The three tours of Doctor Syntax In search of 1. The picturesque, 2. Of consolation, 3. Of a wife. The text complete. [By William Combe] With four illustrations |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
Now from an overshadow'd height, Appear'd to the enamour'd sight
In trees embower'd, an object fraught
With solemn sense and higher thought,
A rich, and an exhaustless mine Of what is best;—a solemn shrine
Where learned piety might bring Its reverential offering.
'Twas Calgarth, of that spot the pride,
Where Watson liv'd, where Watson died.
Syntax stood still, with mind subdued,
Chang'd from the savage and the rude,
Which he had now so lately view'd,
In nature's most degraded state, To think on what is good and great.
Big with the thought he silence broke,
And thus the warm Enthusiast spoke.
“Llandaff, I would my poor acclaim
Could elevate the voice of fame That chaunts thy venerable name!
Does not a nation speak thy praise, Say does not grateful Science raise
Those fond memorials which will last When future ages shall be past;
While Learning, by its sage decree Will tell how much it owes to thee!
—But here I pause, for words will fail, Nor will my utmost powers avail,
To paint thee truly, as I scan, The zealous, powerful friend of man:
Who when the Demon had unfurl'd
His standard o'er the Christian world;
When, by accumulated guilt, Rivers of Christian blood were spilt;
When we were told that we should reap
No good from Death but endless sleep;
That all the sacred ties which bind In social bliss the human kind,
That all the hopes which Truth had given
That sacred Truth inspir'd by Heaven,
Were fram'd in artificial guise, The work of priestly fallacies;
When Sophistry its arts applied, To turn the minds of men aside
From ev'ry wise, unerring rule,
Which Life is taught in Wisdom's school:
When the vile passions were address'd
To root out virtue from the breast;
When e'en the Gospel was arraign'd,
And by blaspheming doctrines stain'd,
Or threaten'd by the dark'ning veil
That turn'd the shudd'ring virtues pale:
When, by a hellish impulse driven,
Nations themselves made war on Heaven,
As the bold, fabled Titans strove, To wrestle with Olympian Jove:
When Britain now no longer free From Imps of Infidelity,
Who dar'd, with a relentless hand, To scatter poison o'er the land,
In trees embower'd, an object fraught
With solemn sense and higher thought,
A rich, and an exhaustless mine Of what is best;—a solemn shrine
Where learned piety might bring Its reverential offering.
'Twas Calgarth, of that spot the pride,
Where Watson liv'd, where Watson died.
Syntax stood still, with mind subdued,
Chang'd from the savage and the rude,
Which he had now so lately view'd,
In nature's most degraded state, To think on what is good and great.
Big with the thought he silence broke,
And thus the warm Enthusiast spoke.
“Llandaff, I would my poor acclaim
Could elevate the voice of fame That chaunts thy venerable name!
Does not a nation speak thy praise, Say does not grateful Science raise
166
While Learning, by its sage decree Will tell how much it owes to thee!
—But here I pause, for words will fail, Nor will my utmost powers avail,
To paint thee truly, as I scan, The zealous, powerful friend of man:
Who when the Demon had unfurl'd
His standard o'er the Christian world;
When, by accumulated guilt, Rivers of Christian blood were spilt;
When we were told that we should reap
No good from Death but endless sleep;
That all the sacred ties which bind In social bliss the human kind,
That all the hopes which Truth had given
That sacred Truth inspir'd by Heaven,
Were fram'd in artificial guise, The work of priestly fallacies;
When Sophistry its arts applied, To turn the minds of men aside
From ev'ry wise, unerring rule,
Which Life is taught in Wisdom's school:
When the vile passions were address'd
To root out virtue from the breast;
When e'en the Gospel was arraign'd,
And by blaspheming doctrines stain'd,
Or threaten'd by the dark'ning veil
That turn'd the shudd'ring virtues pale:
When, by a hellish impulse driven,
Nations themselves made war on Heaven,
As the bold, fabled Titans strove, To wrestle with Olympian Jove:
When Britain now no longer free From Imps of Infidelity,
Who dar'd, with a relentless hand, To scatter poison o'er the land,
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |