University of Virginia Library

‘What do we live for, but to serve mankind,
And win a way into the Heav'n of Heav'ns
By being gods below?’ I said, and rose.
I threw my crazy lyre in haste aside,
And vow'd I would attempt some nobler task,
And be no more a trifler. I would die
More than a tinkling poet, measure mad;
The world should owe me something. I would give
An hour to pleasure, and a year to use.
But, false to mine own purpose, like a child
I trifle still, and once again begin.

Thou little warbling poet of the wood,
Leading performer in the sylvan choir,
Sweet Philomel, whose heav'nly-temper'd song,
By day and night, my list'ning ear approves,
Whether in darkness or the moon-beam heard,
Or ev'ning's dying light, or indistinct
In morning's loud and universal song,
Thou art my tempter. Led astray by thee,
I leave my books and ramble, take my lyre
And vainly sing. To see the world so gay,
And Nature putting on her summer robe,
Disposes me to joy, as well as thee.
Sing we together; not for victory,
For I have not ambition to o'ercome
And triumph, like the bard, on whose sweet lyre
Thy conquer'd brother fell, and died for grief.
I own thy song is not to be surpass'd.
Sing we together. Thou shalt be the chief,
And be my song like thine, to critic rules
Never obedient, warbled as I please.
Fancy and nature shall dance hand in hand,
While we our plaintive numbers, wild and sweet,
Irregularly sing. And let us smile
To see the world, as we indulge our mood,
Seem all in motion as if Orpheus sung.
To see the clouds of April float away,
Superbly mountainous, before the breeze,
And hang upon the horizon's utmost skirt,
Bright and voluminous. To see the skies,
Clad in pure azure, on the field and wood
Shed their warm influence, and apparel both
In recent liveries of shadowy green.
To see the garden send his glories forth,
The cherry and the pear-tree white with bloom,
The codling blushing with his load of flow'rs
Scarce yet unfolded to the searching bee;
The border gaily deck'd in various hues,
Anemone and tulip. To behold
Laughter and beauty upon ev'ry bank,
In ev'ry meadow, and on ev'ry hill.
Who can be grave and comment upon words,
And give to dry research the cloudless May?
Toiling philologer, abate thy zeal;
Presuming critic, throw aside thy books:
Be wise, and taste, while yet life's taper burns,
The harmless pleasures of the world we own.

Ye great and rich, where are ye? See ye not
How beauty decks your villas? Ah! ye sleep
In streets and squares, where nature never smiles.
Leave, leave your capital and come away.
Why will ye lose a season sweet like this?
Drink with me at the fountain of delight,
Nor deem me prejudiced and wanting taste,
If, unseduc'd, I love the country still,
And never quit it to be gay like you.
I thank my God he made me as I am,
And gave me not ambition to aspire
To more than rural honours. I was born
Never to vote upon the grand debate,
A widow's only son, a mate-less boy,
Almost the eldest of a train of seven;
Yon merry-hearted girl, scarce woman yet,
The youngest. Yes, yon merry-hearted girl,
For ever laughing, and her jest still good;
Born on the day which saw her father die:
Who, ever as I write, is with me still,
Tho' leagues remote, and floats across my mind,
Acting her thousand fancies, while I steal,
To decorate some passage of my song,
More than I dare acknowledge: she, who fills,
And wisely fills, the choicest hours of life
With hearty merriment, nor ever weeps,
Save when she welcomes her returning friend,
Or sees him with reluctance steal away;
Or save when she reflects on time elaps'd,
And grieves to think how many years are fled,
And she and excellence have never met;
Like the great hero, deeming nothing done
While aught remains to be with pain achiev'd.
Proceed, inquisitive and curious soul,
Nor think that excellence was ever found
Save in his works where thine attentive eye
Delights to read it. Follow nature still,
Find something lovely in the meanest flower,
And fill thy hand, and satisfy thy heart,
With all the graces of the field and grove.
I can admire them too; and I could tell,
Might I the secret sentiment disclose
Which twines about my heart, that in no field
Blossoms a flower more lovely than thyself.

