The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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Sent to Lord
Chesterfield; writ on a blank Leaf, of a Poem, called, The Religion of Reason.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
Sent to Lord Chesterfield; writ on a blank Leaf, of a Poem, called, The Religion of Reason.
Go, reason's off'ring, reason's guardian find,
Bow to the saint, for works, not faith, enshrin'd.
As near heav'n's height, as climbing nature can,
Comes virtue's god-giv'n force, effus'd on man,
Why, then, to rights, beyond ev'n virtue's claim,
Bore man's paid worship, profanation's name.
Worth, that transcends respect, new sense will raise,
And skirts idolatry, or cripples praise:
When thanks, found faint, bid sacrifice ensue,
The grateful error robb'd not heav'n its due:
The claim-full image sanctify'd the sin,
Since God's sure likeness takes the godhead in.
'Tis the lie makes the idol.—He, who knelt
To heav'n, least distant, heav'n's near influence felt.
Bow to the saint, for works, not faith, enshrin'd.
As near heav'n's height, as climbing nature can,
Comes virtue's god-giv'n force, effus'd on man,
Why, then, to rights, beyond ev'n virtue's claim,
Bore man's paid worship, profanation's name.
4
And skirts idolatry, or cripples praise:
When thanks, found faint, bid sacrifice ensue,
The grateful error robb'd not heav'n its due:
The claim-full image sanctify'd the sin,
Since God's sure likeness takes the godhead in.
'Tis the lie makes the idol.—He, who knelt
To heav'n, least distant, heav'n's near influence felt.
Here; then—could rev'rence custom's fog disperse,
Had risen an Altar—now, receive a Verse.
All, that the muse (or muse's God) makes mine,
All, but ador'd, O Chesterfield! be thine.
Had risen an Altar—now, receive a Verse.
All, that the muse (or muse's God) makes mine,
All, but ador'd, O Chesterfield! be thine.
How has this venal age deserv'd thy care!
Thy hand, thy head, thy heart, thy heav'n-heard pray'r!
What pangs have three deaf kingdoms cost thy soul,
'Till we, by wrongs oppress'd, engag'd it whole.
For realms so frail, so faultlesly to act!
The sun, thro' midnight, scarce could more attract.
Joy weds amazement, hope's high dawn to see!
And every friend to fame, is sworn to thee.
Thy hand, thy head, thy heart, thy heav'n-heard pray'r!
What pangs have three deaf kingdoms cost thy soul,
'Till we, by wrongs oppress'd, engag'd it whole.
For realms so frail, so faultlesly to act!
The sun, thro' midnight, scarce could more attract.
Joy weds amazement, hope's high dawn to see!
And every friend to fame, is sworn to thee.
5
O, pard'ning, view the private Pen's address,
Where will's warm impulse long'd to fire a Press:
'Till apter subject dares thy smile invite,
Where foeless truth shall need no shadow'd light;
Screen'd, I, behind my temple's pillar, kneel,
And, like the gospel whisp'rer, hint my zeal.
Prudently patient, curb a struggling flame,
To no fool's comments, trust thy sacred name.
Wait a theme's call, that asks no cov'ring cloud;
Then, my pray'r claims thee—and my wish grows proud.
Where will's warm impulse long'd to fire a Press:
'Till apter subject dares thy smile invite,
Where foeless truth shall need no shadow'd light;
Screen'd, I, behind my temple's pillar, kneel,
And, like the gospel whisp'rer, hint my zeal.
Prudently patient, curb a struggling flame,
To no fool's comments, trust thy sacred name.
Wait a theme's call, that asks no cov'ring cloud;
Then, my pray'r claims thee—and my wish grows proud.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |