Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Hail venerable South! be Honour paid
Tho' late, yet lasting, to thy awful Shade!
Unbrib'd, unask'd, I offer willing Lays,
Careless alike of Censure and of Praise;
Nor, didst Thou yet on Earth adorn the Gown,
Would court thy Favour, or would fear thy Frown.

Thy Conduct uniform, and Life sincere,
By Hope not blinded, nor depress'd by Fear,
Before our Eyes divine Religion brought,
Thy Life presenting what thy Doctrine taught;
The wild Perverseness curb'd of Flesh and Blood,
Against the Bent of Temper strongly good.
So Socrates, if Pagans rightly say,
Moulded by Culture his reluctant Clay;
Virtue embrac'd, tho' prone to ev'ry Vice,
With all Materials of a Fool was wise.

Vast Stores of Learning deep adorn'd thy Mind,
And bounteous Nature equal Treasures join'd;
Whate'er by Antient Greece or Rome was known,
The Fathers, and the Schoolmen, were thy own;
Nor Libertines could Pleasure dearer hold,
Th' Ambitious Greatness, or the Miser Gold.
Nor lett'st Thou unimprov'd thy Riches lie,
Ardent to gain, and studious to apply;
Whether thy Stile would light us or would warm,
Instruct with Reason, or with Fancy charm;

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Or lash with Scorpions some enormous Crime,
Or reach the utmost Height of true Sublime;
To state the Right, and to refute the Wrong,
Distinctly clear, indissolubly strong.

Some all their Anger pour on Rome alone,
Plant all their Batteries at the Papal Throne;
In Sects of Deists they no Harm can see,
All Danger is compris'd in Popery;
While others freely Schismaticks will blame,
The Zeal of Scots, or Sects of Amsterdam;
Forgetting Rome, so plain in Scripture shown,
That Bellarmine confess'd Her Babylon.
Not thus, O South, thy well-weigh'd Censures flew;
Severe as Fate, but as impartial too,
The Sentence past where-e'er the Guilt had been,
Certain as Death is the Reward of Sin.
Not only Rebel Saintship felt thy Wit,
The sly precise censorious Hypocrite,
But courtly Revellers, who lost in Sense
Abus'd the kindest Smiles of Providence:
A just Regard thy equal Judgement show'd
To Heav'n and Earth, to Cæsar and to God.
True to thy Monarch's Crown in blackest Times,
But never flatt'ring to disguise his Crimes:
Nay, careless of the Storm thy Words might move,
Quick to discern, and faithful to reprove.
O might the Kings of each illustrious Line
Enjoy the Counsels of a Soul, like Thine!

Thy rigid Honesty could ne'er descend
Socinus and his Followers to commend,

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Or yield up Points their Favour to engage,
Transcribing Episcopius by the page:
Nor Zeal for Truth in Hereticks could see,
Nor Candour well-beseeming Charity;
Since all their Books with impious Lies are strow'd
With vile Blasphemings of the Christians' God;
Taunts worse than Julian's far, too foul to name,
And only fit for Hell, from whence they came.

A pert, self-taught, self-pleasing Author rose,
Our Faith by weak Defenses to expose;
Condemn'd the Language us'd by Christians all,
From slighted Schoolmen to th' Apostle Paul;
Against hard Words would new-coin'd Terms advance
(For Greek is always hard to Ignorance;)
Of Mysteries the Manner would express,
And Three are One by Mutual-Consciousness:
Thou, South, stood'st up a learn'd and found Divine
Thy Reas'ning nervous, as thy Wit was fine;
Through his poor Sides a Blow at Locke dost deal,
A Wound which all Mankind can never heal.
Essay your strength, ye Sophists, and object,
“No Cause arises from its own Effect.”
This single Stroke for ever sets us free,
Both from Self-conscious and Identity.

But does not Spleen, on Sport untimely bent,
To vent its Jest neglect its Argument?
No! solid Strength first meets the Reader's Eye;
Deep's the Foundation, as the Building's high.
Thy Reasons stand unshook, and still prevail,
They ne'er have fail'd us, and can never fail.

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Whence wisely some thy Arguments repeat,
Thy Sense remember, tho' thy Name forget.
Sharp was the Sting; But oft was cast at Thee
The basest Dirt, the worst Scurrility:
Foes on thy Fame their utmost Malice shed,
Full Venom of the Heart, tho' not the Head.
Whence comes it thy Reproofs as yet survive?
Still live thy Satirs and will ever live;
While Their's to dark Oblivion soon were thrown:
Thy Raileries had Wit, but Their's had none.

Nor shall my honest Pen attempt to draw
“A faultless Monster that the World ne'er saw.”
Great as Thou wert, this Error I must own,
The more conspicuous since 'twas Thine alone;
Thy greatest Fault from too much Wit arose,
Not Satan's self could charge it on thy Foes:
Sometimes too bright the flashing Lustre flies,
For Light is always Pain to Owlish Eyes.
Thrice happy for Britannia's Church 'twould be,
If half her Champions could offend like Thee.

Yet not in Life was equal Rigour seen,
Thy Heart was tender, tho' thy Words were keen.
Whene'er the Poor beneath Affliction bent,
Thou gav'st them, not a Stone or Compliment;
Preventing modest Worth's half-spoke Desire,
Wise to dispense, unwearied to enquire.
While the smooth Courtier lets his Censure fall
On want of Charity, and Height of Gall,
Thy Bounty unexhausted flow'd around,
And for his Six-Pence durst bestow a Pound.

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Each fond of Good, but in a diff'rent Way;
Thy Fashion was to do, and His to say.

O had'st Thou liv'd their Insolence t' oppose,
When late our modish modern Arians rose!
Who Infinite as God make Space and Time,
And idly feign a Prior to the Prime:
Foes to the Schoolmen's Cobwebs in pretence,
Without their Learning, and without their Sense,
Yet from that Fount their boasted Nostrums came,
They weed the very Authors which they blame;
Or dip at random, and the Errors glean,
Or scorn unopen'd, and reject unseen.
Hence ev'ry callow Fopling joins the Cry,
And rallies at Scholastick Nicety.
Can that unmeaning Creature find a Blot
In Tom of Aquin, or in subtle Scot?
All Latin barbarous He alike must see,
He knows no more of Quid than Quiddity.
Grave Anti-Sages send their lengthen'd Sight,
To view the Starry Orbs, those Worlds of Light;
Then cast on Earth their Philosophick Eye,
“Should God for such a Speck descend to die?”
O wondrous Proof of Mathematick Sense,
By Size and Bulk to measure Excellence!
Is each minutest Atom nobler far
Than Worlds of unextended Spirit are?
The Hill more precious than th' included Veins?
And Space more worth than all that it contains?

To see in Silence drop'd thy glorious Name,
Or slightly mention'd with diminish'd Fame,

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Provokes, O South, this Indignation shown,
Tho' not so great, as honest as thy own.
Well-shown, if One, but One, with greater heed
Thy Steps should follow, and thy Works should read.
Long may thy Mother-Church enjoy thy Pains,
Long as the Athanasian Mound remains;
Thy Sermons Light to wond'ring Britain give,
While Gospel Faith and Human Reason live;
Thy Name, 'till Time expires, be precious known
To all th' Adorers of the Great Three-One!