University of Virginia Library

Of all the aberrations I can find
In the mixt memoirs of the human mind,
None so eccentric veers from common sense
As theirs, who to believing make pretence,
Who text on text adapt to systems vain,
Reject the difficult, perplex the plain,
And, weighing in false scales Redemption's plan,
Decide the Lord, who bought them, was but man;
A prophet, if you please, or somewhat more,
A sage endow'd with legislative power,
As was the son of Jethro, and inspir'd
Far as his mission, but no more requir'd:
Yet this to preach, to publish o'er and o'er,
Modern philosophy has stretch'd her power,
And doubtless will to giddier heights advance,
When she has fully fraterniz'd with France.

Give me such foes as Frederic or Voltaire,
Who wage with Revelation open war,
Or two less lively, but not less profane,
------, M. P. and Citizen Tom Paine;
But these of sceptics the left-handed fry,
So primly liberal, so demurely sly,
Who say our faith they mean but to refine,
While at its base they try to spring the mine
Laid long ago by Polish pioneers;
These move my scorn, they cannot rouse my fears;
Firm on that faith, its heav'nly builder plann'd,
The time-proof fabric of the Church shall stand,
And ev'ry human enemy repel,
For fortified by heav'n, it braves the gates of hell.

If then in England's fruitful nursery rise
Such heresies as this of giant size,
Through which a thousand minor planters run,
Busy as day-flies in the noontide sun,
To propagate by cuttings, or to graft
On varying stocks, as suits their varying craft,
I much suspect their labour will be lost,
Now the head-gard'ner, in himself a host,
Self-exil'd wanders to New England's coast.
Vain man! the tares he in the Old has sown,
He thinks are to such full perfection grown,
Will now so little care, or wat'ring want,
L---, or L--- may nurse each plant,
When, by some lucky opposition hit,
They've over-turn'd the Church, the Test, and Pitt.

“Imprudent Poet!” says some grave divine,
“Let not a Muse so orthodox as thine
“Descend to wit or humour.”—Pardon, Sir;
The readers of this age require a spur
Nicely apply'd to tickle, not to goad,
If you would wish to keep them in your road.
Pope, when he reason'd, deem'd it right to steer
“From grave to gay, from lively to severe”—
“Admit he did, the difference you must see
“Is great; his theme was mere morality,
“While yours”—I know 'tis of that torrent kind,
It quite o'erflows all bounds of human mind;
Nay, fill'd angelic minds with warm desire
Some glimpse of that high myst'ry to acquire;
But I, who other readers have in view,
Frankly confess, I do not write for you.
You can from Chillingworth or Hooker gain
Drugs, that best purge from heresy the brain;
And antidotes to errors so absurd
Prepar'd by Jones, Burgh, Cleaver, Horseley, Hurd.
But their prescriptions, Doctor, ne'er would mend
The fashionable patients I attend:
Their malady, at once both old and new,
Partakes of fever, and of dropsy too:
He, therefore, who with skill their case would treat,
Must give them med'cines that both cool and heat.
For you, and such as you, a solemn theme
Must still be handled solemn in extreme:
If controversial, heavy arms alone,
The weaver's beam, and not the sling and stone,
Must be each champion's weapon; to employ
A flash of wit, by way of feu de joie,
Like Warburton; you deem incongruous quite,
And, though a victor, blame the dang'rous wight,
Adhering ever to this golden rule,
A stanch Polemic must be strictly dull.
I'll not, for his trim periods, court the thief
Who tries to swindle me of my belief;
Nor the dull game of mock politeness play,
With men involv'd in Paul's anathema.
Yet I, like you, Lord Shaftsbury's rule detest,
Which sets up ridicule, of truth the test:
You surely then with safety may admit
Detected falsehood, a fair butt for wit.
Hence on my present theme, as on the past,
I sprinkle grains of salt to give it taste,
That those may read, who never redde before,
And those, who read already, may read more.

