O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings peace o'er yon village
broods:
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Has ceas'd; all, all around is quietness.
SABBATH. (Poor Man's Day of Rest)
But, chiefly, man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. On other days, the man of toil is doom'd To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground Both seat and board,-screen'd from the winter's cold
And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree;
But on this day, embosom'd'in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God,—not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered face and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air pure from the city's smoke,
As wandering slowly up the river's bank,
He meditates on him whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
And in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around the roots: and while he thus surveys
With elevated joy each rural charm,
He hopes, (yet fears presumption in the hope), That heaven may be one Sabbath without end. GRAHAME.
Their dread commander; he, above the rest
In shape and gesture proudly eminent,
Stood like a tow'r, his form had not yet lost
All her original brightness, nor appear'd
Less than Archangel ruin'd, and th' excess
Of glory obscur'd; as when the sun, new risen,
Looks through the horizontal misty air,
Shorn of his beams; or from behind the moon,
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs. Darken'd so, yet shone
Above them all th' Archangel: but his face
Deep scars of thunder had intrench'd, and care
Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows
Of dauntless courage and considerate pride,
Waiting revenge: cruel his eye, but cast
Signs of remorse and passion to behold
The fellows of his crime, the followers rather.
-Him there they found
Squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve,
Assaying by his devilish art to reach
The organs of her fancy, and with them forge
Illusions as he list, phantasms and dreams :
Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint
Th' animal spirits that from pure blood arise
Like gentle breaths from rivers pure, thence raise
At least distemper'd, discontented thoughts,
Vain hopes, vain aims, inordinate desires,
Blown up with high conceits engend'ring pride.
SATIRE. (Often to blame)
Unless a love of virtue light the flame,
Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame!
He hides behind a magisterial air
His own offences, and strips others bare;
Affects indeed a most humane concern,
That men, if gently tutor'd, will not learn,
That mulish folly, not to be reclaim'd
By softer methods, must be made asham'd;
But (I might instance in St Patrick's dean)
Too often rails to gratify his spleen.
Most sat❜rists are indeed a public scourge;
Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge;
Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd,
The milk of their good purpose all to curd.
Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse,
By lean despair upon an empty purse,
The wild assassins start into the street,
Prepar'd to poniard whomsoe'er they meet.
No skill in swordmanship, however just,
Can be secure against a madman's thrust;
And even virtue, so unfairly match'd,
Although immortal, may be prick'd or scratch'd.
COWPER.
SATIRE. (Proper Objects of)
Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear,
Or from the soft-ey'd virgin steal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
Insults fallen worth, or beauty in distress;
Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out;
That fop whose pride affects a patron's name,
Yet absent wounds an author's honest fame:
Who can your merit selfishly approve,
And show the sense of it without the love;
Who has the vanity to call you friend,
Yet wants the honour injur'd to defend ;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say,
And, if he lie not, must at least betray:
Who reads but with a lust to misapply,
Make satire a lampoon, and fiction lie-
A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,
But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.
Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,
Lights of the world and demi-gods of fame ?
Is this your triumph-this your proud applause,
Children of truth, and champions of her cause ?
For this hath science search'd, on weary wing,
By shore and sea-each mute and living thing?
Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep,
To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep?
Or round the cope her living chariot driven,
And wheeled in triumph through the signs of
Heaven?
Oh! star-eyed science, hast thou wandered there,
To waft us home the message of despair?
Then bind the palm thy sage's brow to suit,
Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit!
Ah me! the laurell'd wreath that murder rears,
Blood-nursed, and water'd by the widow's tears,
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,
As waves the night-shade round the sceptic head.
What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain ?
I smile on death, if heaven-ward hope remain !
But, if the warring winds of nature's strife
Be all the faithless charter of my life,
If chance awak'd, inexorable power,
This frail and feverish being of an hour;
Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep,
Swift as the tempest travels on the deep,
To know delight but by her parting smile,
And toil, and wish, and weep, a little while;
Then melt, ye elements, that form'd in vain
This troubled pulse, and visionary brain!
Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom,
And sing, ye stars, that light me to the tomb.
Truth, ever lovely-since the world began,
The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man,-
How can thy words from balmy slumber start,
Reposing virtue, pillow'd on the heart!
Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder roll'd,
And that were true which nature never told,
Let wisdom smile not on her conquer'd field;
No rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed!
Oh! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate,
The doom that bars us from a better fate;
But, sad as angels for the good man's sin,
Weep to record, and blush to give it in.
SCHOOL DIVINITY. (Hudibras, his Divinity)
In school-divinity as able
As he that hight irrefragable;
A second Thomas, or, at once
To name them all, another Dunce:
Profound in all the nominal
And real ways beyond them all:
For he a rope of sand could twist
As tough as learned Sorbonist,
And weave fine cobwebs, fit for scull
That's empty when the moon is full;
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