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CHAPTER 12th.
The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse |  |
When blythe Scintilla, at her Dome, sublime,
To pass away her Evening's tedious time,
Form'd private parties, so, collusive, call'd,
When twenty—forty—sixty—Names were bawl'd,
By frequent summons, on dull Sunday night,
To put all frightful things, and thoughts, to flight—
Things of eternal—infinite—concern!
That all should show, in Life, as well as learn.
Thoughts Grace induces, in God's holy Day,
On pious hearts, which simply watch and pray—
Thoughts all should seek—and, thankfully, receive;
Not quench the impulse, and pure Offerer grieve—
Promis'd for all, to furnish fuller joy,
Which Time ne'er taints, nor Accidents destroy—
Which Pomp should ne'er prevent, or Pride repel,
In splendid Circle, more than private Cell;
Pleasure ne'er drown, or Dissipation drive
From the frail heart of any Soul alive.
But such vain Triflers urge their strenuous toil,
The heavy hours, of Sabbaths, to beguile;
While with egregious nonsense and grimace,
They grieve kind Conscience, and the Day disgrace;
Expending precious talents, time, and breath,
To drown ungrateful thoughts of God, and Death.
To pass away her Evening's tedious time,
Form'd private parties, so, collusive, call'd,
When twenty—forty—sixty—Names were bawl'd,
By frequent summons, on dull Sunday night,
To put all frightful things, and thoughts, to flight—
Things of eternal—infinite—concern!
That all should show, in Life, as well as learn.
Thoughts Grace induces, in God's holy Day,
234
Thoughts all should seek—and, thankfully, receive;
Not quench the impulse, and pure Offerer grieve—
Promis'd for all, to furnish fuller joy,
Which Time ne'er taints, nor Accidents destroy—
Which Pomp should ne'er prevent, or Pride repel,
In splendid Circle, more than private Cell;
Pleasure ne'er drown, or Dissipation drive
From the frail heart of any Soul alive.
But such vain Triflers urge their strenuous toil,
The heavy hours, of Sabbaths, to beguile;
While with egregious nonsense and grimace,
They grieve kind Conscience, and the Day disgrace;
Expending precious talents, time, and breath,
To drown ungrateful thoughts of God, and Death.
Do They, who, thus, with mad, mistaken, Taste,
These desecrated Evenings weakly waste—
Still, with their utmost efforts, mutual, strive,
To keep their momentary mirth alive—
With fulsome flattery, circling round, to raise
Self-love's fix'd glow to Vanity's full blaze—
Or Pride, with idol-adoration, swell,
Which springs from Satan, and which points to Hell!
Do They experience permanent delights
Like those who spend their hours in holy rites?
Who elevate, with Love, their humble hearts
To Him who every gift, and grace, imparts?
All sinful Passions—Lusts—and Pride, repress,
And look alone to Him for Happiness?
Who prompt each Virtue—pious Vows renew,
And give all Honour where all Honour's due?
Do such the silent Night, and Darkness, dread?
The lone retirement? or the sleepless bed?
God's Omnipresence—Justice—Truth, and Pow'r—
The day of Death, and Judgment's awful hour—
Like those, with Wit—Rank—Riches—Birth—unblest,
Who thus profane the Eves of sacred rest?
These desecrated Evenings weakly waste—
Still, with their utmost efforts, mutual, strive,
To keep their momentary mirth alive—
With fulsome flattery, circling round, to raise
Self-love's fix'd glow to Vanity's full blaze—
Or Pride, with idol-adoration, swell,
Which springs from Satan, and which points to Hell!
Do They experience permanent delights
Like those who spend their hours in holy rites?
Who elevate, with Love, their humble hearts
To Him who every gift, and grace, imparts?
All sinful Passions—Lusts—and Pride, repress,
And look alone to Him for Happiness?
Who prompt each Virtue—pious Vows renew,
And give all Honour where all Honour's due?
Do such the silent Night, and Darkness, dread?
The lone retirement? or the sleepless bed?
God's Omnipresence—Justice—Truth, and Pow'r—
The day of Death, and Judgment's awful hour—
Like those, with Wit—Rank—Riches—Birth—unblest,
Who thus profane the Eves of sacred rest?
Will such pursuits, 'neath fashionable roof,
With foolish laughter, keep such fears aloof?
Those thoughts, like Spectres, Fops, and Flattery, spurn,
But will they not in soberer times return?
Will not the dread of Death, and God, intrude,
In times of silence and of solitude?
Or, in sequester'd hours of nightly gloom,
Reflections on the Grave, and day of Doom?
With foolish laughter, keep such fears aloof?
Those thoughts, like Spectres, Fops, and Flattery, spurn,
But will they not in soberer times return?
Will not the dread of Death, and God, intrude,
In times of silence and of solitude?
Or, in sequester'd hours of nightly gloom,
Reflections on the Grave, and day of Doom?
Can They with flights of Wit, or force of Will,
Repel such thoughts—keep such reflections still?
Tear Conscience from her fix'd retreat within,
And quite ungraft all sense of guilt, and sin,
Make void Heav'n's Laws? all Virtue's dues disown?
And force the Saviour from His sovereign Throne?
Repel such thoughts—keep such reflections still?
Tear Conscience from her fix'd retreat within,
And quite ungraft all sense of guilt, and sin,
Make void Heav'n's Laws? all Virtue's dues disown?
And force the Saviour from His sovereign Throne?
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CHAPTER 12th.
The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse | |