The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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| 2. | The Second Part. |
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
2. The Second Part.
Having thus far of Man in General Penn'd
We'll now to some Particulars descend;
To things wherein he most himself does prize;
His Wit, and Learning, Stript of their Disguise,
And see if those will yet confirm him Wise.
We'll now to some Particulars descend;
To things wherein he most himself does prize;
His Wit, and Learning, Stript of their Disguise,
And see if those will yet confirm him Wise.
Who e'er the Top of Infamy wou'd gain
Must be a Wit—perverted at the Brain:
But that we may the Monster undisguise
We'll first, (as in the Scale of Truth it lies,)
Lay open what a Modern Wit implies.
An Impious Wretch that Scripture ridicules,
And thinks the Men that dare not do it, Fools.
A Lustful Goat! who to be fully known
For what he is, does pick and cull the Town
For Maids and Wives—first having Pox't his Own.
If Liberal, it is only in his Wine;
So that his Bounty's Chance, and not Design.
His Mannors he does make th'Attornies Care,
To Rack the Tenant and to Rob the Heir;
And in the Course of Years, to make two Thirds their Share.
Fond of bad Notions, which he oft will strain
With such an Impious Subtilty of Brain,
The Thread at last his Reaso'ning does produce
Is spun so Ill, 'tis of no Human Use;
But Intricately cross'd with Lines and Snares
To Ruin Souls; as Spiders, Flies with Theirs.
In Scoffs upon Religion seldom dull;
Forgeting Sense deprav'd but makes the greater Fool.
His Faith does with the Turkish Creed comply,
Which owns a God, but lays a Saviour by;
So following Arrius, who the Dance began,
He makes the Great Redeemer less than Man.
But that we may his Character comprize
In a few Words, his Talent chiefly lies
In crying down the Christian Mysteries:
With Him the Passion's but a Tale of Course,
The Trinity a Contradiction Worse;
Th'Incarnate God the Cobweb of the Schools,
And rising from the Dead the Dream of Fools:
This is the Wit that makes our Gentry Mad;
And there's a Bastard Sort almost as bad,
Which in the Meaner Rout it self displays,
And does exert its Pow'er a Thousand various ways.
In Fools it is the finding Fau't with Sense,
In Courtiers Craft, in Lawyers Impudence;
In Beaus it is to Dress, to Patch and Paint,
In Porters Bawdry, and in Misers Want;
In Poets Flatt'ry, in the Clergy Pride,
In Schismaticks 'tis an unerring Guide,
And Rapine, Spite, Revenge, in all Mankind beside.
When all the while the thing it self's no more
Than a true turn of Thought, not heard before;
A Flash of Sense that darts into the Mind,
Like Starling weighty, yet like that refin'd,
Good Language, Breeding, Vertue, all in one Expression joyn'd.
These three away, whatever Fools profess,
It is no longer Wit, but Wickedness.
Thus chew these Men on Husks instead of Fruit;
And tho' of Reason, Reason they dispute,
They yet let Instinct better guide the Brute.
Must be a Wit—perverted at the Brain:
164
We'll first, (as in the Scale of Truth it lies,)
Lay open what a Modern Wit implies.
An Impious Wretch that Scripture ridicules,
And thinks the Men that dare not do it, Fools.
A Lustful Goat! who to be fully known
For what he is, does pick and cull the Town
For Maids and Wives—first having Pox't his Own.
If Liberal, it is only in his Wine;
So that his Bounty's Chance, and not Design.
His Mannors he does make th'Attornies Care,
To Rack the Tenant and to Rob the Heir;
And in the Course of Years, to make two Thirds their Share.
Fond of bad Notions, which he oft will strain
With such an Impious Subtilty of Brain,
The Thread at last his Reaso'ning does produce
Is spun so Ill, 'tis of no Human Use;
But Intricately cross'd with Lines and Snares
To Ruin Souls; as Spiders, Flies with Theirs.
In Scoffs upon Religion seldom dull;
Forgeting Sense deprav'd but makes the greater Fool.
His Faith does with the Turkish Creed comply,
Which owns a God, but lays a Saviour by;
So following Arrius, who the Dance began,
He makes the Great Redeemer less than Man.
But that we may his Character comprize
In a few Words, his Talent chiefly lies
In crying down the Christian Mysteries:
With Him the Passion's but a Tale of Course,
The Trinity a Contradiction Worse;
Th'Incarnate God the Cobweb of the Schools,
And rising from the Dead the Dream of Fools:
This is the Wit that makes our Gentry Mad;
And there's a Bastard Sort almost as bad,
165
And does exert its Pow'er a Thousand various ways.
In Fools it is the finding Fau't with Sense,
In Courtiers Craft, in Lawyers Impudence;
In Beaus it is to Dress, to Patch and Paint,
In Porters Bawdry, and in Misers Want;
In Poets Flatt'ry, in the Clergy Pride,
In Schismaticks 'tis an unerring Guide,
And Rapine, Spite, Revenge, in all Mankind beside.
When all the while the thing it self's no more
Than a true turn of Thought, not heard before;
A Flash of Sense that darts into the Mind,
Like Starling weighty, yet like that refin'd,
Good Language, Breeding, Vertue, all in one Expression joyn'd.
These three away, whatever Fools profess,
It is no longer Wit, but Wickedness.
Thus chew these Men on Husks instead of Fruit;
And tho' of Reason, Reason they dispute,
They yet let Instinct better guide the Brute.
His Learning 'twill be needless to expose,
As having little Credit there to lose;
And then, the more his Boast the less he knows.
