University of Virginia Library

His heart, tho' harden'd both by tricks and time,
Had form'd a fondness for our Man of Rhyme—
Let not low wit, and supercilious pride,
His fortune's dearth, nor origin, deride—
Nor affectation, or false taste, abuse
His simple Mind, his Manners, nor his Muse;
But gave the Man more friendship—Muse more fame,
Than Modesty could crave, or Merit claim.
He ne'er dissembled when resentment mov'd,
Or cloak'd a kindness which his heart approv'd;
But candidly confess'd unfeign'd regard,
Before all other's for the blushing Bard.

He saw, from such profession, Hope would rise,
And Fancy figure some important prize;
While Reason might grave argument suggest
Why Wealth, like his, must make some large bequest;
Secur'd by Testament, or Codicil,
Which fair Administratrix must fulfil.
But—curs'd procrastination! he—alas!
Permitted pregnant certainty to pass;
And no substantial benefit bestow'd,
To help Crispinus thro' Life's wretched road—
Yet with an honest, open, true, intent,
He, thus, declar'd a simple sentiment:
“Tho' I, devoid of every greedy grutch,
“Or careless Mind, shall not bequeath You much;
“Yet, with my personal property, and lands,
“Shall leave your interest safe in able hands.”

Although his strength attain'd so high an Age,
And long experience made him much a Sage—
Mature in Understanding—sound in Sense—
To prophecy facts prov'd he'd no pretence.
He so far analiz'd his Consort's heart
As clearly, to infer Pride fill'd a part;
That Vanity another part possest,
And Ostentation occupied the rest;
But ne'er investigated how their force
Would check all Charity's, and Virtue's course—
Would all those tender sympathies destroy
Which feel strong transports from another's joy—
Would, in the end, confound all right and wrong,
All that to Friendship, Faith—and Love belong.
Saw not how thirst for Pomp, and lust for Fame,
Would institute their bold unbounded claim!
Each principle of blest impulsion bind,
Which moves the breast to benefit Mankind!
Discover'd not that character of Soul
That wish'd for idol-worship from the Whole!
Trac'd not the mazes of her mystic brain
To mark what monsters such deep cells contain
Contriving constant schemes to furnish food,
For breeding Vultures' ever hungry brood!
Knew not, with all his scientific skill
Such Appetites his Wealth would never fill;
That when such Whirlpools yawn for full supply
Ten thousand little rills are soon drunk dry.
When such enormous Whales feel hunger's call,
Prodigious shoals of lesser fry must fall;
Or when cold Death had closed his aged eyes,
Poor Crispin's hopes would fall a sacrifice!

That long-wish'd Epoch, now, at length, appear'd,
And Providence her dark petitions heard—
Fulfill'd her silent wish, and private pray'rs,
But, with the grant, involv'd some vengeful snares.
Snares, much in Mercy, yet in Justice, dealt,
Which, while Fools flatter'd, poor Dependents felt.

Will faithless Flattery, or unwieldly Wealth,
Increase contentment? or establish Health?
Will impious Honour, or perverted Pow'r,
Yield comforts in a sick, or dying, hour?
Will Pomp, and Pride, that mock'd at Misery's calls;
Supply fresh pleasures when their Votary falls?
Or graceless Wit, which, here, makes Mortals gay,
Produce new rapture at the Judgment Day?

Death, stern Ambassador of war, or peace!
Who bids all comfort, or all conflict, cease;
Had undermin'd his might, with sap-work, slow,
And laid the stout gymnastic wrestler low!
Dissolv'd the Gordian knot, the Priest had knit,
Which so long nonpluss'd all her wiles, and wit!
Destroy'd the strength of more than eighty Years,
And banished from her bosom hopes and fears!

As when a mad-brain'd Miss, to School confin'd,
Feels the tight fetters gall her gadding Mind,
Her breast for full emancipation burns,
And all right lessons, with reluctance learns,
Till she can execute without controul
The secret projects of her pregnant Soul—
Impatient waits with longing, eager, heart,
Till from superior pow'r her days depart,
At length the lov'd vacation lets her loose,
To bold amusements—weak, and wild abuse—
And time and treasure, in profusion, fly,
To purchase trifles, and ungenuine joy;
While disappointment plagues; indulgence palls;
Till, to severer tryals, Time recalls!
Thus this blest Relict, now, no mourning Bride,
Might open flood-gates for her Lusts and Pride—
Regardless of controul might rove at large,
Without remonstrance, or one churlish charge—
Might spend her treasure, or employ her time,
Secure from Husband's blame for cost, or crime—
Free to indulge each wild fantastic whim,
Nor, now, need lavish much expence on Him:
The Spirit flown the Corpse would make no claim
On Partner's panegyric, wealth, or fame;
And she ne'er wish'd to waste superfluous pelf
On any Idol but her own dear Self!

Here was no fair occasion for display
Of ostentatious treat, or rich array;
For gratifying Vanity, or Lust;
But merely lay him decent in the Dust.
So far, sincere, could serious Christians join,
Concerning Sight, but not with such Design—
They feel abhorrent at profuse expence
Bestow'd on Bodies destitute of Sense;
Nor would they wish that Vanity should thrive,
By wasting Wealth on human Frames alive;
Yet would not set kind Customs, thus aside,
To prosecute vain schemes for selfish pride.

He was no object, now, for Love's delight—
The Dead are best soon buried out of sight—
Whate'er, when living, love, or worth, might be,
So thought the Hebrew Patriarch—so thought She.
And why, when dead, should undertakers thrive,
O'er one who starv'd his Tailor while alive—
And here Vanesa felt her heart accord
With this lov'd maxim in her married Lord.
No 'scutcheon shines—no waving flag's unfurl'd—
To grace his exit from this upper World,
But a plain Herse, and Coaches two-fold train,
To bear his Body o'er the Hampshire plain—
Six hir'd Attendants, that fall'n Frame to guard—
Three dull Domestics, and the pensive Bard;
To see his Corpse in clay-cold mansion laid,
And yield sham honours to his hovering Shade,
Left, silent, in Wincestria's holy Walls,
Till Time expires, and Heav'n's dread clarion calls!
There, while his household Slaves, without remorse,
Mix'd with mean Crowds, far distant from the Corse,
Crispinus wedg'd his windings thro' the throng,
While the base Hirelings bore their load along—
Close to the gaping pit his footsteps prest,
To ease the yearnings of his burden'd breast!
There, past endearments in succession rose,
And wak'd their kindred train of tender woes!
His throbbing bosom fond emotions fill'd—
His friendly eyes full streams of tears distill'd—
And while those tears prov'd grateful Friendship true,
He sigh'd farewell, and look'd his last adieu!

Poor Crispin's pungent grief and pensive groan,
Sprung from a Cause to pressing Crowds unknown;
He knew his natural Mind's mistaken state,
And fear'd, and trembled, for his future fate!
But not an eye-lid, not a breast, beside,
Breath'd Pity's breeze, or pour'd Affection's tide!
No trembling lip, or troubled look, declar'd
One single Soul beside such sorrow shar'd!
All, unconcern'd, their awful charge dropt down;
When the proud Priest with coldness, like a Clown—
Cried—“Dust to Dust,” with senseless, muttering, sound,
As o'er some Foundling, strange to all around;
Faint whispering what such funeral rites requir'd,
Then, from the solemn scene with haste retir'd;
While the dull Sexton, as devoid of Sense
Clos'd-up the door of his dark Residence!

Now, unobserv'd by every passing eye
His perish'd parts, in separate atoms, lie;
And, tho' deriv'd from Norman's noble race,
No monument points out his hiding-place!
No pompous pile, or burnish'd marble bust,
Denotes his dwelling, or depicts his dust!
No flattering strains, on shining tombstone, show
What Arts and Sciences are sunk below!
No tablet on the wall unfolds his Birth!
Not ev'n a simple, swelling, heap of Earth,
Rais'd high'r than other, still, in silence, tells
Some human Body in it's bosom dwells!
Oblivion's viewless veil more darkly spread
Than o'er the mansions of the meanest Dead;
Whose roofs above the beaten path aspire,
With green sods, cover'd, and begirt with briar;
While two unletter'd stones, with aspects grey,
Bid living Mortals walk another way!

He, once, so learn'd—ag'd—affluent—now, forlorn!
Like Convict, vile; or Vagrant basely born!
He, who, in noblest lists, enroll'd his Name,
Among the philosophic Sons of Fame;
Unnotic'd, now, with Miscreants meets his lot,
By Foes, and faithless Friends, alike, forgot!
Expung'd from Memory, like a Beggar's brat,
Who, full five Parliaments, in Senate, sat;
Not as a Traytor to his Country's cause,
To grasp her profits, and pervert her Laws—
Not perjuring Conscience; pawning Eloquence
To reimburse a Borough's foul expence;
Nor giving venal votes, with blushless face,
To gain a Peerage—Pension—or a Place—
Not a State-Satyr, blowing hot and cold,
All oaths and obligations bought and sold!
Or courtly weathercock which points its nose
To snuff each breeze a King or Courtier blows;
While, with a Parasite's unseemly pride,
It turns its tail on all the World beside.
He, Pow'r, and proud Prerogative, withstood—
Gave every veto for his Country's good—
Pursuing, still, his honourable plan,
In all predicaments an honest Man!

But tho' he, thus, his Country's rights maintain'd,
And scientific Title fairly gain'd—
Tho' fed on dainties, and repos'd on down—
Ne'er sought a Sovereign's smile nor fear'd his frown—
But, with stern Soul, still thwarted Despot's pow'r,
And scorn'd Corruption's deeds and Bribery's dow'r—
He now submits to fatal Tyrant's might,
And gross Corruption claims him as it's right—
His dust trod down, beneath Earth's filthy floor,
No foot, now finds his Dormitory-door!
No diligence can trace his darksome bed!
From frozen Friends, and cold Acquaintance,—fled!
From false connubial Faith's remembrance frail!
Which, now, ne'er speaks his praise, or tells his tale!
Spurn'd by that Spouse, from that frail memory 'ras'd,
Where wealth all center'd, and all trust was placed—
By each base heart unsought—false eye unseen—
Quite blotted out, as tho' he ne'er had been!

