Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm, 580 The sum is this: If man's convenience, health, 585 As God was free to form them at the first, Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons To love it too. The spring time of our years Is soon dishonour'd and defil'd in most 590 By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots, If unrestrain'd, into luxuriant growth, Than cruelty, most dev'lish of them all, Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule 595 And righteous limitation of its act, By which Heav'n moves in pard'ning guilty man; And he that shows none, being ripe in years, And conscious of the outrage he commits, Shall seek it, and not find it, in his turn. Distinguish'd much by reason, and still more By our capacity of grace divine, 600 From creatures, that exist but for our sake, 605 Of what he deems no mean nor trivial trust, Not more on human help than we on theirs. Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were giv'n 610 In aid of our defects. In some are found Such teachable and apprehensive parts, That man's attainments in his own concerns, Match'd with the expertness of the brutes in theirs, Some show that nice sagacity of smell, 615 And read with such discernment, in the port We could not teach, and must despair to learn. 620 626 Can move or warp; and gratitude for small And trivial favours, lasting as the life, 630 And glist'ning even in the dying eye. Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms Wins publick honour; and ten thousand sit 635 (O wonderful effect of musick's power!) Messiah's eulogy for Handel's sake! But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve- (For, was it less, what heathen would have dar'd To strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath, 640 And hang it up in honour of a man?) Much less might serve, when all that we design And give the day to a musician's' praise. Remember Handel? Who, that was not born 645 Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets, Or can, the more than Homer of his age? Yes we remember him; and while we praise That His most holy book from whom it came, 650 Was never meant, was never us'd before, To buckram out the mem'ry of a man. And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed 655 When wand'ring Charles, who meant to be the third, The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce, Sung to the praise and glory of King George! 660 When time hath somewhat mellow'á it, and made 665 The idol of our worship while he liv'd The God of our idolatry once more, Shall have its altar; and the world shall go In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine. The theatre too small, shall suffocate 670 Its squeez'd contents, and more than it admits Ungratified for there some noble lord Shall stuff his shoulders with King Richard's bunch, 675 He drew the liturgy, and fram'd the rites 680 And call'd the world to worship on the banks Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. The mulb'rry tree was hung with blooming wreaths; The mulb'rry tree stood centre of the dance; 686 The mulb'rry tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs; And from his touchwood trunk the mulb'rry tree 690 And mirth without offence. No few return'd, Doubtless, much edified, and all refresh'd. Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy; 695 700 Why? what has charm'd them? Hath he saved the state? No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No. 705 Enchanting novelty, that moon at full, That finds out ev'ry crevice of the head That is not sound, and perfect, hath in theirs Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near, And his own cattle must suffice him soon. 710 Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise, And just direction sacred, to a thing Doom'd to the dust, or lodg'd already there. Encomium in old time was poet's work; 715 But poets, having lavishly long since The task now falls into the publick hand; And I contented with an humbler theme, Have pour'd my stream of panegyrick down 720 The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds Among her lovely works with a secure May stand between an animal and wo, The groans of nature in this Nether world, 725 Which heav'n has heard for ages, have an end. 730 735 For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds 740 The dust that waits upon his sultry march, When sin hath mov'd him, and his wrath is hot, 745 750 755 Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last His soul refresh'd with foretaste of the joy? And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach 765 |