The Face of Heav'n with Constellations, Signs,
Ecliptick, and a thousand various Lines
He Scribbles o'er, and to the Stars does give
A Pow'r by which we either Die, or Live:
But if so vast an Influence they instill
As to be found Superior to the Will,
We can our selves be neither Good or Ill:
And what Absurdities arise from thence
A Child may tell without the help of Sense.
Nor less does the Predicting Coxcomb call
From Man Contempt; and from the Satyr, Gall;
Who Insolently in those Leaves wou'd look
Where only God does write, and Fate it self's the Book:
'Tis He! th'Almighty! and 'tis only He
Has Eyes that pierce into Futurity.
And yet our Nostradamus's presume
With Senseless Schemes to tell of Things to come;
When their vain Art there's nothing represents
So near, as Madmen guessing at Events.
Tho' ev'ry Year convinc'd of Judging wrong,
Yet with a frontless Look, and lying Tongue
They still go on, and from the harmless Stars
Fetch Claps and Famine, Duels, Debts and Wars.
Others their Time in Elegance employ,
The Choice of Words and Phrase their only Joy;
Some they Improve, and others Introduce,
And both, perhaps, a while remain in Use;
Till Time, that does all Human Change compleat,
Takes in more New, and makes them Obsolete.
Chaucer but in his Matter lives alone,
The Sweetness of his Matchless Stile is gone.
Thus, thoughtless of the Future on they Post
And ply the Critick till the Christian's lost.
Nor less in History does his Judgment err
Perverting Fact, that Truth wou'd render Clear.
Whatever from him else his Reader draws
He finds; at least He's Faithful to his Cause:
How many Hireling Pens does Lewis fee
To cheat and Misinform Posterity!
A true Impartial Author who can Name
Since Greatness has with Pensions truck'd for Fame?
How many are there at this Instant known,
That will to Future Times be Hero's shown,
Yet are but Sots and Villains in their own?
Or grant he Philosophically spends
His Time, and Nature faithfully attends;
Nature! whose wilie Lab'rinth never Ends.
Or be it Physick that employs his Days,
Or Metaphysicks yet more wand'ring Maze;
Or shou'd he on to Alchymy aspire,
And all the Transmutations wrought by Fire,
The Satisfaction can be yet but dry;
One Point obtain'd another's in his Eye;
Another after that; another still
Succeeds, to teaze and baffle Human Skill.
To Numbers an Infinity we give,
But shou'd we for no other Purpose live
But to count on, and wast our Little Span
In Searches Unattainable by Man,
Whatever Doctrin's current in the Schools,
'Twou'd still appear we liv'd and dy'd like Fools.
Thus tho' of Reason daily we dispute,
We yet let Instinct better Guide the Brute.
As having little Credit there to lose;
And then, the more his Boast the less he knows.
The Face of Heav'n with Constellations, Signs,
Ecliptick, and a thousand various Lines
He Scribbles o'er, and to the Stars does give
A Pow'r by which we either Die, or Live:
But if so vast an Influence they instill
As to be found Superior to the Will,
We can our selves be neither Good or Ill:
And what Absurdities arise from thence
A Child may tell without the help of Sense.
Nor less does the Predicting Coxcomb call
From Man Contempt; and from the Satyr, Gall;
166
Where only God does write, and Fate it self's the Book:
'Tis He! th'Almighty! and 'tis only He
Has Eyes that pierce into Futurity.
And yet our Nostradamus's presume
With Senseless Schemes to tell of Things to come;
When their vain Art there's nothing represents
So near, as Madmen guessing at Events.
Tho' ev'ry Year convinc'd of Judging wrong,
Yet with a frontless Look, and lying Tongue
They still go on, and from the harmless Stars
Fetch Claps and Famine, Duels, Debts and Wars.
Others their Time in Elegance employ,
The Choice of Words and Phrase their only Joy;
Some they Improve, and others Introduce,
And both, perhaps, a while remain in Use;
Till Time, that does all Human Change compleat,
Takes in more New, and makes them Obsolete.
Chaucer but in his Matter lives alone,
The Sweetness of his Matchless Stile is gone.
Thus, thoughtless of the Future on they Post
And ply the Critick till the Christian's lost.
Nor less in History does his Judgment err
Perverting Fact, that Truth wou'd render Clear.
Whatever from him else his Reader draws
He finds; at least He's Faithful to his Cause:
How many Hireling Pens does Lewis fee
To cheat and Misinform Posterity!
A true Impartial Author who can Name
Since Greatness has with Pensions truck'd for Fame?
How many are there at this Instant known,
That will to Future Times be Hero's shown,
Yet are but Sots and Villains in their own?
Or grant he Philosophically spends
His Time, and Nature faithfully attends;
Nature! whose wilie Lab'rinth never Ends.
167
Or Metaphysicks yet more wand'ring Maze;
Or shou'd he on to Alchymy aspire,
And all the Transmutations wrought by Fire,
The Satisfaction can be yet but dry;
One Point obtain'd another's in his Eye;
Another after that; another still
Succeeds, to teaze and baffle Human Skill.
To Numbers an Infinity we give,
But shou'd we for no other Purpose live
But to count on, and wast our Little Span
In Searches Unattainable by Man,
Whatever Doctrin's current in the Schools,
'Twou'd still appear we liv'd and dy'd like Fools.
Thus tho' of Reason daily we dispute,
We yet let Instinct better Guide the Brute.
But Him that positively Fool we call
Is He that reads, chain'd with 'em to the Stall,
All Authors, and is for digesting all;
When Life it self's not able to attain
Any one Part of any Science plain.
Of Universal Scholar much we hear,
But 'tis a Sound so shocking to the Ear,
The Men of Judgment humbler with their Lot,
Retort more truly—Universal Sot!
