Tell her again, the sneer upon her face, A dread she would not, yet is forced to feel; I owed a trifle, and have paid the debt; And he grown chaste, that was the slave of lust; The gamester may have cast his cards away, It has indeed been told me, (with what weight, 1 That certain feasts are instituted now, The praise of names for ages obsolete: That having proved the weakness, it should seem, To bring the passions under sober sway, The change shall please, nor shall it matter aught 'Tis time, however, if the case stands thus, Digression is so much in modern use, Alluding to a taste then in vogue of erecting every where statues of the old heathen divinity. Though such continual zigzags in a book, Such drunken reelings have an awkward look, And I had rather creep to what is true, Than rove and stagger with no mark in view; Yet to consult a little, seem'd no crime, The freakish humour of the present time: But now to gather up what seems dispersed, And touch the subject I design'd at first, May prove, though much beside the rules of art, Best for the public, and my wisest part. And first, let no man charge me, that I mean To clothe in sable every social scene, And give good company a face severe, As if they met around a father's bier; For tell some men, that pleasure all their bent, And laughter all their work, is life mispent, Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply, Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry. To find the medium asks some share of wit, And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit. But though life's valley be a vale of tears, A brighter scene beyond that vale appears, Whose glory, with a light that never fades, Shoots between scatter'd rocks and opening shades, And, while it shews the land the soul desires, The language of the land she seeks inspires. Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a sacred cure Of all that was absurd, profane, impure; Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech Pursues the course that truth and nature teach; No longer labours merely to produce The pomp of sound, or tinkle without use: Where'er it winds, the salutary stream, Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme, While all the happy man possess'd before, The gift of nature, or the classic store, Is made subservient to the grand design, For which Heaven form'd the faculty divine, So should an idiot, while at large he strays, Find the sweet lyre on which an artist plays, With rash and awkward force the chords he shakes, Till, tuned at length to some immortal song, It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours his praise along. RETIREMENT. In tracing the poet's progress in these compositions, we find his own information true, " that as the season of flowers departed, his industry relaxed." Retirement, though begun in August, was not completed till the nineteenth of October, its earlier predecessors being already put to press. "My view in choosing that subject,” observes the author, in his Private Correspondence, "is to direct to the proper use of the opportunities it affords for the cultivation of a man's best interests; to censure the vices and the follies which people carry with them into their retreats, where they make no other use of their leisure, than to gratify themselves with the indulgence of their favourite appetites, and to pay themselves by a life of pleasure for a life of business. In conclusion, I would enlarge upon the happiness of that state when discreetly enjoyed, and religiously improved." This aim he has fully accomplished. The poem has been pronounced to be the most thoroughly poetical of the series now under examination. In richness of imagery, correct, and, at the same time, picturesque language, easy and graceful versification, this is not an exaggerated estimate of the finest portions of the poem. Indeed, this poem alone is a triumphant refutation of an opinion entertained in British criticism, that practical religion cannot successfully be made the subject of poetry. The close of Retirement, though less brilliant than its commencement, must possess a tender charm for those who love the quiet of domestic life, where all its hopes point upwards, and where Christianity sheds a heavenly. lustre over its humblest joys. The composition, on the whole, considered simply in relation to the genius it displays, is a noble effort, and, in some of the higher and more imaginative departments of the poetic art, raises expectations which no subsequent work of the author fully realized. |