 | Young Arthur |  |
123
VARIATION V.
A few trifling Mistakes rectified.
Give me, O, give the rural cot
With modest mild flowers deck'd around;
A shade, embow'ring, near the spot,
With reverend, mellow age embrown'd;
Whose charms no idle gaze invite,
But which the trav'ler weary
May, seeing, gladly bless the sight,
And feel his heart grow cheery;
Then o'er the threshold pass will he
Crying “Benedicite!”
With modest mild flowers deck'd around;
A shade, embow'ring, near the spot,
With reverend, mellow age embrown'd;
Whose charms no idle gaze invite,
But which the trav'ler weary
May, seeing, gladly bless the sight,
And feel his heart grow cheery;
Then o'er the threshold pass will he
Crying “Benedicite!”
Give me, O, give the circle gay;
Unfetter'd where the fancies move
To pleasure's dulcet roundelay,
And all is life, and joy, and love:
Where beauty all resistless shines,
And wit the song composes,
And mirth the willing hour entwines.
With wreaths of blooming roses.
Take the grave, the gay give me,
Crying, “Benedicite!”
Unfetter'd where the fancies move
To pleasure's dulcet roundelay,
And all is life, and joy, and love:
Where beauty all resistless shines,
And wit the song composes,
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With wreaths of blooming roses.
Take the grave, the gay give me,
Crying, “Benedicite!”
Thus passions contrasted their bias disclose,
For rivalry panting, or wooing repose;
Discontent and depravity fly to extremes,
And, equally idle, one doats and one dreams;
The cot has its charms, and the circle its graces,
And one fans the fires which the other effaces;
Those fires heaven gave, and our caution they claim,
Our part to refine not extinguish, the flame;
We sigh for the cot when o'erburthen'd with care,
And fancy felicity paramount there;
We pant for the circle when buoyant the mind,
In extacy's spell the coy phantom to bind;
Mistaken in both: for when innocence fled
Felicity follow'd; and hope in her stead
Came to raise, not to wreathe, Nature's shame-drooping head.
The cot has its care, and its vice, and its strife,
And mere vegetation's no licence of life;
The circle has sorrows, though trick'd out with joys,
'Tis a welcome that wearies, delight that destroys.
For rivalry panting, or wooing repose;
Discontent and depravity fly to extremes,
And, equally idle, one doats and one dreams;
The cot has its charms, and the circle its graces,
And one fans the fires which the other effaces;
Those fires heaven gave, and our caution they claim,
Our part to refine not extinguish, the flame;
We sigh for the cot when o'erburthen'd with care,
And fancy felicity paramount there;
We pant for the circle when buoyant the mind,
In extacy's spell the coy phantom to bind;
Mistaken in both: for when innocence fled
Felicity follow'd; and hope in her stead
Came to raise, not to wreathe, Nature's shame-drooping head.
The cot has its care, and its vice, and its strife,
And mere vegetation's no licence of life;
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'Tis a welcome that wearies, delight that destroys.
O, see gentle peace, lovely angel of light,
Whom the smiles, at the call of benevolence, crown;
And health attends ever, bland, cheerful, and bright;
And innocent sleep with his mantle of down;
And love, such as angels survey with a smile,
Which purity teaches, and virtue ensures;
And friendship, unknown or to gain or to guile;
And hope, blue-ey'd maid, who endears and endures.
Whom the smiles, at the call of benevolence, crown;
And health attends ever, bland, cheerful, and bright;
And innocent sleep with his mantle of down;
And love, such as angels survey with a smile,
Which purity teaches, and virtue ensures;
And friendship, unknown or to gain or to guile;
And hope, blue-ey'd maid, who endears and endures.
Where is peace found? explore the hermit's cell,
And ask the anchorite if there she dwell;
Ask him, who sits a fixture of the scene,
Vapid, not peaceful; sullen, not serene;
Wasting the present to regret the past;
Whose fast is famine, and whose feast a fast;
He, whom the poet sings, in specious lays,
“Prayer all his pastime, all his pleasure praise.”
Ask him if peace within his cell reside,
Where silence sits, and coward passions hide,
Fetter'd not rein'd; go ask if peace dwells there—
What flies the social but disease and care?
He'll answer, “yes,” but shall his word suffice?
His haggard cheek speaks plainly that he lies.
What can he pray for, he, who all resigns?
How praise the God whose service he declines?
Are pray'r and praise alone for duty given?
Easy and indolent the way to heaven!
And in that way, (twin born) by God's command,
Sweet peace with piety goes hand in hand.
Bound to no rank, and to no place confin'd,
Peace, heavenly seraph, mansions in the mind;
The mind that fix'd on duty's high behests
“Reads, marks, and learns, and inwardly digests.”
Digesting acts, and, acting, truth obeys;
Seeks that by pray'r, and sweetens this by praise;
These are the pray'r and praise, devoutly giv'n,
Which rise a grateful holocaust to heav'n;
At best all doubtful else, or pious strife;
Ask my authority, “The Book of Life.”
Duty's a pillar; pray'r the prime or base,
Practice the shaft, the capital is praise.
Here, cries some zealot, with fanatic bawl ,
“Faith is the base, shaft, capital, and all;
All else is vanity! turn Hindoos, Turks;
And hope for Heaven as wisely as from works;
“Mere rags of righteousness” ne'er saints beseem,
The “filthy dowlass,” of a madman's dream.”
And where for saints, good bigot, shall we search?
Dream they with Southcot or deduce from Church ;
Who, fix'd in faith, let all base passions in,
Hymning Hosannas as a grace to sin.
O, fools and Pharisees! two faiths are found;
One saves, one damns; go, ascertain the sound.
A tree of life God planted; Faith the root,
And works (his word my oracle) the fruit;
And useless both, to profit or to please,
These wanting that, or that unbless'd by these.
This from Faith's fountain flows; there drink, and live;
Opinion's rivers no chalybeate give.
Where is peace found? Where virtue is belov'd;
Where by each other faith and works are prov'd;
When man the precepts of his teacher bind,
Who loving him, like him, loves all mankind;
To all a brother, and to all a friend,
Self to the social nobly can extend;
To man whose wealth, whose time, whose pow'rs are giv'n,
To teach, to lure, and lead the way to Heav'n;
Those whom weak faith to partial good impels
Peace sometimes visits, but with him she dwells:
Where dwells that man? peculiar to no place,
Of cot, of city, and of court the grace;
He shuns the cell; no stagnant water's good;
Virtue loves transient not fix'd solitude;
What e'er but dearth or rude invasion sprung
From land uncultur'd or the bow unstrung?
Give rest to age, but why supineness preach?
Youth's task to toil, the task of age to teach.
Close me the cell for ever—fool, decline
To hide in holes “the human face divine:”
If thou art sad seek comfort in thy kind;
Disease no nostrum will in desarts find;
If to avoid temptation is thy boast,
We scorn the sentry who deserts his post;
From ill abstaining is but half thy task;
That, and pursuing good, Heaven's mandates ask.
And ask the anchorite if there she dwell;
Ask him, who sits a fixture of the scene,
Vapid, not peaceful; sullen, not serene;
Wasting the present to regret the past;
Whose fast is famine, and whose feast a fast;
He, whom the poet sings, in specious lays,
“Prayer all his pastime, all his pleasure praise.”
Ask him if peace within his cell reside,
Where silence sits, and coward passions hide,
Fetter'd not rein'd; go ask if peace dwells there—
What flies the social but disease and care?
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His haggard cheek speaks plainly that he lies.
What can he pray for, he, who all resigns?
How praise the God whose service he declines?
Are pray'r and praise alone for duty given?
Easy and indolent the way to heaven!
And in that way, (twin born) by God's command,
Sweet peace with piety goes hand in hand.
Bound to no rank, and to no place confin'd,
Peace, heavenly seraph, mansions in the mind;
The mind that fix'd on duty's high behests
“Reads, marks, and learns, and inwardly digests.”
Digesting acts, and, acting, truth obeys;
Seeks that by pray'r, and sweetens this by praise;
These are the pray'r and praise, devoutly giv'n,
Which rise a grateful holocaust to heav'n;
At best all doubtful else, or pious strife;
Ask my authority, “The Book of Life.”
Duty's a pillar; pray'r the prime or base,
Practice the shaft, the capital is praise.
Here, cries some zealot, with fanatic bawl ,
“Faith is the base, shaft, capital, and all;
127
And hope for Heaven as wisely as from works;
“Mere rags of righteousness” ne'er saints beseem,
The “filthy dowlass,” of a madman's dream.”
And where for saints, good bigot, shall we search?
Dream they with Southcot or deduce from Church ;
Who, fix'd in faith, let all base passions in,
Hymning Hosannas as a grace to sin.
O, fools and Pharisees! two faiths are found;
One saves, one damns; go, ascertain the sound.
A tree of life God planted; Faith the root,
And works (his word my oracle) the fruit;
And useless both, to profit or to please,
These wanting that, or that unbless'd by these.
This from Faith's fountain flows; there drink, and live;
Opinion's rivers no chalybeate give.
Where is peace found? Where virtue is belov'd;
Where by each other faith and works are prov'd;
When man the precepts of his teacher bind,
Who loving him, like him, loves all mankind;
To all a brother, and to all a friend,
Self to the social nobly can extend;
128
To teach, to lure, and lead the way to Heav'n;
Those whom weak faith to partial good impels
Peace sometimes visits, but with him she dwells:
Where dwells that man? peculiar to no place,
Of cot, of city, and of court the grace;
He shuns the cell; no stagnant water's good;
Virtue loves transient not fix'd solitude;
What e'er but dearth or rude invasion sprung
From land uncultur'd or the bow unstrung?
Give rest to age, but why supineness preach?
Youth's task to toil, the task of age to teach.
Close me the cell for ever—fool, decline
To hide in holes “the human face divine:”
If thou art sad seek comfort in thy kind;
Disease no nostrum will in desarts find;
If to avoid temptation is thy boast,
We scorn the sentry who deserts his post;
From ill abstaining is but half thy task;
That, and pursuing good, Heaven's mandates ask.
“Take up thy bed and walk”—thou shalt be whole;
Sloth wastes the body and confounds the soul;
Plain, honest perseverance wins the goal.
Repentance, rous'd from guilt and stung by shame,
Seeks the fair field to renovate his fame;
Opposes hosts, nor like a recreant flies
To nurse vain sorrows and to vent weak sighs;
A goading conscience all his soul impels,
“He groans in spirit” while his bosom swells
With active ardour, nor the combat stays
Till conquest crowns him with eternal bays.
“Go, and do likewise” wouldst thou win reform;
Our's a Church Militant; take Heaven by storm:
To coward sloth the sensual's fate is giv'n;
The bravely virtuous are the sons of Heaven.
Sloth wastes the body and confounds the soul;
Plain, honest perseverance wins the goal.
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Seeks the fair field to renovate his fame;
Opposes hosts, nor like a recreant flies
To nurse vain sorrows and to vent weak sighs;
A goading conscience all his soul impels,
“He groans in spirit” while his bosom swells
With active ardour, nor the combat stays
Till conquest crowns him with eternal bays.
“Go, and do likewise” wouldst thou win reform;
Our's a Church Militant; take Heaven by storm:
To coward sloth the sensual's fate is giv'n;
The bravely virtuous are the sons of Heaven.
| Young Arthur | |