When in his Study, where that Term he gains,
How does he work his Thought, and froth his Brains,
His Leisure Squander, and his Spirits wast,
To bring out some Abortive Cub at last?
Or if, by Chance, if does with Life escape,
Whole Years are spent in licking it to Shape:
Tho' after all, perhaps, it's utmost Date
Is one Edition, and it yields to Fate.
But Nothing can in Nature better paint
This Poring Scholar, or this Dreaming Saint,
Than when we see his Servant, wild in Looks,
With a large Fox-Tail dusting of his Books;
His Face is soil'd; and as his Work he plies
The more the Feathers, filth, and Atoms rise,
Till he's at last depriv'd ev'n of the Use of Eyes.
Just so his Master (as the Man has been
Without) is serv'd for raising Dust within:
A Thousand Tenets madly he'll maintain,
A Thousand more are whirling in his Brain:
From Shelf to Shelf the Bandy'd Books are thrown;
Confronting still their Notions with his own,
Till losing in a Mist all inward Light,
His Senses clog just like Servants Sight.
In short and let him be examin'd thro'
His Antient Authors, and with them his New;
In all that he has Common-Plac'd, for Use,
Advantage, Pride, Instruction, or Abuse;
And see if, after all his Life he Squares
Much better than your Vulgar Blockheads, theirs.
He talks, perhaps, more freely off at Hand,
But in such Jargon few can understand,
A barbarous Mixture, took from ev'ry Tongue,
To make up one Ridicuously wrong;
A Patch'd and Py-bald Idiom, rent and torn,
The Pedants Glory, but the Poets Scorn.
Beside, what is it from his Learning Springs
That mends his Management in Moral Things?
Can he than others more of Truth maintain?
Has he his Passions faster in the Rein?
Or is he less a Slave to sordid Gain?
Is he to Temperance known a faster Friend?
Or less Resolv'd for Trifles to contend?
Is he (at once) to Vertue more Inclin'd?
Or does he follow less the fatal Kind?
But that we may in Little all comprize;—
Were he ten Lives allow'd the Use of Eyes
He'd read, and read,—but never yet be Wise;
Nay rather far (bred up in Hobs's School,
Wou'd prove at last, by Section and by Rule,
An Atheist—that Compleat and finish'd Fool!
Thus tho' of Reason daily he'll dispute,
He yet lets Instinct better guide the Brute.
Is He that reads, chain'd with 'em to the Stall,
All Authors, and is for digesting all;
When Life it self's not able to attain
Any one Part of any Science plain.
Of Universal Scholar much we hear,
But 'tis a Sound so shocking to the Ear,
The Men of Judgment humbler with their Lot,
Retort more truly—Universal Sot!
When in his Study, where that Term he gains,
How does he work his Thought, and froth his Brains,
His Leisure Squander, and his Spirits wast,
To bring out some Abortive Cub at last?
Or if, by Chance, if does with Life escape,
Whole Years are spent in licking it to Shape:
Tho' after all, perhaps, it's utmost Date
Is one Edition, and it yields to Fate.
But Nothing can in Nature better paint
This Poring Scholar, or this Dreaming Saint,
168
With a large Fox-Tail dusting of his Books;
His Face is soil'd; and as his Work he plies
The more the Feathers, filth, and Atoms rise,
Till he's at last depriv'd ev'n of the Use of Eyes.
Just so his Master (as the Man has been
Without) is serv'd for raising Dust within:
A Thousand Tenets madly he'll maintain,
A Thousand more are whirling in his Brain:
From Shelf to Shelf the Bandy'd Books are thrown;
Confronting still their Notions with his own,
Till losing in a Mist all inward Light,
His Senses clog just like Servants Sight.
In short and let him be examin'd thro'
His Antient Authors, and with them his New;
In all that he has Common-Plac'd, for Use,
Advantage, Pride, Instruction, or Abuse;
And see if, after all his Life he Squares
Much better than your Vulgar Blockheads, theirs.
He talks, perhaps, more freely off at Hand,
But in such Jargon few can understand,
A barbarous Mixture, took from ev'ry Tongue,
To make up one Ridicuously wrong;
A Patch'd and Py-bald Idiom, rent and torn,
The Pedants Glory, but the Poets Scorn.
Beside, what is it from his Learning Springs
That mends his Management in Moral Things?
Can he than others more of Truth maintain?
Has he his Passions faster in the Rein?
Or is he less a Slave to sordid Gain?
Is he to Temperance known a faster Friend?
Or less Resolv'd for Trifles to contend?
Is he (at once) to Vertue more Inclin'd?
Or does he follow less the fatal Kind?
169
Were he ten Lives allow'd the Use of Eyes
He'd read, and read,—but never yet be Wise;
Nay rather far (bred up in Hobs's School,
Wou'd prove at last, by Section and by Rule,
An Atheist—that Compleat and finish'd Fool!
Thus tho' of Reason daily he'll dispute,
He yet lets Instinct better guide the Brute.
But here you'll say, misled by Human Pride,
What? must all Learning then be laid aside?
Yes all I say that leads into Abuse,
For Prejudice and Spite have no Excuse;—
But not that sort which is of Heav'nly Use.
Such as to search the Scriptures, and from thence
To build our Hope on God's Omnipotence;
That God which to our Dust did Being give,
And turn'd to Dust again, again shall make it live:
Why shou'd the Resurrection cause Debate
When to Restore is less than to Create?
To own his Son, the Great Messiah, sent
Our everlasting Ruin to prevent
And by this easie Method—only to Repent.