The last of seven was she; almost the first
This scribbling trifler whom I call myself;
A silent, shame-fac'd, hesitating boy,
Left on yon desert mountain, yet a child.
And there had he still dwelt, untaught and rude,
A clown at best, had not that Providence
Which took away his father sent him friends.
Methinks I see the Idler ill improv'd,
Trifling away the precious hours of youth
In saunt'ring ignorance; his whole employ
To ramble on the hill, or bowl the flint
Down the reclining steep into the vale;
To wander on the beach, and see the waves,
In flouncing grandeur, tumble on the shore;
Climb the rude cliff, and look abroad elate,
Or point the gun at the ascending mew,
Above the precipice's jutting edge
With her wide wings appearing, to be maim'd
By wanton cruelty that eats her not.
Perhaps he had been now an awkward boor,
Steering the plough, or goading the slow team
Along the mountain side; or partisan
In yon vile borough; of whose menial ways,
Oft as he thinks, he burns, from head to foot,
Unspeakable disgust.

He oft had seen,
While yet an infant, the embattled port,
Beheld her fleet, her iron walls perus'd,
And on her lofty rampart stood elate,
To see the battle-ship with bellying sails,
Fresh from the dock, come like a giant forth,
And leave the haven for some grand exploit
To be remember'd to the end of time.
In silent ecstasy he saw her pass,
Heavily pass upon the flood below,
With thunder laden, till her draught was deep;
Observ'd her ardent multitude of souls
Swarming like bees upon her deck; her guns
In threat'ning order at their gloomy ports
Stand ready for assault. But all that joy
Was little to the transports he then felt,
When, turning to the deep, she hail'd her chief,
And flash'd from tier to tier her proud salute.
He almost danc'd to see the ruddy flame
Lighten alternately from side to side,
To see the tardy nitrous smoke ascend
In glorious volumes, and to feel the earth
Quake at the thunder of her deep address.

Under the flatt'ring prospects we adore
There often lurks a danger not perceiv'd;
And were we never thwarted in our course,
Salvation must miscarry. Mercy, then,
Is the foundation and effectual spring
Of all events which seem the work of chance.
The man repuls'd, is but the child refus'd
The dangerous weapon which may wound himself.
Then, Curate, be contented. Preach and pray;
Nor ever grieve that Fashion, too severe,
Muzzles the ox that treadeth out the corn.
Fashion, blind authoress of great abuse,
That starves the curate down to forty pounds,
Carpenter's wages; and anon in terms
Of loud invective rails against the Church,
For owning sons of ignorance and vice.
Who is to blame? The needy Curate? No.
How can he purchase knowledge? He must live.
What can he learn then? Kennicott alone
Would cost him eight weeks pay. What wonder, then,
He drops his learning, and becomes a dunce?
He gossips all day long, from house to house,
Dines where he can, and cares not where he dines,
Forsakes divinity, and is at best
A walking colander, for news and wine;
A travelling post who seldom sleeps at home,
Returning to his lodgings once a week,
Duly apparent with the Sunday sun,
And with the Sunday sun again withdrawn.
Perhaps if in some lonely village plac'd,
Remote from balls, assemblies, cards, and routs,
He hires a farm, and with amazing zeal
Preaches one day in seven, and ploughs the rest.
Who blames him? Destitute of pence and books,
How can he study? To be misemploy'd
Becomes him better than to lounge abroad,
In yawning idleness, the source of vice,
Which like a bur to ev'ry idler's coat
Closely adheres, and on the sable clerk
Is doubly visible.

But sable clerk
Perhaps he is not. He has found it cheap
To shine in colours, and denies his back
Its ancient honours to improve his bread.
Behold him clad in buck-skin. Blame him not,
His salary is fifty pounds a year.
He keeps a horse, to skip from cure to cure,
Combs him himself, and puzzles his own locks.
Yet all is scarce enough to keep him clear
From hungry creditors, howe'er he acts
The menial spunger for his daily bread.
What wonder then the Curate is despis'd,
And not regarded, preach what text he may?
'Tis independence consecrates the priest,
And makes him awful in the vulgar eye,
More than a world of learning. Who wants bread,
And grows familiar with the meanest clown
To be invited to his homely board,
Will want authority to humble vice,
Encourage virtue, and enforce his word,
Tho' he preach Tillotson. Nay more, will want
That thing more prevalent on vulgar minds
Than all the printed sermons he can preach,
A good example. For the clerk is man,
Tho' an Apostle; and if man with man
Promiscuously associates, man from man
Will catch infection, and contract disease,
Till one offensive plague involves them all.