With this apology, my reverend Friend,
Perchance, Right Reverend, I my preface end,
And here assert, just as I first began,
That all, who Scripture's genuine sense would scan,
Must hold the Son of God both God and Man.
God, whom the eternal generating Sire
Did with his full divinity inspire;
First of the first of all, and last of last,
Beyond all count of future, present, past;
For merely from beginning down to end,
Our pigmy calculating powers extend,
From step to step o'er days, years, ages, climb,
Curb'd by the scant arithmetic of time;
And can but mark, by mensuration clear,
A few brief digits of duration's sphere;
Hence all we know is that with God he sprung
Before heav'n's curtain o'er creation hung,
Before the morning stars their first glad chorus sung.

True, as the turnsole to the orb of light,
The genuine Christian keeps this faith in sight,
Nor doubts the fact, because he knows the end,
For which that God did from his Sire descend,
Disrob'd himself of glory, and became
A man in substance, and a man in name;
Of woman-born, in whom each mortal eye
Saw all itself, save its impurity:
Thus, while a perfect man on earth he shone,
The perfect Deity was still his own;
Inferior only to his Sire on high
But as invested with humanity:
Thus when with heav'nly earthly we compare,
Both soul and body claim an equal share
In our formation; so in his were join'd
Terrestrial substance with celestial mind.
Hence, though both God and Man, as Christ alone
We from his birth but one Redeemer own;
That wond'rous birth, by which he man became,
While his pure godhead still remain'd the same,
Yet, by such union intimately join'd,
As in our frame, the body, soul, or mind;
They therefore, who preserve the Gospel clue,
As God and Man their sole Messiah view.

“But is such union possible?” With God
All things are possible—Take Butler's road;
Travel the path of plain analogy,
'Twill lead at least to probability,
And sure, when demonstration is deny'd,
Reason should in the next best thing confide.
Think ye, if Locke or Newton in a glass
Survey'd the reflex image of his face,
Would he from thence conclude he view'd the whole?
No, he would know he had an unseen soul
Illumining each feature, and decide
That soul, he could not from himself divide.
This granted, next suppose the soul, thus join'd
To substance, were not to that mass confin'd,
But could diffuse itself; the thoughts discern
Of other souls, their wants, their weakness learn,
And hence, with faculties of amplest reach,
Far, far beyond the puny powers of speech,
Transfuse by intuition, and dispense
All that was needful of superior sense;
In such a Newton, or a Locke you'd see
No faint resemblance of a Trinity;
Two parts of which, when nature first began,
Form'd God's own image, and was call'd a man,
But when the Word, made flesh, with mortals dwelt,
That Word alone the trinal Union felt.

Till then the world was wrapt in shades of night.
Glory to Israel, to the Gentiles light
His saving advent spread. Where'er he trod
Creation bow'd, and own'd th' incarnate God.
Celestial pow'rs his mighty mission seal'd;
Dæmons he vanquish'd, raging storms he still'd;
Gave to the deaf to hear, the dumb to speak,
Eyes to the blind, and sinews to the weak;
To sinners pardon, precepts to mankind,
And to each rule his bright example join'd.
In these blest works his ev'ry hour employ'd;
For man he liv'd in toil, in torments died;
Died, though his voice before its power had prov'd
To call from death to life the friend he lov'd;
Yet prompt to execute his Father's will,
Prompt the sure word of prophecy to seal
With his own blood, he pass'd through thy domain,
Dread Hades! from the grave he rose again,
Sojourn'd some space with his selected few,
Enough to prove his resurrection true,
Then on a brilliant cloud ascending high,
Sat at his Sire's right hand, the filial Deity.

Come, ye vain worldly disputants, and read
This single portion of my general Creed!
Then say, if here I paint his portrait true,
First in an earthly, then a heav'nly view;
And when each sacred feature I define,
From scripture copying closely line by line,
I am not justified, on reason's plan,
To deem my Saviour God, as well as Man,
And with him to the Sire and Spirit raise
One undivided hymn of equal praise?

Deny you this?—Then go, as you think meet,
Or to America or Essex-street,
The last is nearest, and you there may buy,
Neat as imported, ev'ry fresh supply
Of that lean faith, which suits your palates best,
Much like the food in new French kitchens drest,
A la Republicaine; no need to carve,
The soupe's so maigre, you may eat, yet starve.