Here is a lesson—note it all that read!
And fix it, firm—a clause in every Creed—
When Mind's accustom'd, long, to loose remark,
And, midst full floods of Light, declares it's dark,
That Light still lessens as dull Age declines,
Till scarce one single ray of Reason shines!
Dark Intellect's at length, so over-cast,
No gleam of hope illumes the Mind at last!
They who thus think not, wish not, while alive,
Their Souls, nor Bodies e'er will Death survive,
But all existence will, with parting breath,
Become extinct, in shades of endless Death—
Heav'n, in just judgment, for such scarlet crime,
Wipes out from memory every trace of Time!
But, chiefly, impious Unbelievers! learn,
Who mock at Mercy—Heav'n's pure Gospel spurn—
'Tis God's dread warning, to Man's daring Race,
All feel His Justice who refuse His Grace!

He, a rude Sceptic; arrogantly wrong;
Despis'd those threatenings that restrain the Throng—
Those Truths, that Heav'n, in Love, on Man bestow'd,
To lead his Reason thro' Life's mazey road.
His graceless Mind, in twinkling twilight grop'd,
Till little was believ'd, and less was hop'd!
Despis'd the Christian Sun, with desperate scorn,
Whose Orb arose to drive Death's shades, forlorn!
Fond of lew'd Infidels' licentious dreams,
Who, wilfully, exclude its blazing beams,
Or his false Faith, irrationally rear'd,
On Pagan plans, before those beams appear'd,
And, while he dar'd degrade that heavenly Light,
Suppos'd his Soul would sit in Nothing's night!

Behold, how Providence pursues his fault,
And sends, in part, the punishment he sought—
Annihilation's hand, so heavy laid,
It leaves him scarce the shadow of a shade—
For, lo! he lies, cut off from human ken,
By Angels mourn'd, while trampled on by Men!

But, tho' he suffers, thus, Man's meanest lot,
By fickle Wife, and faithless Friends, forgot—
From every murderous Memory wip'd away,
His members mingled with the common clay—
Yet, tho' nor heap of earth, nor letter'd stone,
His mansion marks, or makes his manners known
Tho' neither lay laments, or marble weeps,
Still Christ remembers where the Outcast sleeps—
And when His trump shall shake the Heav'ns and Earth
His moulder'd mass must rise in second Birth,
To face that Wife who felt such selfish grudge,
And share, with her, the judgment of that Judge!
An Era when all Heirs of Heav'n will rise
To meet their Master in the clouded Skies;
From every sorrow, pain, and fear, set free,
And gladly hear His Grace's kind decree:
While Hypocrites and Scorners quit their tombs
To hear, with horror, their tremendous dooms!
Then shall each motive of those Minds appear,
Whose bland exterior baffled ignorance here—
Whose Vanity and Pride could squander pelf,
To rear preposterous Monuments for Self!
Whose views, vain-glorious! gorgeous Fabrics build,
Furnish'd with pomp, and with profusion fill'd,
To catch the sight of Citizen and Clown;
Confound the Country, and outstrip the Town!
Where Parasites might puff, and Rustics rave,
Yet, heedlessly, neglect a Husband's grave;
And, still more careless, and more callous, grown,
Midst wrinkles, and grey hairs, forget her Own!
Who, while mementos mark her faded face,
Which Time imprints, and Art can ne'er erase!
While each sad Hour, from all she sees, and feels,
Unnoticed, still some precious portion steals!
While she, more fond, more closely clings to Earth,
Amidst mad joys of jollity and mirth!
Whirls round with rapid speed, and panting breath,
And frisks, and frolics, at the door of Death!
Partakes the giddy rout, or gay carouse,
Nor once reflects on fall'n departed, Spouse—
Indulging every wish, and every whim,
To heighten Self, but none to honour Him!
His gather'd gold, improvidently spends,
To bribe her Flatterers, or corrupt her Friends!
His careful scrapings, at one sweep, exhausts,
In morning treats, or evening holocausts!
Racks every tenant, ransacks all her Mines,
To build her Temples, and adorn her Shrines!
In spite of Christian's horror, Critics' hiss;
Performs her own proud Apotheosis!
On idol Self consuming all that store,
Which Heav'n transferr'd, in trust, for myriads more—
Yea, still more impious, with imperious pride,
Against Heav'n turns with impetuous tide!
With irreligious impudence, presumes
To rob her God, and riot o'er the tombs!
With graceless projects, arrogantly vain!
His long-devoted Temple dares profane!
Break down His altars! banish holy rites!
For festive boards, and Bacchanal delights!
Makes vaunting Vanity those haunts invade,
Where Faith confess'd, and deep Repentance pray'd;
Those walls now echoing back a Mortal's fame,
Which once resounded with Immanuel's Name!
Where Piety, impress'd with love divine,
Bent humbly down o'er holy bread and wine;
Now vain Voluptuaries carve and quaff,
And, thankless—thoughtless—flatter, lie, and laugh!
Where the blest Saviour heard the choral crowd,
Unite lov'd praise with organs pealing loud;
Or Priests, devout, express'd their thankful themes,
Frail Wanton skips, while scrannel fiddle screams!
Where Sensibility o'er Brethren wept,
Whose unmolested frames five centuries slept;
Now from their silent cemeteries torn,
No Friends to plead! no Families to mourn!
Torn from their consecrated resting-place,
Religion's shame! Humanity's disgrace!
Whose dust about Earth's blushing surface flies,
Their place usurp'd by sacrilegious joys!