This is the Learning we shou'd all pursue,
Nor only Learning—it is WISDOM too!
But for that Wisdom which we Worldly call,
'Tis Fraud, Pretence, Design, and Treach'ry all;
While following Lust, or Gain, w'are in a Maze
Of Errors whirl'd a thousand different ways:
These in the Chase of War believe it lies,
That thinks 'tis only found in Ladies Eyes;
This at the Bar the Empty Glare pursues,
While Sots in Taverns think 'tis Wine and News:
Some in the Court, which nothing else employs:
Wou'd have it to consist in Dress and Noise,
In lies, Grimace, and thinking all Disgrace
Beneath a Blockhead of Illustrious Race.
Others believe this Wisdom to pursue,
Their being singly Wicked will not do,
So Goad on others to Damnation too.
Advice, Example, nay Rewards are us'd
And Bribes for Sin are seldom known refus'd.
In vain the Prince of Hell his Envoys sends
We do his Work much faster than his Fiends.
Thus tho' of Reason, Reason we dispute,
We yet let Instinct better guide the Brute.
What? must all Learning then be laid aside?
Yes all I say that leads into Abuse,
For Prejudice and Spite have no Excuse;—
But not that sort which is of Heav'nly Use.
Such as to search the Scriptures, and from thence
To build our Hope on God's Omnipotence;
That God which to our Dust did Being give,
And turn'd to Dust again, again shall make it live:
Why shou'd the Resurrection cause Debate
When to Restore is less than to Create?
To own his Son, the Great Messiah, sent
Our everlasting Ruin to prevent
And by this easie Method—only to Repent.
This is the Learning we shou'd all pursue,
Nor only Learning—it is WISDOM too!
But for that Wisdom which we Worldly call,
'Tis Fraud, Pretence, Design, and Treach'ry all;
While following Lust, or Gain, w'are in a Maze
Of Errors whirl'd a thousand different ways:
These in the Chase of War believe it lies,
That thinks 'tis only found in Ladies Eyes;
This at the Bar the Empty Glare pursues,
While Sots in Taverns think 'tis Wine and News:
Some in the Court, which nothing else employs:
Wou'd have it to consist in Dress and Noise,
In lies, Grimace, and thinking all Disgrace
Beneath a Blockhead of Illustrious Race.
170
Their being singly Wicked will not do,
So Goad on others to Damnation too.
Advice, Example, nay Rewards are us'd
And Bribes for Sin are seldom known refus'd.
In vain the Prince of Hell his Envoys sends
We do his Work much faster than his Fiends.
Thus tho' of Reason, Reason we dispute,
We yet let Instinct better guide the Brute.
But here th'Objector does again oppose—
In vain her Spleen your Wrested Satyr shows;
For Man as much he sees, so much he knows:
What if some few to Scepticism fall?
We for their Errors must not strike at all.
As high as Heav'n his lofty Search he bends,
Then down to Lowest Hell the Line extends,
And his pursuit of Knowledge never ends.
Into his Mind he vast Idea's takes,
And thro' all Arts as vast a Progress makes;
His reach of Thought and Intellectuals fit
For all Attempts of Wisdom and of Wit.
Such FACULTIES wou'd Heav'n to Man produce
And then Maliciously forbid their USE?
Look all around; be FLEETS or TOWNS the Scene,
Or Stately Fabricks, or some vast Machine,
In all his Noble Works his Ample Soul is seen.
What a hard Task has he that wou'd convince
A Fool he is deficient in his Sense?
All sorts of Knowledge, properly of use,
Deserve our Praise, and plead their own Excuse.
But for his Navies and their fatal Sound,
If we examine Christendom around,
The Land does scarce secure so much as they confound.
Then for his Cities who did ever rear
So much as One without all Vices there?
Better if yet we wild in Woods did roam.
Made some cool Shades, or silent Cave our home,
Than growing by Society refin'd
Disgrace, Burlesque, and Ridicule our Kind.
As for the Spacious Fabrick that employs
So many Men,—this Builds and that Enjoys.
'Tis matter still of Fact, nor needs Dispute,
Who Labours most does least enjoy the Fruit,
A Curse that God does justly on us throw
For fixing all our Hope on Things below.
As for his Science in it's Noblest Flight,
We have already weigh'd, and found it Light.
Then for his Mind, Capacious tho' it be,
'Tis all a Desart wanting Piety.
And last of all, what with his Boasted Eye
Can he inform us of the Worlds on high,
On which we may with certainty rely?
What is it that supplies the Sun with Flame,
Which, still exhausting still remains the same?
How did the Seeds of Things at first disperse?
And—LET IT BE—Create an Universe?
Or if this seem too high, what does he know
Of Nature in her Num'rous Forms below?
Who ever gave of all that yet have been,
A true Solution but—why Grass is Green?
What Glorious Pencil does the Colours lay
When Beaute'ous Flora breaths her Sweets on May?
Then for himself—how Soul and Body's joyn'd,
This limitted, and 'tother unconfin'd,
Is an Ænigma Man cou'd ne'er unbind.
What secret Cavern, most divinely wrought,
Contains th'unbounded Images of Thought?
Where does th'Immortal Mind in Sleep retire?
Whence has the Eye its Sight, and Life its Fire?
How do the seve'ral Senses inward rowl,
And find their wond'rous Passage to the Soul?
If Ignorant then of these, and ev'ry thing
Almost beside, whence can the boldness Spring,
That, with Conceptions Finite, he wou'd stretch
Where but Infinity, it Self can Reach?
And Measure by vain Notions, here Imbib'd,
Th'Immeasurable! God uncircumscrib'd!
Eternity, and so Omnipotence,
Are things Inscrutable to Human Sense.
