Poems on several occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

True again.
Where is the wonder? If you look around,
You'll find some Poets—Coblers most profound!
With borrow'd thesis versify and patch it,
And spoil both upper leather, sole, and latchet;
By which 'tis so transform'd, so diff'rent grown,
That th'owner does not know it for his own.

A Shoemaker and Poet?

Good agen:
Ar'n't Shoemakers the same as other men?
No doubt; but men are born of diff'rent cast,
“Let not the Cobler go beyond his last,”
Lest, like that critic, who to fame aspir'd,
He lose the honours which he has acquir'd;
For while he criticiz'd upon the shoe
He gain'd applause, as learned critics do;
But when he took upon him to impart
His curious observations on the art
Th'ingenious statuary had display'd,
Where all but life and motion was essay'd,
No wonder why the well known censure past,
“Let not the Cobler go beyond his last.”

But will much learning make dull blockheads wise?
Poets are often Coblers in disguise,
And give the world such patches of each other,
That Dullness nods to Dullness, thou'rt my brother;

Yet claim connection with Apollo's court,
As if th'inspiring graces there resort.
For me, I scorn their aid, despise their rules,
And leave such maxims to more learned fools;
Content to glory in the Christian cause,
Where happiness is found without applause.
'Tis there or nowhere that supply is giv'n,
Which warms, inspires, and leads us up to heav'n;
'Tis there alone th'important matter lies,
The great criterion of the good and wise!
What makes a Poet? not fictitious dress:
A Christian Poet Christian Truths express;
Not all the fancied whims the Poets use
About Apollo or their fav'rite muse,
Or soaring on their Pegasus new shod,
Imploring, flying to a heathen god,
Cou'd e'er assist 'em with a wink or nod;
A poor and helpless being, deaf to all,
Another Dagon, senseless of his fall,
As weak as they who on his godship call.

xii

Is this the great inspirer of the age,
Who fires the bard, and fills the learned page?
It is, and in the face of open day
Their dubious strains the Truths of God display.
Who can excuse the Poet, that in spite
Of Scripture says, “Whatever is is right;”
That matter is an attribute of God,
From purest æther to the grossest clod;
Th'anima mundi, or in language foul,
“Whose body nature is, and God the soul.”
Tho' sweet his numbers, who can reconcile
Such gross descriptions to the Christian stile?
Thus sung the Poets, with precarious hope,
From Aristotle to poetick Pope.
Are not the schools with heathen authors stor'd?
Isn't Horace for his language much ador'd?
Tho' to a chaste unsullied mind, the verse
Conveys a sense too filthy to rehearse.

xiii

Oh! for a pen to blot the hateful name,
To make ev'n Sodom blush in burning flame.
Are these the proper lessons for our youth?
O blush ye schools for this unnat'ral truth!
Give me the Bard who nobly does aspire
To that divine, that true poetick fire,
Which glows and warms within each sacred page,
The glory and delight of ev'ry age;
Who knows no muse but that great Spirit's aid,
Which o'er the whole creation is display'd;
Who frames his faith and conduct to those laws,
And lives the lively picture which he draws;
Whose faith is fix'd, depending on that word
Which has reveal'd the Sovereign God and Lord:
Where such I find, I'm not asham'd to tell
My heart goes with him and I wish him well.
Pursue my friend, pursue in Virtue's cause,
And advocate her liberty and laws.

xiv

Press on, press on, let not thy ardour cease,
Her ways are pleasantness, her paths are peace.
Tho' great the conflict, yet you may depend
On God, your Maker, Saviour, Brother, Friend,
That you'll be more than conqu'ror in the end.

James Green. London, Sept. 11, 1773.