The shelves are full, all other themes are sped;
Hackney'd and worn to the last flimsy thread,
Satire has long since done his best; and cursed
And loathsome Ribaldry has done his worst;
Fancy has sported all her powers away
In tales, in trifles, and in children's play;
And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true,
Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new.
"Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire,
Touch'd with a coal from Heaven, assume the lyre,
And tell the world, still kindling as he sung
With more than mortal music on his tongue,
That He, who died below, and reigns above,
Inspires the song, and that his name is Love.
For, after all, if merely to beguile,

By flowing numbers and a flowery style,
The tædium that the lazy rich endure,
Which now and then sweet poetry may cure;
Or, if to see the name of idle self,

Stamp'd on the well bound quarto, grace the shelf,
To float a bubble on the breath of Fame,
Prompt his endeavour, and engage his aim,
Debased to servile purposes of pride,

How are the powers of Genius misapplied!
The gift, whose office is the Giver's praise,
To trace him in his word, his works, his ways;
Then spread the rich discovery, and invite
Mankind, to share in the divine delight;
Distorted from its use and just design,
To make the pitiful possessor shine,
To purchase at the fool-frequented fair
Of Vanity a wreath for self to wear,
Is profanation of the basest kind-
Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind.

A. Hail, Sternhold, then; and, Hopkins,
hail! B. Amen.

If flattery, folly, lust employ the pen;
If acrimony, slander, and abuse

Give it a charge to blacken and traduce;
Though Butler's wit, Pope's numbers, Prior's

ease,

With all that fancy can invent to please,
Adorn the polish'd periods as they fall,
One madrigal of theirs is worth them all.

A. "Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe, To dash the pen through all that you proscribe. B. No matter we could shift when they were not;

And should, no doubt, if they were all forgot,

THE

PROGRESS OF ERROR.

Si quid loquar audiendum. HOR. Lib. 4. Od. 2.

SING, Muse (if such a theme, so dark, so long,
May find a Muse to grace it with a song),
By what unseen and unsuspected arts
The serpent Error twines round human hearts;
Tell where she lurks, beneath what flowery shades,
That not a glimpse of genuine light pervades,
The poisonous, black, insinuating worm
Successfully conceals her loathsome form.

Take, if ye can, ye careless and supine,
Counsel and caution from a voice like mine!
Truths, that the theorist could never reach,
And observation taught me, I would teach.
Not all, whose eloquence the fancy fills,
Musical as the chime of tinkling rills,
Weak to perform, though mighty to pretend,
Can trace her mazy windings to their end;
Discern the fraud beneath the specious lure,
Prevent the danger, or prescribe the cure.
The clear harangue, and cold as it is clear,
Falls soporific on the listless ear;

Like quicksilver, the rhetoric they display
Shines as it runs, but grasp'd at slips away.
Placed for his trial, on this bustling stage,
From thoughtless youth to ruminating age,
Free in his will to choose or to refuse,
Man may improve the crisis or abuse;
Else, on the fatalist's unrighteous plan,
Say to what bar amenable were man?
With nought in charge, he could betray no trust;
And, if he fell, would fall because he must;
If Love reward him, or if Vengeance strike,
His recompense in both unjust alike.

Divine authority within his breast

Brings every thought, word, action to the test; Warns him or prompts, approves him or restrains, As reason, or as passion takes the reins,

Heaven from above, and Conscience from within,
Cries in his startled ear-
r-Abstain from sin!

The world around solicits his desire,
And kindles in his soul a treacherous fire;
While, all his purposes and steps to guard,
Peace follows virtue as its sure reward;

And Pleasure brings as surely in her train
Remorse, and Sorrow, and vindictive Pain.

Man, thus endued with an elective voice,
Must be supplied with objects of his choice:
Where'er he turns, enjoyment and delight,
Or present, or in prospect, meet his sight;
Those open on the spot their honey'd store;
These call him loudly to pursuit of more.
His unexhausted mine the sordid vice
Avarice shows, and virtue is the price.
Here various motives his ambition raise-
Power, pomp, and splendour, and the thirst of
praise;

There Beauty woos him with expanded arms; E'en bacchanalian madness has its charms.

Nor these alone, whose pleasures less refined Might well alarm the most unguarded mind, Seek to supplant his inexperienced youth, Or lead him devious from the path of truth; Hourly allurements on his passions press, Safe in themselves, but dangerous in the'excess. Hark! how it floats upon the dewy air! O what a dying, dying close was there! "Tis harmony from yon sequester'd bower, Sweet harmony, that sooths the midnight hour! Long ere the charioteer of day had run His morning course, the' enchantment was begun; And he shall gild yon mountain's height again, Ere yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain.

Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent, That Virtue points to? Can a life thus spent Lead to the bliss she promises the wise, Detach the soul from earth, and speed her to the Ye devotees to your adored employ, Enthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy,

[skies?

Love makes the music of the bless'd above,
Heaven's harmony is universal love;

And earthly sounds, though sweet and well comAnd lenient as soft opiates to the mind, [bined, Leave vice and folly unsubdued behind.

Gray dawn appears; the sportsman and his train Speckle the bosom of the distant plain; 'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighbouring lairs; Save that his scent is less acute than theirs, For persevering chase, and headlong leaps, True beagle as the stanchest hound he keeps. Charged with the folly of his life's mad scene, He takes offence, and wonders what you mean; The joy the danger and the toil o'erpays'Tis exercise, and health, and length of days. Again impetuous to the field he flies;

Leaps every fence but one, there falls and dies; Like a slain deer, the tumbril brings him home, Unmiss'd but by his dogs and by his groom.

Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place, Lights of the world and stars of human race: But if, eccentric, ye forsake your sphere, Prodigies ominous, and view'd with fear; The comet's baneful influence is a dream; Yours real and pernicious in the' extreme. What then!—are appetites and lusts laid down With the same ease that man puts on his gown? Will avarice and concupiscence give place, Charm'd by the sounds-Your Reverence, or Your Grace?

No, but his own engagement binds him fast; Or, if it does not, brands him to the last What atheists call him-a designing knave, A mere church juggler, hypocrite, and slave.