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Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm,
Who, when she form'd, design'd them an abode.

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The sum is this: If man's convenience, health,
Or safety; interfere, his rights and claims
Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs.
Else they are all-the meanest things that are-
As free to live, and to enjoy that life,

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As God was free to form them at the first,
Who in his sov'reign wisdom made them all.

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

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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

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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,

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From creatures, that exist but for our sake,
Which having serv'd us, perish, we are held
Accountable; and God some future day
Will reckon with us roundly for th' abuse

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Of what he deems no mean nor trivial trust,
Superiour as we are, they yet depend

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,
Are ofttimes vanquish'd and thrown far behind.

Some show that nice sagacity of smell,

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And read with such discernment, in the port
And figure of the man, his secret aim,
That oft we owe our safety to a skill

We could not teach, and must despair to learn.
But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop
To quadruped instructers many a good
And useful quality, and virtue too,
Rarely exemplified among ourselves.
Attachment never to be wean'd, or chang'd
By any change of fortune: proof alike
Against unkindness, absence, and neglect;
Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat

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Can move or warp; and gratitude for small

And trivial favours, lasting as the life,

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And glist'ning even in the dying eye.

Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms

Wins publick honour; and ten thousand sit
Patiently present at a sacred song,
Commemoration mad; content to hear

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(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,

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And hang it up in honour of a man?)

Much less might serve, when all that we design
Is but to gratify an itching ear,

And give the day to a musician's' praise.

Remember Handel? Who, that was not born

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Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets,

Or can,

the more than Homer of his age?

Yes we remember him; and while we praise
A talent so divine, remember too

That His most holy book from whom it came,

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Was never meant, was never us'd before,

To buckram out the mem'ry of a man.
But hush!-the Muse perhaps is too severe
And with a gravity beyond the size

And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed
Less impious than absurd, and owing more
To want of judgment than to wrong designs.
So in the chapel of old Ely House,

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When wand'ring Charles, who meant to be the third,
Had fled from William, and the news was fresh,

The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce,
And eke did roar right merrily, two staves,

Sung to the praise and glory of King George!
-Man praises man: and Garrick's mem'ry next,

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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

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Its squeez'd contents, and more than it admits
Shall sigh at their exclusion, and return

Ungratified for there some noble lord

Shall stuff his shoulders with King Richard's bunch,
Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak,
And strut and storm, and straddle, stamp, and stare,
To show the world how Garrick did not act.
For Garrick was a worshipper himself;

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He drew the liturgy, and fram'd the rites
And solemn ceremonial of the day,

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And call'd the world to worship on the banks
Of Avon, fam'd in song. Ah, pleasant proof
That piety has still in human hearts

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;

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The mulb'rry tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs;

And from his touchwood trunk the mulb'rry tree
Supplied such relicks as devotion holds
Still sacred, and preserves with pious care.
So 'twas a hallow'd time: decorum reign'd,

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And mirth without offence. No few return'd,

Doubtless, much edified, and all refresh'd.
-Man praises man. The rabble all alive
From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes,
Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day,
A pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes.
Some shout him, and some hang upon his car,
To gaze in 's eyes, and bless him. Maidens wave

Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy;
While others, not so satisfied, unhorse
The gilded equipage, and turning loose
His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve.

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Why? what has charm'd them? Hath he saved the

state?

No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No.

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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.

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Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise,
And dedicate a tribute, in its use

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;

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But poets, having lavishly long since
Exhausted all materials of the art,

The task now falls into the publick hand;

And I contented with an humbler theme,

Have pour'd my stream of panegyrick down

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The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds

Among her lovely works with a secure
And unambitious course, reflecting clear,
If not the virtues, yet the worth of brutes.
And I am recompensed, and deem the toils
Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine

May stand between an animal and wo,
And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.

The groans of nature in this Nether world,

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Which heav'n has heard for ages, have an end.
Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung,
Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp;
The time of rest, the promis'd sabbath comes.
Six thousand years of sorrow have well nigh
Fulfill'd their tardy and disastrous course
Over a sinful world; and what remains
Of this tempestuous state of human things
Is merely as the working of a sea
Before a calm that rocks itself to rest;

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For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds

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The dust that waits upon his sultry march,

When sin hath mov'd him, and his wrath is hot,
Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend
Propitious in his chariot pav'd with love;
And what his storms have blasted and defac'd
For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair.
Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet
Not to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch;
Nor can the wonders it records be sung
To meaner musick, and not to suffer loss.
But when a poet, or when one like me,
Happy to rove among poetick flow'rs,

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Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last
On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair,
Such is the impulse and the spur he feels,
To give it praise proportion'd to its worth,
That not t' attempt it, arduous as he deems
The labour, were a task more arduous still.
O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,
Scenes of accomplish'd bliss! which who can see, 760
Though but in distant prospect and not feel

His soul refresh'd with foretaste of the joy?
Rivers of gladness water all the earth,

And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach
Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field
Laughs with abundance; and the land, once lean,

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