 | Poems on several occasions |  |
104
VERSES UPON MY FATHER,
THE REV. SAMUEL WESLEY, A. M., RECTOR OF EPWORTH.
Arise, my song, with utmost vigour rise,
And bear a long-tried virtue to the skies;
Ere yet his soul released from mouldering clay,
Springs from the slighted earth, and wings away,
Essay thy strength! Let praise salute his ear,
The only truth he never wish'd to hear.
Let but a father read with favouring eyes,
And bless me yet again before he dies.
Paid are the strains! his blessing far outweighs
A courtier's patronage, or critic's praise,
Or a Young's pension, or a Dryden's bays.
And bear a long-tried virtue to the skies;
105
Springs from the slighted earth, and wings away,
Essay thy strength! Let praise salute his ear,
The only truth he never wish'd to hear.
Let but a father read with favouring eyes,
And bless me yet again before he dies.
Paid are the strains! his blessing far outweighs
A courtier's patronage, or critic's praise,
Or a Young's pension, or a Dryden's bays.
With opening life, his early worth began;
The boy misleads not, but foreshows the man.
Directed wrong, though first he miss'd the way,
Train'd to mistake, and disciplined to stray;
Not long:—for reason gilded error's night,
And doubts, well-founded, shot a dawn of light.
Nor prejudice o'ersway'd his heart and head,
Resolved to follow truth where'er she led,
The radiant track audacious to pursue,
From fame, from interest, and from friends he flew.
Those shock'd him first who laugh at human sway,
Who preach, “Because commanded, disobey;”
Who law's and gospel's bonds in sunder rend,
And blush not Bradshaw's saintship to defend;
Alike the crown and mitre who forswore,
And scoff'd profanely at the martyr's gore;
Though not in vain the sacred current flow'd,
Which gave this champion to the church of God.
The boy misleads not, but foreshows the man.
Directed wrong, though first he miss'd the way,
Train'd to mistake, and disciplined to stray;
Not long:—for reason gilded error's night,
And doubts, well-founded, shot a dawn of light.
Nor prejudice o'ersway'd his heart and head,
Resolved to follow truth where'er she led,
The radiant track audacious to pursue,
From fame, from interest, and from friends he flew.
Those shock'd him first who laugh at human sway,
Who preach, “Because commanded, disobey;”
Who law's and gospel's bonds in sunder rend,
And blush not Bradshaw's saintship to defend;
Alike the crown and mitre who forswore,
And scoff'd profanely at the martyr's gore;
Though not in vain the sacred current flow'd,
Which gave this champion to the church of God.
No worldly views the real convert call;
He sought God's altar when it seem'd to fall;
To Oxford hasted, e'en in dangerous days,
When royal anger struck the fated place;
When senseless policy was pleased to view
With favour all religions but the true;
When a king's hand stretch'd out, amazed, they saw,
And troops were order'd to supply the law.
Then luckless James possess'd the British throne,
And for the papal grandeur risk'd his own;
Enraged at all who dared his schemes oppose,
Stern to his friends, but ductile to his foes.
Then Jesuits' wiles our Church's fall combined,
Till Rome, to save her, with Geneva join'd.
Lo! Orange sails, the prudent and the brave,
Our fears to scatter, and our rights to save.
This Briton's pen first pleaded William's cause,
And pleaded strongly for our faith and laws.
He sought God's altar when it seem'd to fall;
106
When royal anger struck the fated place;
When senseless policy was pleased to view
With favour all religions but the true;
When a king's hand stretch'd out, amazed, they saw,
And troops were order'd to supply the law.
Then luckless James possess'd the British throne,
And for the papal grandeur risk'd his own;
Enraged at all who dared his schemes oppose,
Stern to his friends, but ductile to his foes.
Then Jesuits' wiles our Church's fall combined,
Till Rome, to save her, with Geneva join'd.
107
Our fears to scatter, and our rights to save.
This Briton's pen first pleaded William's cause,
And pleaded strongly for our faith and laws.
Nor yet unmention'd shall in silence lie
His slighted and derided poetry;
Should Brown revile, or Swift my song despise,
Should other Garths and other legions rise.
Whate'er his strains, still glorious was his end,—
Faith to assert, and virtue to defend.
He sung how God the Saviour deign'd to expire,
With Vida's piety, though not his fire;
Deduced his Maker's praise from age to age,
Through the long annals of the sacred page.
Not cursed, like syren Dryden, to excel,
Who strew'd with flowerets fair the way to hell;
With atheist doctrines loosest morals join'd,
To rot the body, and to damn the mind;
All faith he scoff'd, all virtue bounded o'er,
And thought the world well barter'd for a whore!
Sworn foe to good, still pleading Satan's cause,
He crown'd the devil's martyrs with applause.
No Christian e'er would wish that dangerous height,
“Nor would I write like him:—like him to write,
If there's hereafter, and a last great day,
What fire's enough to purge his crimes away?
How will he wish each lewd, applauded line,
That makes vice pleasing, and damnation shine,
Had been as dull as honest Quarles' or mine!”
So chants the bard his unapplauded lays,
While Dunton's prose a golden medal pays,
And Cibber's forehead wears the regal bays.
Though not inglorious was the poet's fate,
Liked and rewarded by the good and great;
For gracious smiles not pious Anne denied,
And beauteous Mary bless'd him when she died.
His slighted and derided poetry;
Should Brown revile, or Swift my song despise,
Should other Garths and other legions rise.
Whate'er his strains, still glorious was his end,—
Faith to assert, and virtue to defend.
He sung how God the Saviour deign'd to expire,
With Vida's piety, though not his fire;
Deduced his Maker's praise from age to age,
Through the long annals of the sacred page.
Not cursed, like syren Dryden, to excel,
Who strew'd with flowerets fair the way to hell;
With atheist doctrines loosest morals join'd,
To rot the body, and to damn the mind;
All faith he scoff'd, all virtue bounded o'er,
And thought the world well barter'd for a whore!
Sworn foe to good, still pleading Satan's cause,
He crown'd the devil's martyrs with applause.
No Christian e'er would wish that dangerous height,
“Nor would I write like him:—like him to write,
If there's hereafter, and a last great day,
What fire's enough to purge his crimes away?
108
That makes vice pleasing, and damnation shine,
Had been as dull as honest Quarles' or mine!”
So chants the bard his unapplauded lays,
While Dunton's prose a golden medal pays,
And Cibber's forehead wears the regal bays.
Though not inglorious was the poet's fate,
Liked and rewarded by the good and great;
For gracious smiles not pious Anne denied,
And beauteous Mary bless'd him when she died.
| Poems on several occasions | |