Then give the labourer his proper hire;
Make him respectable, and let him feed
As largely as he ought of lib'ral tithe,
Paid for the service which his hand performs.
Encourage him to learn, and give him means:
Put clogs on ignorance, and trammel vice.
Shepherd of God, thou president of flocks,
Look to the vineyard door. Beware the wolf,
And let none pass till thou hast search'd him well.
Examine his credentials and himself,
And know him worthy. If the dunce appear,
Or man of worldly morals, shut the gate;
Nor let the tongue of slander dare to say,
We take recruits, to make the corps complete,
From the vile refuse of all trades that are.
Let not the dissolute unletter'd boy,
Deserted from the counter or the plough,
Tradesman, or soldier, or attorney's clerk,
Meet with a last asylum in the desk.

If such succeed, well may yon vain divine,
Yon carving doctor with his a, b, c,
De grege porcus, lustily presume
To sound the trumpet of abundant aid;
Aid wanted, and, if decently applied,
Aid not to be refus'd. For how shall he,
Who spent in idleness his youth, and knows
As little of the Bible as the Koran,
Preach as he ought? Where nothing is within,
Is it not plain without a diagram
That nothing can come out? Give the poor fool
A good discourse, no matter whence it came,
Let it be any writer's, not his own,
His flock shall profit, and himself improve.
Should he become a scribbler, and obey
The doctrine of yon hurdy-gurdy knight,
Prolix biographer, whose motley tale
Stains the good character he meant to praise,
He will be dull, and may perhaps be wrong.
Blind guides must lead amiss, or condescend
To be themselves directed. He who thinks
Sudden transition to a sable suit,
Commission granted to go forth and preach,
A church obtain'd, and holy looks put on,
Enough to constitute the good divine,
And meet instructor of a christian flock,
Thinks much amiss. Let the close-reading boy
Fix his attention on this book alone,
This great foundation of the faith we preach,
And search no other, from the earliest days
Of lisping childhood, till sufficient age
Makes him a priest, yet shall he scarce have learn'd
Enough to fit him for the dang'rous task
Of playing the Apostle without stilts.
How shall he preach then with the skill he ought,
Who serves no long apprenticeship to learn,
But like the sudden bubble of the pool
Springs up at once, and comments upon texts
Drawn from a volume which he never read?
Should we not laugh to see a bungling clown
Assume the grave physician, play the judge,
The surgeon, or the painter, and pretend
To give us lectures upon wand'ring stars,
And virtual properties in all we see?
And is divinity an art so poor,
It may be fathom'd with an inch of line,
It may be borrow'd at a moment's glance,
And practis'd with applause? Read, and read on.
That God who fram'd the Bible, fram'd the world;
And he has wrapp'd in both a thousand truths,
Which none but the researching eye shall see;
And there are some perhaps which utmost zeal,
Divine or philosophic, shall not reach
And happily explain. For we are blind:
Yet have we feeble eyes, and if we please
May see a little, and be learning still.
There is no region on the earth we tread,
Nor section of this Volume old or new,
So closely travell'd and so well observ'd,
But he who journeys may still bring us home
Recent discovery. Then search it well,
Nor dare to preach till thou hast coolly scan'd
These fertile pages for the words of truth.
Booted Apostle, lay aside thy whip,
Thy trav'ling trunk, thy fiddle, flute, and gun,
Forego the feast, the horse-race, and the rout,
Read less thy cards, and study more thy books.
Where is thy ancient glorious panoply?
In exemplary virtue clothe thy breast,
Be girt with truth, and let the shield of faith
Blaze on thine arm. Take thy tremendous sword,
Thy spear invincible, the word of God,
And issue forth to war. Fight, and be brave.
Ah me! thine armour is laid by and lost;
Thy slighted breastplate is consum'd with rust;
Thy girdle is decay'd; and thy weak arm,
Enervated with long inglorious ease,
Can scarce uphold the shield, or draw the sword,
Or lift the pond'rous spear. For shame! for shame!