Canst Thou, vain Dame! if now alive to learn,
Consider scenes, like these, with unconcern?
Canst thou, with comfort, relish festal cheer
Where lately lour'd the black funereal bier?
See o'er thy boards fair folds of linen fall,
And not contrast them with the sable pall;
Or, while thy table stands, with plenty spread
Judge how the living, soon, must join the dead!
Canst thou enjoy that meat, without remorse,
Where lately lay the cold, corrupted, corse;
Or drink, with calm delight, thy costly wine,
Yet ne'er conceive such case must soon be Thine!
There, self-elate, in laughing circle, sit,
To taste rude repartee, or wanton wit,
Where weeping-stones, and epitaphs, appear'd;
Dread requiems—dirges—obsequies—were heard?
With raptures relish Flattery's fawning sound
With ghastly groups of death-heads grinning round?
Are desolated cloisters—ravag'd tombs—
Fit Refectories? or vain Drawing-rooms?
Can peopled Catacombs, for Pomp laid waste,
Confirm thy Talents? or proclaim thy Taste?
Are Understanding—Judgment—Feeling—prov'd,
By landmarks of Humanity remov'd?
Religion cherish'd—Piety display'd—
By Choirs dismantled? altars disarray'd?
Divinity best worshipp'd—best ador'd,
Where sins are ne'r renounc'd—or helps implor'd?
How is God's providential care confess'd,
Where grateful thanks and praise are ne'er express'd!
How is the dear Redeemer's love return'd,
Where Grace and Law's despis'd! All Gospel spurn'd!
How is the Spirit's inspiration prov'd,
While, in the Heart, no fresh affection's mov'd;
Or e'er by psalm—hymn—anthem—once declared
His pow'r's experienc'd, or His nature shar'd!

Within those walls a wonder, once, appear'd—
Strange sounds of penitence—and pray'r—were heard!
And short-liv'd praise, and poor, unthrifty, thanks,
Among the high, as well as humble, Ranks.
No worship, once, but what our Bard inspir'd,
When, from the trifling Trains he oft retir'd,
To chaunt within those walls, in holy lays,
Some plaintive thoughts, glad thanks, or grateful praise!
There, at the time, when Nephew Niece had wed,
A megrim, quite uncommon, seiz'd Aunt's head,
Or, peradventure, hinted by the Niece,
Who seem'd, a little, of a different piece;
And Aunt, Chameleon-like, discover'd, clear,
Could catch the colours of new objects near;
Then thought expedient every Soul should pray,
At least, for once, on every Sabbath-day.
This, as Crispinus wish'd, was thus decreed,
And pious Aunt, or Nephew, tried to read
The Church's pray'rs, pathetic! as they knelt,
But faintly spoke, because but faintly felt,
On that once gracious plat of holy ground
With all the servile ranks assembled round—
'Twas done—but done at such a wretched rate!
Such doleful drawl—hum—haw—and hesitate—
Each accent struck so piteously untrue,
It prov'd the Reader's task entirely new;
Or, that they acted such unpleasant part
It found but feeble pow'r within the heart—
While Crispin's Spirit, warm'd with stronger Grace,
Long'd, fervently, to fill the Chaplain's place.
Thus, while this tedious task was dragg'd along,
Monotonously sad! like murder'd Song;
Each Vassal, cramp'd in unaccustom'd shape,
On grudging knees, with mouths all wide agape,
Bent on bare flooring, whisper'd, glad—Amen—
Thrice was this heard, but—never heard agen!

Such strange productions could not long survive,
Such Parents ne'er kept long such births alive,
With breasts replete with acids, not sweet milk—
Ne'er wrapp'd in woollens, warm, but freezing silk—
Fed only once a week, on Sabbath-Day—
Such puny Infant needs must pine away;
While every hour, throughout the Six, beside,
'Twas purg'd with passion, or 'twas puk'd with pride;
Not one wet Nurse among the motley Host—
No wonder the poor Babe gave up the Ghost!

The heedless Husband, and unwitting Wife,
That brought this feebling bantling into life,
Ne'er sobb'd, or sigh'd, or hung their mourning head,
Nor show'd one sign of sorrow when 'twas dead;
But every feature with fresh lustre shone,
Which prov'd their hearts were glad the Child was gone.

