Here various motives his ambition raise,

Power, Pomp, and Splendour, and the Thirst of Praise;
There Beauty woos him with expanded arms;

Even Bacchanalian Madness has its charms.
Nor these alone, whose pleasures less refined
Might well alarm the most unguarded mind,
Seek to supplant his inexperienced youth,
Or lead him devious from the path of truth;
Hourly allurements on his passions press,
Safe in themselves, but dangerous in the excess.
Hark! how it floats upon the dewy air!

55

60

Oh what a dying, dying close was there!
'Tis Harmony from yon sequestered bower,
Sweet Harmony that soothes the midnight hour;
Long ere the charioteer of day had run

65

His morning course, the enchantment was begun,
And he shall gild yon mountain's height again,
Ere yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain.

70

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 adored employ,

75

Enthusiasts drunk with an unreal joy,

Love makes the music of the blest above

Heaven's harmony is universal love,

And earthly sounds, though sweet and well combined,
And lenient as soft opiates to the mind,

80

Leave Vice and Folly unsubdued behind.

Grey dawn appears; the sportsman and his train Speckle the bosom of the distant plain;

85

'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighbouring lairs,
Save that his scent is less acute than theirs,
For persevering chase, and headlong leaps,
True beagle as the staunchest hound he keeps.
Charged 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;

90

'Tis exercise, and health, and length of days;
Again, impetuous to the field he flies,

Leaps every fence but one, there falls and dies;
Like a slain deer, the tumbrel brings him home,
Unmissed 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 eccentric ye forsake your sphere,
Prodigies ominous, and viewed with fear;
The comet's baneful influence is a dream,
Yours real, and pernicious in the extreme.
What then!-are appetites and lusts laid down

95

100

With the same ease that man puts on his gown?
Will Avarice and Concupiscence give place,
Charmed by the sounds, 'Your Reverence,' 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 rueful jest,
A cassocked huntsman, and a fiddling priest !
He from Italian songsters takes his cue;
Set Paul to music, 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

116

To stand a way-mark in the road to bliss?

Himself a wanderer from the narrow way,

His silly sheep, what wonder if they stray?

Go, cast your orders at your Bishop's feet,

120

Send your dishonoured gown to Monmouth Street,

The sacred function, in your hands is made

Sad sacrilege! no function, but a trade!

Occiduus is a pastor of renown;

When he has prayed and preached the sabbath down, 125 With wire and catgut he concludes the day,

Quavering and semiquavering care away.

The full concerto swells upon your ear;

All elbows shake. Look in, and you would swear
The Babylonian tyrant with a nod

130

Had summoned them to serve his golden god;

So well that thought the employment seems to suit,
Psaltery and sackbut, dulcimer and flute.

Oh fie! 'Tis evangelical and pure;

Observe each face, how sober and demure!

135

Ecstasy sets her stamp on every mien,

Chins fallen, and not an eye-ball to be seen.

Still I insist, though music heretofore

Has charmed me much (not even Occiduus more)

Love, joy, and peace make harmony more meet

140

For sabbath evenings, and perhaps as sweet.
Will not the sickliest sheep of every flock

Resort to this example as a rock,

There stand, and justify the foul abuse

Of sabbath hours with plausible excuse?

145

If apostolic gravity be free

To play the fool on Sundays, why not we?

If he the tinkling harpsichord regards

As inoffensive, what offence in cards?
Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay!

150

Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play.

O Italy!-Thy sabbaths will be soon
Our sabbaths, closed with mummery and buffoon ;

155

Preaching and pranks will share the motley scene,
Ours parcelled 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 distinguished 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, observed aright,

160

When the glad soul is made Heaven's welcome guest, 165 Sits banqueting, and God provides the feast.

But triflers are engaged and cannot come;
Their answer to the call is-'Not at home.'

O the dear pleasures of the velvet plain,
The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again!
Cards, with what rapture, and the polished 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, cynic, if you can, quadrille or ball,
The snug, close party, or the splendid hall,

170

175

Where Night, down-stooping from her ebon throne,
Views constellations brighter than her own.

'Tis innocent, and harmless, and refined,
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 magic wand,
Let Comus rise Archbishop of the land,
Let him your rubric and your feasts prescribe,
Grand Metropolitan of all the tribe.

180

185

Of manners rough, and coarse athletic cast,
The rank debauch suits Clodio's filthy taste.
Rufillus, exquisitely formed 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-featured, and of infant size,
Viewed from a distance, and with heedless eyes,
Folly and Innocence are so alike,

The difference, though essential, fails to strike.

190

195

200

Yet Folly ever has a vacant stare,

A simpering countenance, and a trifling air;
But Innocence, sedate, serene, erect,
Delights us, by engaging our respect.

Man, Nature's guest by invitation sweet,
Receives from her both appetite and treat;
But, if he play the glutton and exceed,
His benefactress blushes at the deed,

For Nature, nice, as liberal to dispense,

205

210

Made nothing but a brute, the slave of sense.
Daniel ate pulse by choice-example rare!

215

Heaven blessed the youth, and made him fresh and fair;

Gorgonius sits, abdominous and wan,

Like a fat squab upon a Chinese fan

He snuffs far off the anticipated joy,

Turtle and venison all his thoughts employ,
Prepares for meals as jockeys take a sweat,
O nauseous!-an emetic for a whet!
Will Providence o'erlook the wasted good?
Temperance were no virtue if He could.

220

That pleasures, therefore, or what such we call,
Are hurtful is a truth confessed by all;
And some that seem to threaten virtue less,
Still hurtful in the abuse, or by the excess.

225

Is man then only for his torment placed, The centre of delights he may not taste? Like fabled Tantalus, condemned to hear The precious stream still purling in his ear, Lip-deep in what he longs for, and yet curst With prohibition and perpetual thirst?

230

No, wrangler,-destitute of shame and sense,
The precept that enjoins him abstinence,
Forbids him none but the licentious joy,

235

Whose fruit, though fair, tempts only to destroy.
Remorse, the fatal egg by Pleasure laid
In every bosom where her nest is made,
Hatched by the beams of truth, denies him rest,
And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.

240