Enough of curates, a prolific theme,
But theme unsavory to idle clerks,
Who will not work, and therefore should not eat.
Proceed our childish and vainglorious tale,
Of one who grew upon the mountain's brow
A shamefac'd boy, and was transported thence
Into the woody valley, to become
A poor Apostle in a country church.
Though poor, yet vain, and of his function proud,
Esteeming none more worthy. See him now
A scribbler and a poet; not from want,
Not for the empty bubble of renown,
But self-amusement and the hope of good.
He values little what the world may say,
Careless of fame and universal praise,
Careless of censure, coveting alone
The approbation of himself and Heav'n.
Who buys him, does him kindness and is thank'd.
He might have purchas'd a less worthy bard:
For nine in ten are pleasure's ministers,
Playing the prostitute for daily bread.
Whence comes it, Genius, that thy glowing thought,
Which fires the page and burns along the line,
So oft misleads us, like the wand'ring light
Seen by the midnight vagrant, to the fen
Unfaithful to the foot, or river's brink
Which overhangs a deep and silent flood,
Where he that plunges is for ever lost?
O shame! to act the strumpet with an art
Which God's own messengers have prov'd divine!
Soon as the holy Seer receiv'd the word
He was a poet, and in ardent style
And lofty numbers pour'd his message forth.
The Prophets and Apostles were all bards,
And fill'd the holy page with thought so great,
That he who construes is with phrensy seiz'd,
And the magnificent command he reads
Propounds in language as sublime as theirs.
So find we God in our own native tongue
Array'd in grandeur, and may deem this Book,
This ancient version, painfully obtain'd,
The lesser light of Heav'n, the full-orb'd moon,
Which in the absence of the parent Sun
Shines with no feeble glory. Nor alone
Made God his Prophets bards. His only Son
In sweet poetic lesson taught the world;
Now breathing mercy and eternal love
In melting parable; denouncing now
Terrible vengeance and consuming wrath
In lofty prophecy. Yea, God himself
Despises not to use the Poet's art.
For what is all the springing scene we see
But heav'nly poetry, enchanting ode,
Fresh from the hand of God? What are the Heav'ns,
And those revolving fires, but living song
Which God's own finger wrote? Then let that art
Which Heav'n so freely owns be sacred here,
And make it not the vehicle of vice,
But chaste improvement. Innocent at least
Be all thy song; and if thy wit be poor,
And cannot please without obscene allusion,
Sing not at all. For me, if to live long
To be esteem'd, and honour'd, I must write
The fulsome tale unworthy to be read,
I dare to perish; and will only live
While truth and virtue can the line embalm.

Nor shall my Muse turn sycophant to win
A wish'd-for Patron; steadfastly resolv'd
To buy promotion with not pence nor praise.
True, she has need, and she has hope to rise;
But here she signs her absolute protest,
To rise with honesty, or not at all.
Patron not venal, (if perchance the eye
Of such a patron may my page regard)
These are my wishes: A good parsonage house,
A spacious garden, ample and rich glebe,
Pasture and wood. Emolument, withal,
Enough to satisfy all decent wants,
Enough to let me, if I please, be good,
And still leave something to be laid aside
For those who follow me. And be my house
Plac'd on some wholesome spot, a rising ground,
Commanding hills and valleys, woods and spires,
Thick-scatter'd oaks and legible enclosures;
With here and there, perhaps, a distinct view
Of lake and winding river, ancient bridge,
Blue mountains far remote, or azure sea
Above the green tops of a woody vale
With frequent sails appearing. Be it far
From noise and bustle, and far, very far
From boroughs ever squabbling, bought or free.
And be my income in the hands of few,
Soon and with ease collected, both well pleas'd,
Who pays, and who receives. Law I abhor.
Give me much leisure, and domestic ease,
And sooner than contend and deal in strife,
I'll be content with something less than due;
For we are messengers of peace to man,
And ought to sacrifice a pound or two,
Rather than quarrel for our utmost right.
Where disagreement, and none-sparing wrath,
Between the pastor and his flock prevail,
Improvement never thrives, truth prospers not,
And virtue, which abhors to share her seat
With vice and malice, gradually expires.

