-a-day, the title page was lost!
The writer well remarks, a heart that knows
To take with gratitude what Heaven bestows,
With prudence always ready at our call,
To guide our use of it, is all in all.
Doubtless it is.To which, of my own store,
I superadd a few essentials more ;
But these, excuse the liberty I take,
I wave just now, for conversation sake.-
Spoke like an oracle, they all exclaim,
And add Right Reverend to Smug's honour'd name!
And yet our lot is given us in a land
Where busy arts are never at a stand;
Where science points her telescopic eye,
Familiar with the wonders of the sky;
Where bold inquiry, diving out of sight,
Brings many a precious pearl of truth to light;
Where naught eludes the persevering quest,
That fashion, taste, or luxury, suggest.
But, above all, in her own light array'd, See mercy's grand Apocalypse display'd! The sacred book no longer suffers wrong, Bound in the fetters of an unknown tongue; But speaks with plainness, art could never mend, What simplest minds can soonest comprehend. God gives the word-the preachers throng around, Live from his lips, and spread the glorious sound; That sound bespeaks salvation on her way, The trumpet of a life-restoring day !
'Tis heard where England's eastern glory shines, And in the gulfs of her Cornubian mines,
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