No genuine offspring of ethereal Race
Could e'er improve, in such a sinful place;
For all the purer progeny of Heav'n,
Pine with bad bread, so sour'd with earthly leav'n!
Each noble birth, deriv'd from realms above,
Must well be clothed by Faith, and fed by Love!
Each heavenly lamp, when lighted, quickly dies,
Unless pure spirit still the flame supplies!
Celestial plants not long, in Life, remain;
Except sustain'd by heavenly suns and rain—
No fruit, from sacred Seeds, is ever found
When sown on way-sides—rocks—or thorny ground—
Still Folly's feet, pursuing fancied joy,
With wanton tread each tender germ destroy—
Pride's burning beams, that strike on hearts of stone,
Wither the feeble blades before they're grown—
Each tangling thorn, and suffocating weed,
Foul lusts put forth, and Pride and Passions feed—
Wealth's putrid winds, and sediments of Sloth,
Prevent the produce, and degrade the growth:
The roots, decay'd, soon leaves, and flow'rets, fall,
And blighted heads yield no good fruit at all!

But boast not, Thou, whose blushless Negligence
Hath idly driv'n the noblest Duties thence!
Hath driv'n Devotion from that sacred Place,
To stablish Thieves, and Fiends, and Folly's Race;
Pride, Pomp, and Passion; Luxury, and Lust;
Grace to expunge, and Piety disgust!
Hast sold thy God, who gave Thee all Thou hast,
To purchase Praise—and buy Fame's empty blast!
A blast—how different from that awful sound,
That soon shall shake Earth's vast circumference round,
And call Thee forth, tho' long-dissolv'd in dust,
To give a clear account of every trust!
Nor triumph, now, that Pow'r has dispossess'd
Those long-corrupted carcases, of rest—
Their Souls are gone—and Thine must, shortly, go,
To endless bliss, or everlasting woe!
Attend, meantime, Thy warning-whispering Heart,
Which tries to tell Thee whence, and what, Thou art!
The still, small, voice of God, that speaks within,
Which, fain from Folly, would to Wisdom win!
Would willing turn thy intellectual View
To prospects—objects—thoughts—and reasonings, new!
Would gladly gain Thy Spirit's purer Sense,
To see how soon Fame—Wealth—Life—vanish hence!
To change thy course—Thy puerile crimes deplore,
Ere Age—Disease—and Death—to Judgment turn Thee o'er!

Exult no more, Disturber of the Dead!
Who, like rude Bayliff, robb'st them of their bed!
Who excommunicat'st, without a crime,
And break'st their quiet ere the close of Time!
Those reliques call aloud to Common-Sense;
Wilt Thou not hear them in their own defence?
Dost Thou not mark their scatter'd fragments meet?
Start into form, and stand upon their feet!
Their hollow sockets, furnish'd, once, with eyes,
And fleshless hands, uplifted tow'ards the Skies?
Both night and day thy sacrilege arraign,
While tongueless jaws in Heav'n's prompt ears complain!
Declaring, clearer than the Poet's pen,
Thy impious conduct, in the Minds of Men!
Dost Thou not hear the harsh, hoarse, muttering, tones,
Issue, incessant, from their batter'd bones?
And, loud, Thy culprit-character impeach
More eloquent than all the pow'rs of speech!
And is Thy heart so dead, Thy ear so dull,
They hear'st no lecture from each yawning skull?
Do not their grisly ghosts, with scrannel screams,
Peep from Thy pillow, and disturb Thy dreams?
Or draw Thy curtain, suddenly, aside,
To tell Thee truths Thy folly fain would hide?
Appealing to that Pow'r with whom belongs
The Dead's last verdict and revenge of wrongs!
Canst Thou not hear those voiceless caverns cry,
“Know, Thou deluded Wretch! Thou soon must die!
“And, tho' Thou glory, now, in garnish'd rooms,
“Erected, proudly, o'er our pillag'd tombs—
“Tho' now Thou move so brisk, and smile so bland,
“Death soon will fix, on Thee, his freezing hand!
“Soon dress Thy carcase with cadaverous shroud,
“Tho' now so prank'd in pompous coverings, proud!
“Tho' now in life, and light, thy Frame be found,
“Soon damps and darkness shall each limb surround!
“Tho' now on delicates regal'd, with glee,
“Soon worms, obscene, will sweetly feed on Thee!
“Tho' circling Sycophants fawn on Thee, now,
“Soothe all Thy frailties, ev'n Thy faults avow;
“Yet, maugre these, the hour will quickly come
“When Pimps are dead, and Panegyrists are dumb!
“No more around such refectory sit,
“To hear, and echo back, Thy boasted wit;
“Nor Thou Thy pride and pageantry unite,
“To drink those noxious draughts with new delight!
“No more shall praise Thy pomp, or share Thy pelf,
“But lie in sullen silence—like Thyself!
“No more, false Hypocrites, full-flush'd with health,
“With pride partaking Thy superfluous wealth,
“Thy flattering notice, or Thy niggard fare
“Shall all Thy vaunts, and vanities, declare;
“Thy foolish foibles, and dark faults disclose,
“And those false Friends become Thy bitterest Foes!
“Yea, righteous Heav'n at no far distant day,
“May sweep Thy boasted labours all away!
“Spunge from each print, and picture form, and face!
“Extinguish all Thy Art-obtruded Race!
“To other Strangers all Thy grandeur go,
“Lands; mansions; manors; mines; new Masters know;
“Who may, on Thee, bestow as blank regard,
“As thou on Us, and Thy neglected Bard!
“May o'er Thy grave, as graceless, dance, and dine,
“With heart as hard, annd views as vain, as Thine!
“Pay no respect to Thee, tho' worshipp'd, thus,
“More than Thou, harden'd Monster! pay'st to Us;
“But, with such want of sympathy, behold
“Thy fractur'd frame thus mattock'd from the mould
“Thy dust dispers'd—broke each dismember'd bone—
“Thy naked skull expos'd, like Ours, unknown—
“And Thou experience like opprobrious lot,
“Thy Fame extinct—Thy features all forgot!
“—Yea, peradventure, Thy predestin'd Heir,
“Whose fashion'd looks fond Love's false likeness wear—
“Salutes, with close caress, Thy wither'd cheeks—
“Like filial friendship, each prompt accent speaks;
“May, with dissimulation, mock Thy Sense—
“And with deep cunning cheat Thy confidence—
“For health, and lengthen'd Life, appear to pray,
“Yet wish Thee, Soul and Body both away!
“May, when Thy eyes are clos'd, Thy heart is cold,
“Possess Thy pow'r, and grasp Thy pomp and gold—
“Not to sequester titles—wealth to waste,
“Profusely weak, in Works of Art and Taste—
“Not with a spendthrift-passion scattering Coin,
“To feast his Friends, and make the side-board shine;
“Nor, with Pomp's fragments, Poverty to feed,
“Or mark out Genius with a generous meed;
“But, more like Miser, worshipping his purse—
“Greedy to gain, and backward to disburse.
“He, tho' Thy darling—Thy adopted Son,
“Who, with his hollow wiles, Thy heart hath won—
“In whom Thy Art, and Cunning, clearly strike,
(“And every living Creature loves its like,)
“Thy Nature bears, and boasts connubial Name,
“Precluding elder Brother's clearer claim;
“Yet He, with similarly-selfish Mind,
“Not of vain-glorious, but of grudging, kind,
“Acting, like Thee, the deep Deceiver's part,
“With sordid, mean, monopolizing, heart,
“May spurn his Aunt, just as she spurn'd her Spouse,
“And, in some cave of Earth Thy carcase house;
“Or o'er the spot some paltry symbol rear,
“To tell the World, Lo! Vanity lies here!”