The only surest thing that here we know,
Is that we were not once in such a State as now;
And that we are not now what we shall be
Hereafter—Lanch'd into Eternity:
Enough alone to make the boldest here
Believe Salvation worth his strictest Care.
But against Natural Light we close our Eyes,
Then greatest Fools, when most we think w'are wise.
Thus tho' of Reason, Reason we dispute,
We yet let Instinct better Guide the Brute.
In vain her Spleen your Wrested Satyr shows;
For Man as much he sees, so much he knows:
What if some few to Scepticism fall?
We for their Errors must not strike at all.
As high as Heav'n his lofty Search he bends,
Then down to Lowest Hell the Line extends,
And his pursuit of Knowledge never ends.
Into his Mind he vast Idea's takes,
And thro' all Arts as vast a Progress makes;
His reach of Thought and Intellectuals fit
For all Attempts of Wisdom and of Wit.
Such FACULTIES wou'd Heav'n to Man produce
And then Maliciously forbid their USE?
Look all around; be FLEETS or TOWNS the Scene,
Or Stately Fabricks, or some vast Machine,
In all his Noble Works his Ample Soul is seen.
What a hard Task has he that wou'd convince
A Fool he is deficient in his Sense?
All sorts of Knowledge, properly of use,
Deserve our Praise, and plead their own Excuse.
But for his Navies and their fatal Sound,
If we examine Christendom around,
The Land does scarce secure so much as they confound.
Then for his Cities who did ever rear
So much as One without all Vices there?
171
Made some cool Shades, or silent Cave our home,
Than growing by Society refin'd
Disgrace, Burlesque, and Ridicule our Kind.
As for the Spacious Fabrick that employs
So many Men,—this Builds and that Enjoys.
'Tis matter still of Fact, nor needs Dispute,
Who Labours most does least enjoy the Fruit,
A Curse that God does justly on us throw
For fixing all our Hope on Things below.
As for his Science in it's Noblest Flight,
We have already weigh'd, and found it Light.
Then for his Mind, Capacious tho' it be,
'Tis all a Desart wanting Piety.
And last of all, what with his Boasted Eye
Can he inform us of the Worlds on high,
On which we may with certainty rely?
What is it that supplies the Sun with Flame,
Which, still exhausting still remains the same?
How did the Seeds of Things at first disperse?
And—LET IT BE—Create an Universe?
Or if this seem too high, what does he know
Of Nature in her Num'rous Forms below?
Who ever gave of all that yet have been,
A true Solution but—why Grass is Green?
What Glorious Pencil does the Colours lay
When Beaute'ous Flora breaths her Sweets on May?
Then for himself—how Soul and Body's joyn'd,
This limitted, and 'tother unconfin'd,
Is an Ænigma Man cou'd ne'er unbind.
What secret Cavern, most divinely wrought,
Contains th'unbounded Images of Thought?
Where does th'Immortal Mind in Sleep retire?
Whence has the Eye its Sight, and Life its Fire?
How do the seve'ral Senses inward rowl,
And find their wond'rous Passage to the Soul?
172
Almost beside, whence can the boldness Spring,
That, with Conceptions Finite, he wou'd stretch
Where but Infinity, it Self can Reach?
And Measure by vain Notions, here Imbib'd,
Th'Immeasurable! God uncircumscrib'd!
Eternity, and so Omnipotence,
Are things Inscrutable to Human Sense.
The only surest thing that here we know,
Is that we were not once in such a State as now;
And that we are not now what we shall be
Hereafter—Lanch'd into Eternity:
Enough alone to make the boldest here
Believe Salvation worth his strictest Care.
But against Natural Light we close our Eyes,
Then greatest Fools, when most we think w'are wise.
Thus tho' of Reason, Reason we dispute,
We yet let Instinct better Guide the Brute.
But then (to such Perverse Extremes we go)
As these wou'd know all things, so some will nothing know.
Why shou'd vain Man, they cry, the Greatest Beast,
Believe his Essence nobler than the rest?
What tho', he high as Heav'n erect can view?
So, when he Pleases can a Monkey too;
That Animal, whom, if we nicely scan;
Has most of Brute as nearest Copying Man.
Search all the Savage Kind both Bulls and Bears,
And find me one perplext with future Fears.
If in some things (tho' 'tis but oft Pretence)
We have th'Advantage, Cloathing and Defence,
They yet exceed Mankind in ev'ry Sense:
This Common Fate, at least, to both is known,
We Propagate our Species and are gone:
Alike by Nature form'd; and 'tis as true
We ought, with them, to live by Nature too:
The Faculties we have she bids us use,
And not Obeying, we her Laws abuse.
In short, we nothing more than Brutes can tell
Either of doing Ill, or doing Well;
Nor shall hereafter (as 'twill then appear)
No more than they be blam'd for ought committed here:
The Whips, the Furies, and Eternal Flames
Have all their Substance meerly in their Names.
'Twere most absurd to think th'Almighty heeds
Our Idle, Thoughtless, Casual, Senseless Deeds.
Why shou'd he with such Rage our Race pursue
Who do but what we cannot chuse to do?
Suppose a Man that never saw the Light,
But from his Birth has lain Immers'd in Night,
'Twere hard to damn him for the want of Sight.
Ev'n so, while living in this Mortal State,
Our Minds are darkn'd in a Mist of Fate:
Thro' a false Medium all we see is shown,
And we know nothing as it shou'd be known.
Why then shou'd Heav'n so hard a Law display,
To dimn our Sight and bid us find the Way?
