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 | Miscellanies (1785) |  |
Ye selfish friends, ye worshippers of gold,
Who deem a passion lavish'd if unsold;
Who farm the feelings with a statesman's art,
And like base usurers, traffic with the heart:
Who to that idol in its nich confine
The holy incense due at nature's shrine;
Say, can your sordid merchandize deny
The sacred force of heav'n-born Sympathy?
Ah, no! the gen'rous spirit takes a part,
As goodness, glory, pity, move the heart.
Else, why at fabled virtues do we glow?
At fabled sorrows why with tears o'erflow?
Why with the bleeding hero do we bleed,
Why scorn the base; and love the gen'rous deed?
Why, as with Homer's chiefs we rush to war,
Each turn of varying fortune do we share?
Why with the mourning wife of Hector mourn,
With Priam weep, and with Achilles burn?
Spite of your arts the sympathies arise,
And aid the cause of all the brave and wise;
Spite of your little selves, when virtue charms,
To nature true, the social passion warms;
Vain to resist, imperial nature still
Asserts her claim, and bends us to her will.
Who deem a passion lavish'd if unsold;
Who farm the feelings with a statesman's art,
And like base usurers, traffic with the heart:
Who to that idol in its nich confine
The holy incense due at nature's shrine;
Say, can your sordid merchandize deny
The sacred force of heav'n-born Sympathy?
Ah, no! the gen'rous spirit takes a part,
As goodness, glory, pity, move the heart.
Else, why at fabled virtues do we glow?
At fabled sorrows why with tears o'erflow?
Why with the bleeding hero do we bleed,
Why scorn the base; and love the gen'rous deed?
39
Each turn of varying fortune do we share?
Why with the mourning wife of Hector mourn,
With Priam weep, and with Achilles burn?
Spite of your arts the sympathies arise,
And aid the cause of all the brave and wise;
Spite of your little selves, when virtue charms,
To nature true, the social passion warms;
Vain to resist, imperial nature still
Asserts her claim, and bends us to her will.
And Gold itself, tho' stigmatis'd with rage,
Thro' many a rash, declamatory page,
The gorgeous ruin by each bard decry'd,
In tuneful scorn or philosophic pride,
Wit's standing subject of supreme disgrace,
And gravely call'd the curse of all our race,
Yes Gold itself—tho' soft Tibullus swears,
In deafen'd Nemesis to all his prayers,
Brib'd her false heart from passion's sacred fire,
And loos'd her from the magic of his lyre—
Appears, my friend, the social pow'r to aid,
Pure from the dust that clogs the wheel of trade.
Full falsely charge we mother Earth with wrong,
In all the wild licentiousness of song:
Safe in her central caverns harmless shone
This hoarded treasure of her ancient throne,
In rich repose it slept within the mine,
Nor wish'd to quit the subterraneous shrine,
With parent caution, Earth who knew its powers,
O'er the fair mischief strew'd her various flowers,
While every flower her sweetest perfume bore,
That her lov'd children might require no more
Thro' many a rash, declamatory page,
The gorgeous ruin by each bard decry'd,
In tuneful scorn or philosophic pride,
Wit's standing subject of supreme disgrace,
And gravely call'd the curse of all our race,
Yes Gold itself—tho' soft Tibullus swears,
In deafen'd Nemesis to all his prayers,
Brib'd her false heart from passion's sacred fire,
And loos'd her from the magic of his lyre—
Appears, my friend, the social pow'r to aid,
Pure from the dust that clogs the wheel of trade.
40
In all the wild licentiousness of song:
Safe in her central caverns harmless shone
This hoarded treasure of her ancient throne,
In rich repose it slept within the mine,
Nor wish'd to quit the subterraneous shrine,
With parent caution, Earth who knew its powers,
O'er the fair mischief strew'd her various flowers,
While every flower her sweetest perfume bore,
That her lov'd children might require no more
| Miscellanies (1785) | |