But, tho' thy mental eye no Sprites discern,
Or, from such fancied forms, contemptuous, turn—
Hear'st, from disjointed jaws, no sentence break,
To soberer Souls they practically speak—
And tho' Thy Spirit spurns their silent plea,
Still fancying Death is distant far from Thee—
Tho' in their mouths no admonition dwells,
Reason reads thus, in all those hollow cells;
“In spite of human pride, and human pow'rs,
“Each haughty head shall soon lie low as Ours!”

Yet, lest Thy harden'd heart no fear should feel,
And Thou despise these plaints—this dumb appeal,
Let Me attempt Thy dreaming Mind to wake,
And prove Thou'rt playing an eternal stake—
By maxims pure each prejudice remove,
Thy ostentation stop—Thy Pride reprove.
Each Lust, and Passion, that have ruled so long,
Thus offering Thee a Sermon in my Song.

But should Thy Time expire in Death's dark night,
Ere this religious labour sees the light;
Yet might my hopes by Providence be blest,
To bring these humble strains to public test.
To others may they prove a warning voice
By changing views, or influencing choice!

Learn then some Truths, distinct from Flatterers' trade,
Which Pride, Self-love, and Vanity, pervade.
Learn, while thou run'st and revel'st o'er their grave,
Thou'rt Sin's bond-Servant—Satan's willing Slave!
Indifferent as their dust of future fate
More mindless of Thy Spirit's present state—
Regardless of true Grace, and dead to God,
As their blanch'd bones, or Earth's incumbent clod!

Deem not the Preacher Thy professed Foe,
Who warns Thy views from vanities below—
Who fain would false Ambition's bent controul,
And turn tow'rds Heav'n Thy energies of Soul!
Each pow'r, and purpose, of immortal Mind,
To objects more sublime—by Heav'n design'd;
The Spirit's full capacity to fill—
To win affection, and to turn the Will.
To Objects, which, alone, can Soul suffice!
Faith, only, form—Hope, only, realize!
Which pious Love to all on Earth prefers,
And feels assur'd that all will soon be Her's!
Which more in prospect yield of bliss below,
Than all the blessings Time and Sense bestow!

Consult not Sycophants—they ne'er declare
What present hopes, and future prospects, are.
They ne'er with truth, and honesty, relate
Man's true condition—dark, and desperate state.
They, like Thyself, thro' turpitude of Mind,
Are weakly wild, and obstinately blind!
Self-interests render sentiments too nice
To deal sincere, and sanative, advice.
Like false Physicians, aggravate disease,
In hyppish Patients, to increase their fees—
Ne'er cause alarm, but wickedly allure,
Prescribing drugs which neither kill, nor cure!