If above Ignorance Man cou'd never rise,
'Tis senseless to Command him to be Wise;
And if by Nature he's, to Errors prone,
Can a Good God expect him to have none?
You'll say perhaps (of all Mistakes the Chief)
All this is even'd in a Right Belief;
That Sanctuary, where You always run
For Refuge when your Arguments are done:
Forgetting quite who Nothing does believe,
By Consequences, there's Nothing can deceive.
The Hell, (so much the fright of Vulgar Elves,)
Is made by Coxcombs only for themselves.
How can poor Man, that Creature of a Day,
Frailty thro'out, and molded from the Clay,
In a short Life (how ever vainly spent)
Be guilty of Eternal Punishment?
Such Notions we shou'd, one and all, distrust,
That Stifle Truth, and call a GOD unjust.
As these wou'd know all things, so some will nothing know.
Why shou'd vain Man, they cry, the Greatest Beast,
Believe his Essence nobler than the rest?
What tho', he high as Heav'n erect can view?
So, when he Pleases can a Monkey too;
That Animal, whom, if we nicely scan;
Has most of Brute as nearest Copying Man.
Search all the Savage Kind both Bulls and Bears,
And find me one perplext with future Fears.
If in some things (tho' 'tis but oft Pretence)
We have th'Advantage, Cloathing and Defence,
They yet exceed Mankind in ev'ry Sense:
This Common Fate, at least, to both is known,
We Propagate our Species and are gone:
173
We ought, with them, to live by Nature too:
The Faculties we have she bids us use,
And not Obeying, we her Laws abuse.
In short, we nothing more than Brutes can tell
Either of doing Ill, or doing Well;
Nor shall hereafter (as 'twill then appear)
No more than they be blam'd for ought committed here:
The Whips, the Furies, and Eternal Flames
Have all their Substance meerly in their Names.
'Twere most absurd to think th'Almighty heeds
Our Idle, Thoughtless, Casual, Senseless Deeds.
Why shou'd he with such Rage our Race pursue
Who do but what we cannot chuse to do?
Suppose a Man that never saw the Light,
But from his Birth has lain Immers'd in Night,
'Twere hard to damn him for the want of Sight.
Ev'n so, while living in this Mortal State,
Our Minds are darkn'd in a Mist of Fate:
Thro' a false Medium all we see is shown,
And we know nothing as it shou'd be known.
Why then shou'd Heav'n so hard a Law display,
To dimn our Sight and bid us find the Way?
If above Ignorance Man cou'd never rise,
'Tis senseless to Command him to be Wise;
And if by Nature he's, to Errors prone,
Can a Good God expect him to have none?
You'll say perhaps (of all Mistakes the Chief)
All this is even'd in a Right Belief;
That Sanctuary, where You always run
For Refuge when your Arguments are done:
Forgetting quite who Nothing does believe,
By Consequences, there's Nothing can deceive.
The Hell, (so much the fright of Vulgar Elves,)
Is made by Coxcombs only for themselves.
174
Frailty thro'out, and molded from the Clay,
In a short Life (how ever vainly spent)
Be guilty of Eternal Punishment?
Such Notions we shou'd, one and all, distrust,
That Stifle Truth, and call a GOD unjust.
Hold! hold I cry;—and poize the Balance ev'n,
As at the first it seems design'd by Heav'n.
Our Knowledge we must Limited confess,
And by abusing it we make it less:
But shou'd we know as much as Angels do
Of Truth, and see by a Cœlestial View;
Were ev'ry Mystery naked to us shown,
As to the Blest they'll be Hereafter known,
What Tryal were there (thus of means bereft
To exercise it) for Obedience left?
Unless 'twere prov'd that willingly we stood,
How cou'd we hope Rewards for being Good?
To ev'ry Man of Common Sense 'tis shown,
Necessitated Vertue can be none:
How can we call him Temperate, Chast and Just,
Who does not what he Wou'd but what he Must?
The Angels that Elaps'd have made it plain
That they, and those whose Purity remain,
Like us, a State of some Probation pass'd,
E're these were Justify'd, and those were Cast.
Without some Care the Wisest cou'd not live
To Skill in Arts with Labour we arrive;
And shall he save his Soul that will not Strive?
Your Notions then we rather shou'd distrust,
Perverting Truth, and calling God unjust.
As at the first it seems design'd by Heav'n.
Our Knowledge we must Limited confess,
And by abusing it we make it less:
But shou'd we know as much as Angels do
Of Truth, and see by a Cœlestial View;
Were ev'ry Mystery naked to us shown,
As to the Blest they'll be Hereafter known,
What Tryal were there (thus of means bereft
To exercise it) for Obedience left?
Unless 'twere prov'd that willingly we stood,
How cou'd we hope Rewards for being Good?
To ev'ry Man of Common Sense 'tis shown,
Necessitated Vertue can be none:
How can we call him Temperate, Chast and Just,
Who does not what he Wou'd but what he Must?
The Angels that Elaps'd have made it plain
That they, and those whose Purity remain,
Like us, a State of some Probation pass'd,
E're these were Justify'd, and those were Cast.
Without some Care the Wisest cou'd not live
To Skill in Arts with Labour we arrive;
And shall he save his Soul that will not Strive?
Your Notions then we rather shou'd distrust,
Perverting Truth, and calling God unjust.
In vain (for who can rob the Mind of Light?)
You'd throw a Mist of Fate before our Sight;
In vain You take, enamour'd of the Kin,
To back your Cause, the Ape your Brother in;
There's something in us that Assent requires
To Heav'nly Things, there fixes and admires,
And thither, like a Flame, by Native force aspires:
No Bounds it keeps, but, scorning all controul,
Asserts a Future State, and half reveals the Soul!