For me, I wait that future day of doom
With hope, through faith, which soon or late must come,
When man's probation finally shall end,
When Christ, the King of glory, shall descend
Amply triumphant, borne on Seraph's wing;
When all Heav'n's chorus loud Hosannas sing,
When earth convulsive bursts, when Ether flames,
When the last trumpet of my God proclaims
Messiah present; when that Judge most just
Shall weigh the merits of the sons of dust,
Rais'd in immortal bodies, yet the same,
That some must wear to honour, some to shame,
Yet all must wear; for Death, the last of foes,
Subdu'd, Mortality's vain scene will close,
And good and bad eternally remain,
Those crown'd with glory, these consign'd to pain,
This is the faith, the sacred page reveals;
This the sole Charter of Salvation seals.

And now, my friend, if thy severest eye
An error in my Christian creed descry;
An error but in substance, not in style,
I pray thee use thy hatchet, not thy file,
And hew it down. Let slighter faults remain.
Enough for me, if this familiar strain
Give to the general ear its meaning plain.
There are, who, more than pathos or sublime,
Love fluent verse when link'd with easy rhyme;
For these I write. Let those who write for fame,
Or trade in print, pursue their humbler aim.

Truth! Truth reveal'd! be thou my hallow'd theme,
And if, through vacant youth's delirious dream,
Or ev'n maturest manhood, far too long
I've wander'd, with more favour'd sons of song,
Through fancy's maze; 'tis meet my green old age
Should prompt me, or to check the tuneful rage,
Or clothe in verse truths, when ordain'd to teach
In prose, by duty I was bound to preach;
And, when those truths surpass'd all human wit,
Bid Reason modestly to Faith submit,
Holding this best of maxims still in view,
What God declares, though darkly, must be true.

Confirm'd in this, yet witless of the ways,
By which that God his inward grace conveys
To sinful souls, in many a musing hour
I've thus invok'd his salutary power—
“Spirit of inward purity, control
The wild conceptions of my wayward soul!
When memory, counting long past follies o'er,
Delights to dwell on what it should deplore,
And, musing or on vain, or vicious toys,
The fruits of rising penitence destroys,
Come to thy vot'ry, come, celestial guest,
And drive the busy demon from my breast!
So shall each passion, purified by thee,
Be all dissolv'd in fervent Piety;
So shall weak reason, strengthen'd by thy grace,
The path, that leads to sure salvation, trace
Through that firm faith alone, which justifies,
In my Redeemer's living sacrifice;
Prov'd by its works, which, like the Saints above,
Abounds in acts of Charity and Love.”

Thus I—Let others, who despise the strain,
And deem all aid of grace internal vain
To cure the general atrophy of mind,
Their sov'reign cure in their own reason find.
Grant, Heav'n, they may! Such cures, I fear, are rare.
Let me with David give myself to prayer;
Prayer, the true solace of the sickly soul,
When rul'd by Resignation's meek control,
Or join'd to that, the tribute of the heart,
Which, fir'd with fervour unallay'd by art,
Rolls the pure stream of gratitude along,
In prose prepar'd, or soul-expanding song,
For blessings pour'd from blessings sov'reign spring
Fir'd with such gratitude, I now will sing
What best may sanctify, and best may end
That Christian Creed, a Christian Priest has penn'd.

“Father, Redeemer, Comforter divine!
This humble off'ring to thy equal shrine
Here thy unworthy servant grateful pays
Of undivided thanks, united praise,
For all those mercies, which at birth began,
And ceaseless flow'd through life's long-lengthen'd span;
Propt my frail frame through all the varied scene,
With health enough for many a day serene;
Enough of science clearly to discern
How few important truths the wisest learn;
Enough of arts ingenuous to employ
The vacant hours, when graver studies cloy;
Enough of wealth to serve each honest end,
The poor to succour, or assist a friend;
Enough of faith in Scripture to descry,
That the sure hope of immortality,
Which only can the fear of death remove,
Flows from the fountain of Redeeming Love.