Would any think that Patient's friends were wise,
Whose lurking malady in madness lies,
Did they propose proud domes', rich-furnish'd range,
High food, and finery, in continual change,
Instead of russet robes, and pow'rful pukes,
With lonesome cell, in Bedlam, or St. Lukes?

Let such no more Thy sober'd judgment chouse,
So near the threshold of Thy narrow House!
Better consult those bones, of life devoid,
To mock Thy Pomp, and mortify Thy Pride;
Or mark those yawning mouths, in silence, broach,
Bold truths of Death's and Judgment's, near approach!
—Go! and Thy undissembling glass attend—
Lo! that will warn Thee like a faithful Friend!
A moment mark prophetic mirror preach—
'Twill tell more truths than Primate's flattering speech;
And, in the end, may prove of happier use
Than all his courtly compliments produce!
'Twill tell Thee, thus, with clearest eloquence,
“All Earth's delights, with Time, departing hence!
“'Twill show Thee, like the Prophet, ‘Flesh is grass!’
“Like fading flow'rs, choice charms, and pleasures, pass!”
'Twill picture forth, beyond bold Fiction's pow'r,
The swift advance of Life's expiring hour!
'Twill state what monitory traits are seen,
Pourtray'd in form, and face, and air, and mien!
See what it says of Thy complexion, pale:
“'Tis time for Vanity to shorten sail!
“Mark the deep wrinkles of Thy furrow'd face,
“No longer tempting Love's, or Lust's, embrace—
“While wasted breast, and fluted neck, foretell
“The World will, shortly, note Thy funeral knell!
“Thy grizzled tresses, and each toothless jaw,
“From frail delights would warn Thee to withdraw
“To silent solitude, and ruminate
“On present prospects, and on future fate!
“Thy posture prone, and hollow, haggard, eye,
“Look down for lodging where Thou soon must lie—
“While feeble frame, and tottering footstep, say,
“Prepare for Death, and final Judgment-day!”

Have these, completely, Thy attention shar'd?
And every proper evidence prepar'd?
Have all Thy various talents—time—and thought—
Dwelt on such solemn Objects as they ought?
Has none been once presumptuously employ'd,
To varnish Vanity, and polish Pride?
Not one turn'd devious from its true design,
For which the wise Dispenser made them Thine;
But all adjusted to Heav'n's perfect plan,
Their Maker's glory, and the good of Man?
Have all Thy exquisite corporeal pow'rs,
With all their workings, aall Thy waking hours,
And all Thy nameless energies of Mind,
To these pure purposes been full confin'd?

Make Thy past conduct pass in retrospect—
Mark all misapplication—all neglect—
Then pass Thy future plans in full review,
And weigh all Worldly-wisdom aims to do.
No more let Passion blind, or Pride beguile,
But heavenly Wisdom hold the scales awhile,
Till Reason puts in each the proper weights,
Which poise the temporal and eternal States.
Leave all that Fools admit, and Fops admire,
And to Thy closet, close, a time, retire—
There let Thy solitary Soul be still,
And scan Thy schemes by Heav'n's unerring Will;
While all Thy pristine force, with fervour, prays,
That God would guide Thee in His Wisdom's ways.
Concentrate all Thy Spirit's amplest pow'rs,
And dedicate to Truth some hallow'd hours—
Those pow'rs all urg'd in ardent exercise,
Excluding all foul refuges of lies;
While every act, and word, and secret thought,
To Heav'n's true standard, may, by Truth, be brought;
Comparing each with Christ's convicting laws,
And feel what inference duteous Conscience draws.

So far departed from the days of Youth
'Tis time to listen to the voice of Truth!
Thy favour'd Life draws near its fateful end!
To Death's dark shades Thy footsteps fast extend!
Dim, near the horizon, draws Thy setting Sun!
Thy tale's nigh told! Thy sand's all nearly run!
No more by Passion—Pride, or Lusts allur'd—
Nature proclaims—“Thou canst not long be Stew'rd!”

No longer glory in Pomp, Wit, or Wealth—
Land—lengthen'd Life—or undiminish'd Health—
In Honours—Influence—Pow'r—or fancied Fame—
In empty Pageantry—ennobled Name—
In servile Slaves, and Worshippers, at will;
Thy heart will shortly stop—Thy pulse be still!
Consider, then, before they beat their last,
The moment present—the much time that's past—
The current instant is Thy grand concern—
Thou, from what's past, Thy future lot may'st learn;
Unless Thou listen to its warning voice,
And carefully reform each foolish choice!
Time's a swift Courier—brooking no delay,
Tho' Thou, or mightiest Monarch, calls to stay!
Hear Conscience, wak'd by Christ, in mercy sent,
With this short message—“Sinner—now—repent!”
For tho' this instant forfeit Life survive,
Another moment never may arrive!
And, tho' God's golden sceptre Mercy rear,
Stretch'd out, to Thee, thro' Grace, another Year;
Or add a hundred to Thy squander'd store,
The time will come when Time shall come no more!