To say we Nothing know then, as the first
Of all your Arguments, is next the worst:
Because, (as 'twere the Porter made to Sin,)
'Tis that which lets all other Vices in:
For were that Notion Settl'd once as true,
There's Nothing but we Lawfully might do:
But of all Errors ever broach'd beside,
There is not one so Evidently wide.
Who knows not? (tho' with Vices, we confess,
Too oft we sink into a Brutal Dress;)
But yet who knows not, (tho' he know the least
Of all Men,) that he's Nobler than a Beast?
His Look, Demeanor, Speech and Form declare
That Man was most the Wise Creator's Care.
The Brute has Being, and 'twill Perish whole;
But 'twas to Man in whom He breath'd a Soul.
The Lab'ring Ox, suffic'd with Natures Store,
Declines his Abject Head, and seeks no more;
Not so contented, Man erects his Eye,
And forward shoots at Immortality:
'Tis true, the common Fate he shares, and dies;
But has the Brute, like Him a Hope to rise,
And, leaving Earth below, with Angels tread the Skies?
Who knows not, when he does the Horse survey
He's to Command, and 'tother to obey?
For Contemplation, Man, and Converse fit,
And they their strength to humble to his Wit.
Who knows not, that there's Nothing can efface
Th'Impressions God does in the Conscience place?
There evident they stand, and brightly shine,
When daring Men to Impious Paths incline;
That by their Pow'rful Calls and constant use,
Impenitence may be without Excuse.
These Notions then we one and all shou'd Trust
Asserting Truth, and proving God is Just.
You'd throw a Mist of Fate before our Sight;
175
To back your Cause, the Ape your Brother in;
There's something in us that Assent requires
To Heav'nly Things, there fixes and admires,
And thither, like a Flame, by Native force aspires:
No Bounds it keeps, but, scorning all controul,
Asserts a Future State, and half reveals the Soul!
To say we Nothing know then, as the first
Of all your Arguments, is next the worst:
Because, (as 'twere the Porter made to Sin,)
'Tis that which lets all other Vices in:
For were that Notion Settl'd once as true,
There's Nothing but we Lawfully might do:
But of all Errors ever broach'd beside,
There is not one so Evidently wide.
Who knows not? (tho' with Vices, we confess,
Too oft we sink into a Brutal Dress;)
But yet who knows not, (tho' he know the least
Of all Men,) that he's Nobler than a Beast?
His Look, Demeanor, Speech and Form declare
That Man was most the Wise Creator's Care.
The Brute has Being, and 'twill Perish whole;
But 'twas to Man in whom He breath'd a Soul.
The Lab'ring Ox, suffic'd with Natures Store,
Declines his Abject Head, and seeks no more;
Not so contented, Man erects his Eye,
And forward shoots at Immortality:
'Tis true, the common Fate he shares, and dies;
But has the Brute, like Him a Hope to rise,
And, leaving Earth below, with Angels tread the Skies?
Who knows not, when he does the Horse survey
He's to Command, and 'tother to obey?
For Contemplation, Man, and Converse fit,
And they their strength to humble to his Wit.
176
Th'Impressions God does in the Conscience place?
There evident they stand, and brightly shine,
When daring Men to Impious Paths incline;
That by their Pow'rful Calls and constant use,
Impenitence may be without Excuse.
These Notions then we one and all shou'd Trust
Asserting Truth, and proving God is Just.
Then (tho' th'Objector does so dimnly see)
All Men beside must readily agree
Who Nothing does believe can Nothing be.
A thousand Things there are (and so design'd)
That can be Objects only of the Mind.
If on our Beings we reflect with Care,
What but a God cou'd make us what we are?
Yet since from Demonstration not Receiv'd,
It cannot so be known—but must be so Believ'd.
We must Believe 'tis an Almighty Hand
That does the rowling Spheres, and Starry Host Command;
All Times he sees, and does all Places fill,
And when his Thunder speaks, the Trembling World is still:
The vast Extended Heav'ns his Pow'r declare,
And downward look, his Works Assert Him there:
Within, we feel Him press us to Repent;
And He's in Hell ev'n in his Punishment:
Nay if his Word, which You oppose, is true,
That Punishment will be Eternal too.
For tho' the Criminal but Finite be,
He yet offends against Infinity;
Who, therefore, weighing Anger by Offence,
Proportions Justice to Omnipotence.
But since Repentance, as it is our own,
Cou'd not Offences Infinite atone,
For Ruin'd Man the Son Devotes his Head,
Transfer'd the Guilt and suffer'd in our stead!
There 'twas that Adam's FALL was Counter-weigh'd,
On his own self the Countless Debt he laid;
So Infinite by Infinite was Paid.
Not that hereby we shou'd presume the least
Without our own Endeavours to be Blest:
In meer Belief but half of CHRIST we view,
Our ev'ry Action there shou'd Centre too:
In vain that Faith which does his God-head own,
But of his Precepts will not Practise one.
Our Notions, thus, are far above distrust,
Asserting Truth and proving God is Just.
All Men beside must readily agree
Who Nothing does believe can Nothing be.
A thousand Things there are (and so design'd)
That can be Objects only of the Mind.
If on our Beings we reflect with Care,
What but a God cou'd make us what we are?
Yet since from Demonstration not Receiv'd,
It cannot so be known—but must be so Believ'd.
We must Believe 'tis an Almighty Hand
That does the rowling Spheres, and Starry Host Command;
All Times he sees, and does all Places fill,
And when his Thunder speaks, the Trembling World is still:
The vast Extended Heav'ns his Pow'r declare,
And downward look, his Works Assert Him there:
Within, we feel Him press us to Repent;
And He's in Hell ev'n in his Punishment:
Nay if his Word, which You oppose, is true,
That Punishment will be Eternal too.