Apostle, be not hasty to be rich.
There was a man some centuries ago,
Two, three, or four—Mark me, the tale is true.
Two livings had he, and an only child,
A buxom daughter, and he would be rich.
He pinch'd his tenants for their utmost tithe,
And made his curate fast on forty pounds;
Bolted his door, and harbour'd no desire
To entertain an Angel unawares.
Hungry he was for an immense estate,
And, not affording even a parlour fire,
Dwelt in his kitchen with his man and maid.
But mark how avarice defeats itself.
He sav'd a fortune; but his wanton child
Brought him an heir to his ill-gotten gold,
By his own nauseous footboy. So thrives wealth
Basely accumulated. A few pounds
Gather'd without oppression, or the want
Of hospitality and christian love,
Had prosper'd. He had gone to Heav'n in peace,
And left so sweet a memory behind,
His name had liv'd like a divine perfume,
Still lov'd and cherish'd, though its od'rous cause
Had been for years remov'd. Such be my lot!

Alas for Mede! A little donative
Was all he wish'd for, and he died without it:
A little donative to keep a steed
And ride into the country to his friends;
And yet he died at fifty-two without it.
My lords, who sat upon the British bench,
And saw this noble luminary pass,
Look down from Heav'n, and tell us what the cause
So great a churchman had so small regard.
Was he not learned? Was he not devout?
And yet he died without his donative,
And almost died alone, at fifty-two,
His utmost gain a little fellowship.
Nor died he discontent. A college square
Was world enough for him, and daily bread
The feast of plenty. 'Tis the modest mind,
And sense of benefits already given,
Which constitutes the happiness of life.
Think not him happy, whose insatiate heart
Perceives no plenitude, but ever longs,
Gain what he will, and need it how he may,
Still to rise one step higher. Shall the man
Who felt no want, and had no child to serve,
Yet sold the friend that made him for a bribe,
Feel the down pillow of preferment soft?
Let Judas answer. Was the treasure sweet,
When he betray'd his Master to his foe?
Why was it cast away? why was he sad?
Why did he bitterly repent and die?
Alas! he found there was no peace on earth,
When gratitude and honour were no more.

Curate! abhor preferment bought and sold.
Be conscientious, and let straitest want
Never compel thee to infringe an oath.
What is a Bishopric, obtain'd amiss?
The short preferments of this changeful stage
All pass away. The minister that gives,
And all the friends that prosper in his smile,
Must one day fall, and mingle with the dust.
The grave will swallow all; and 'tis but wise
To think how we shall meet that serious hour,
Laden with recollection how we rose,
And martyr'd conscience for the love of gain.
'Tis but respect and justice to ourselves,
That we remember how the foamy deep
And hungry fish threw up again to life
The disobedient prophet, tho' he seem'd
To be gone down for ever. And 'twere well,
If we survive the terrible assault
Of pain and dissolution, and must wake,
When we have slept a crazy world away,
To make excuses for our conduct here—
'Twere well to rise with no uneasy hearts,
And meet no frowning catalogue of crimes,
Which even Mercy in her mildest mood
Cannot exculpate to her sister Justice.

O ye! who stand upon the giddy heights
Of ill-obtain'd preferment, and look back
With just abhorrence on the venal arts
And base enormities by which ye rose—
Ye who have sold your master, and provok'd
The viper slander to be fierce indeed,
And fix her pois'nous fangs upon the church,
Condemning all for the abuse of some;
I envy not the little peace ye feel,
Assur'd that bread dishonestly obtain'd
Is never sweet. Eats it not bitter now,
Mingled with sorrow, self-reproach, and shame?
Then rather than be base, and rise like you,
Be it my lot to play the Curate still.

Who has enough to be remov'd from need,
Is rich, and ought to be content at least.
Say, that the will of Providence is such,
This trifling scribbler must no higher rise,
Are not the pleasures of retirement his?
Leisure, and freedom, and a mind at ease,
Books, and the shady vale, and evening's walk,
Cheerful companions, and the sweet return
Of Music ever various? Who needs more?
These are the sweetest luxuries of life,
Innocent luxuries that never cloy,
The best enjoyments to be found below:
And these are mine. Continue these, good God,
And give me health to use them as I please;
And, be the rest or granted me or not,
I'll pass through life with no unthankful heart,
And give a good report of human bliss,
To those who ask me at the gates of Heav'n.