Tho' in Thy palace, now, supremely plac'd,
Thou challenge Knowledge—Learning—Wit—and Taste—
Things which the vain, and pompous, chiefly, prize—
Mere pleasant playthings to the truly wise!
Could these, throughout all time, to Thee, remain,
With Soul and Body both exempt from pain—
Substantial Peace, and Friends, precluding Fear—
Still all such blessings might be bought too dear.
Could Mortals, with their Mansions, stand ensur'd,
In policies of Heav'n, from fire secur'd.
'Twere wisdom, then, to build embellish'd domes,
And finery fill unalterable homes—
Churl Time will, soon choice Tenements destroy,
Or Death, much sooner, make fond Tenants fly!

Could Knowledge change all Wickedness to Worth
Or Learning banish Ignorance far from Earth,
'Twere duty, then, those talents to obtain,
That Truth and Wisdom thro' the World might reign,
Could cultur'd Taste make natural Conscience nice,
Or Wit root out the various weeds of Vice,
'Twere meritorious then to foster both;
To train their branches, and augment their growth.
Knowledge, and Learning, may, when mix'd with Grace,
Improve the reasonings of the human Race;
But never can, without clear heavenly light,
Scan sacred Truth, or keep the Conscience right:
So may true Taste, or Wit, with due restraints,
Embellish life, and Converse, ev'n in Saints,
But in an impious Chesterfield still tend
To further Vice, and help each lawless end.
True Morals and Religion ne'er were taught
By Fancy's fictions, or distorted thought.
No images grotesque, or shapes uncouth,
Are trappings fit for Piety, or Truth—
No forms unfinish'd—diction undefin'd,
Can force conviction, clear, on moral Mind;
Nor metaphors, confus'd, or megrims odd,
True Holiness ingraft, or honour God!
Much less can blasphemous remarks, or lies,
Promote pure Conduct, make weak Mortals wise—
Or graceless rules e'er graceful conduct draw,
By obvious breach of Heav'n's most holy Law!
With Ostentation, Learning's oft allied—
Great Knowledge forms fresh nutriment for Pride—
Bellows to blow, and fuel feeding Strife;
But both soon cease with proud Possessor's Life!

Could Wealth, in princely amplitude possest,
With blissful satisfaction fill the breast.
Then ought all Rationals increase their store
Till Avarice, full of Self, could crave no more—
Till dull'd Desire no more awak'd the Will,
But every whining Wish had fed its fill.
Alas! in shadows, vain, frail Mortals tread,
Approaching, still, the dwellings of the Dead!
Tho' care, and labour may increase their heap,
Relentless Fate forbids them long to keep!
Riches oft wing themselves, and fly away,
While Age draws on, and energies decay—
Then Wretchedness looks round, of peace bereft,
Not knowing who shall gain what Guilt has left.

Could Taste exterminate all earthly leaven,
And fit pure Spirit for the Court of Heav'n—
So purify, and polish, all the Soul—
So calm each passion—so all pride controul,
That every effort of the manag'd Mind,
By Christ's complete Philosophy refin'd
Might regularly move, like orbs above,
By Wisdom guided, while impell'd by Love!

Could Wit unravel Revelation's clue—
Each prejudice dethrone—each doubt subdue—
The Sophist foil—the Infidel convince—
Instruct the Peasant, and reclaim the Prince—
Illumine every Mind—pure Truth impart—
And drive cupidity from Head and Heart—
Expel each idol from dark holds, within,
And throne the Saviour safe, instead of Sin—
Then would it well be worth a Christian's while
To gather metaphors, and study style—
Thro' Art and Nature, night and morning, trace
To find pure figures in each hiding place—
Thro' Learning's lakes, and streamlets, trail, and grope,
To hook each epithet, and palm each trope;
Then the rich treat on all Man's broods below,
To lengthen Life, and make it blest below—
With savoury Attic salt, corruption cure,
And make both Soul and Body long endure.
But Wit is chiefly sought for selfish Fame—
A source of Mischief oft, and oft of shame!
And, tho' deriv'd from origin divine,
'Tis mostly shown to make vain Mortals shine—
For flattering Flatterers—puffing pow'rful Friends—
Still gathering strength for egotistic ends.
An ornament that boasts but transient blaze,
To gain Possessor's, not great Giver, praise!
An amulet that may its Owner please
But checks not Death nor charms away Disease—
Nor can at all enforce Faith, Hope, or Love;
Add ghostly Grace below, or bliss above!

Since these acquirements ne'er can Health secure,
Make Heav'n more certain, or Earth's Peace more pure;
But soon dear Body must embrace the Dust—
Fleet Spirit fly from Scenes of Pride and Lust,
To give account how every part was spent,
Of these large Talents Thy Creator lent!
'Tis time to state Thy long-delay'd account,
And mark how Conscience casts the mixt amount;
For Death draws nigh—the Judge will quickly call,
To scrutinize—to state—and sentence all!