For tho' the Criminal but Finite be,
He yet offends against Infinity;
Who, therefore, weighing Anger by Offence,
Proportions Justice to Omnipotence.
But since Repentance, as it is our own,
Cou'd not Offences Infinite atone,
177
Transfer'd the Guilt and suffer'd in our stead!
There 'twas that Adam's FALL was Counter-weigh'd,
On his own self the Countless Debt he laid;
So Infinite by Infinite was Paid.
Not that hereby we shou'd presume the least
Without our own Endeavours to be Blest:
In meer Belief but half of CHRIST we view,
Our ev'ry Action there shou'd Centre too:
In vain that Faith which does his God-head own,
But of his Precepts will not Practise one.
Our Notions, thus, are far above distrust,
Asserting Truth and proving God is Just.
Who is it knows not, that the Scriptures View,
The Harmony between the Old and New?
So much the Last upon the First depends,
So much the Last the Former Recommends,
The force of Each without its Voucher ends.
Who sees not there a Gracious Saviour stand,
Kindly Inviting whom He might Command?
Tho' prone to Lapses, there he keeps in view
To trim our Lamps, and wasted Grace renew.
To the most mean Capacity He's shown,
And Ignorance now can be a Plea for None.
His Precepts (writ that all may learn) contain
Our Duty easy, full, and clear, and plain:
His Precepts! all so Pow'rful and Divine,
Conviction rises fresh from ev'ry Line!
And reading there we must determin'd be,
For all's Excess of Love! and Endless Sanctity!
Last, as he freely suffer'd for our sakes,
So now in Heav'n He Intercession makes
For all his Saints, of what Degree so e'er;
Who Imitating his Example here,
Will Reign with him, at last, in Endless Glory there!
Let then the Eternal Word be all our Trust,
Asserting Truth, and proving God is Just.
The Harmony between the Old and New?
So much the Last upon the First depends,
So much the Last the Former Recommends,
The force of Each without its Voucher ends.
Who sees not there a Gracious Saviour stand,
Kindly Inviting whom He might Command?
Tho' prone to Lapses, there he keeps in view
To trim our Lamps, and wasted Grace renew.
To the most mean Capacity He's shown,
And Ignorance now can be a Plea for None.
His Precepts (writ that all may learn) contain
Our Duty easy, full, and clear, and plain:
His Precepts! all so Pow'rful and Divine,
Conviction rises fresh from ev'ry Line!
And reading there we must determin'd be,
For all's Excess of Love! and Endless Sanctity!
Last, as he freely suffer'd for our sakes,
So now in Heav'n He Intercession makes
For all his Saints, of what Degree so e'er;
Who Imitating his Example here,
Will Reign with him, at last, in Endless Glory there!
178
Asserting Truth, and proving God is Just.
Here breaks the Dawn of Everlasting Day!
Here Mercy does it self at full display!
'Tis here! and 'tis for ever now to Stay!
The Happy News Reveal'd Religion brings
Angels Rejoyce at, and all Nature Sings!
O Boundless Love! that cou'd from Heav'n descend
And God in Man, on Man Redeem'd attend,
The Judge became the Saviour and the Friend!
What more can Vertue hope or Mercy give
Than that the Just Eternally shou'd live?—
—But Wretched Man, yet wand'ring from the Right,
Will follow Int'rest, Passion, Pride and Spite
And cries He's Blind amidst this Blaze of Light.
Tho' one wou'd think such Mercies shou'd instill
A strength beyond both Appetite and Will:
But above all, that it shou'd quite convince
The Sceptick, and incline him to a Sense
Of the unbounded Care of Providence:
But Spurning at Reproof away he hies,
And has not yet the Leisure to be Wise:
To Things Obscure he will direct his View,
O'er which the Hand of Heav'n a Veil has drew;
Fond of the False, and Doubtful of the True.
His Pleasures call Him, and he must be gone,
And new Enjoyments drive the former on,
Till in a State of Darkness Life is done.
Mean while 'tis plain, whatever Fools distrust,
That God is Great, Omniscient, Wise and Just;
But vain is Man, and most Perverse his Will,
That may be Good, and chuses to be Ill.
Here Mercy does it self at full display!
'Tis here! and 'tis for ever now to Stay!
The Happy News Reveal'd Religion brings
Angels Rejoyce at, and all Nature Sings!
O Boundless Love! that cou'd from Heav'n descend
And God in Man, on Man Redeem'd attend,
The Judge became the Saviour and the Friend!
What more can Vertue hope or Mercy give
Than that the Just Eternally shou'd live?—
—But Wretched Man, yet wand'ring from the Right,
Will follow Int'rest, Passion, Pride and Spite
And cries He's Blind amidst this Blaze of Light.
Tho' one wou'd think such Mercies shou'd instill
A strength beyond both Appetite and Will:
But above all, that it shou'd quite convince
The Sceptick, and incline him to a Sense
Of the unbounded Care of Providence:
But Spurning at Reproof away he hies,
And has not yet the Leisure to be Wise:
To Things Obscure he will direct his View,
O'er which the Hand of Heav'n a Veil has drew;
Fond of the False, and Doubtful of the True.
His Pleasures call Him, and he must be gone,
And new Enjoyments drive the former on,
Till in a State of Darkness Life is done.
Mean while 'tis plain, whatever Fools distrust,
That God is Great, Omniscient, Wise and Just;
But vain is Man, and most Perverse his Will,
That may be Good, and chuses to be Ill.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |