The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop :: :: University of Virginia Library

When first o'er Eden's blissful shade
Mankind's forefather, guiltless, stray'd,
His eye sublime, his tranquil face,
His noble port, his lordly pace,
(Tho' separate symmetry they disclos'd,)
One total majesty compos'd;
Where, true to joy's complacent tone,
His mind in every movement shone.

Such once was man!—with innocence blest!
Comeliest of beings—because best!
Till from th' Almighty Presence chas'd,
Exil'd, abash'd, dismay'd, debas'd,

267

He fell—beneath his deadliest foe;
Victim of wrath; and heir of woe!

From that sad period, forms constrain'd,
Contracted sentiments, feelings feign'd,
On mere capricious arts depend;
Distorting, what they seek to mend.

Pride first, assum'd a statelier air,
It's step, a stride;—it's look, a stare;
It's smile, a favour;—from it's hand
A signal, fate;—it's nod, command.
While Grace transferr'd to grandeur's sphere,
Grew pompous, distant, stern, severe.

Next Affectation's reign appear'd;
On more extensive basis rear'd:
Savage and simple, great and small,
Her ample range included all.
The smirk, the toss, the shrug, the stalk,
Part slide, part swim, part dance, part walk;

268

The limp, the lisp, the pert, the prim;
Fashions for laws, for axioms, whim;
Each their successive changes rung;
While fair and homely, old and young,
Courtier and rustic, flirt and beau,
The high-bred, and of course, the low,
Caught some variety of grimace;
Conceit was ton; and ton was Grace!

'Twere well, if Affectation's power
Were only seen, in Folly's hour:
But Fraud, alas! too often tries
Fictitious Grace's sly disguise;
So delicate, so well-inclin'd,
So plausible, so polite, so kind,
So soft, so smooth, so friendly too,
So good, so—every-thing—but true!

Methinks, you'll tell me, here, I seem,
Entirely to reverse my theme;

269

And paint instead of real Grace,
Mere Mimicry, that usurps it's place.
—I own the fact, but meant to draw
It's contrast, with the more eclat.—
Grace is not Fraud, Conceit, or Pride.—
What is it then?—Who shall decide?
Candor, perhaps, will not repine
T' accept th' attempt, from verse like mine.

Grace, whose address the wise applaud,
Disclaims all pride, conceit, or fraud.—
'Tis elegance, which pervades the whole,
When look, voice, attitude, speak the soul:—
'Tis that propriety, which reveals
In nature's mode, what nature feels:—
'Tis sense, estrang'd from cold neglect,
From coarse excess, from rude defect:—

270

'Tis that decorum, thro' whose ease,
Truth can at once convince, and please:—
'Tis eloquent rectitude of intent,
Which makes simplicity, ornament:—
'Tis frankness, whose more cheerful vein,
Nor prompts a blush, nor gives a pain:—
'Tis that civility, which affirms
Humanity's wish, in charity's terms:—
'Tis that attraction, which can throw
Sincerity's charms o'er virtue's glow:—
'Tis meek superiority; bright,
Without obscuring humbler light:—
'Tis sympathy, whose benignant phrase
Can comfort, where it cannot praise:—
'Tis dignity, fix'd on honour's post,
Which neither gives, nor heeds a boast:—

271

'Tis wisdom, zealous, tho' serene,
Gently impressive, kindly keen:—
'Tis body, mind, deportment, style,
Free from embarrassment, as from guile:—
'Tis that, (at least, in some degree,)
Which Man, first form'd, was form'd to be!