Poems (Sewell)/To a young Clergyman

by Mary Young Sewell

TO A YOUNG CLERGYMAN, OF GREAT ABILITIES, BUT OF DISSOLUTE CHARACTER.

When gracious Heav'n its precious gifts bestows,
Sense to discern, and Eloquence that glows;
And then its noblest office has design'd—
To teach, exhort, and edify mankind;
When on a summit, sacred, and divine,
(Where pure Religion rears her holy shrine)
The mortal stands—and ev'ry eye shall claim
Some vital spark of the celestial flame;
Oh! then should Vice, with guilty touch, presume
The sacred part of Virtue to assume;
Oh should she dare, unhallow'd and profane,
T' approach that altar she beholds in vain!
Not even shall Mercy then, her sentence dread,
But turns from such a scene her beauteous head!—
The female flutt'ring heart, tho' blythe and gay,
Shrinks from the view, with horror and dismay!
Repays the Flatt'rer with a scorn severe,
And feels the pride of Virtue is sincere!

Oh thou vain wanderer from the path of bliss,
Whose feet have hasten'd to the dire abyss!
Mistaken man! ere Ruin prove thy choice,
Oh hear the Muse—and hear Reflection's voice!
Fly from the Tempter—the delusive snare—
To calm Retirement, Penitence, and Prayer!
Tho' flatt'ring Youth now gives her roseate hour,
And seems to silence sober Wisdom's power,
Well dost thou know, the scenes of gay delight
Shall vanish in the shades of endless night!
That syren eloquence, which gains repute,
Which charms surrounding numbers, shall be mute:
Nor Pleasure's song, nor Minstrels tuneful voice,
Shall bid the trembling ear of Death rejoice!
Far other scenes must bid our anguish cease,
Soft Angels sooth, and Conscience whisper Peace!
Ah quickly go—fulfil thy awful part!
A charge tremendous weighs upon thy heart:
The helpless Orphan claims thy pious care,
The dying Penitent demands thy Pray'r!
The heedless Youth—the fond, unthinking Maid,
By Flattery tempted, or by Love betray'd,
Or helpless Innocence, involv'd in strife,
Demands a pilot through the storms of life!
Ah! wouldst thou crush, or injure, or mislead—
The foul transgression would be black indeed!
Thine be the task, the senseless heart to warm,
To shew Religion in its fairest form;
And whilst thy wond'ring auditors admire,
Let gen'rous Zeal supply Ambition's fire.
Thy conscious Soul, by nobler aims engross'd,
Shall count the fleeting hours of pleasure lost—
Shall feel her worth, and view, with awful dread,
The fatal precipice from which she fled.