The Poetical Works of William Cowper (Benham)/The Task/Book 2
BOOK II.
THE TIME-PIECE.
Argument.—Reflections suggested by the conclusion of the former book—Peace among the nations recommended on the ground of their common fellowship in sorrow—Prodigies enumerated—Sicilian earthquakes—Man rendered obnoxious to these calamities by sin—God the agent in them—The philosophy that stops at secondary causes reproved—Our own late miscarriages accounted for—Satirical notice taken of our trips to Fontainbleau—But the pulpit, not satire, the proper engine of reformation—The reverend advertiser of engraved sermons—Petit-maitre parson—The good preacher—Picture of a theatrical clerical coxcomb—Story-tellers and jesters in the pulpit reproved—Apostrophe to popular applause—Retailers of ancient philosophy expostulated with—Sum of the whole matter—Effects of sacerdotal mismanagement on the laity—Their folly and extravagance—The mischiefs of profusion—Profusion itself, with all its consequent evils, ascribed, as to its principal cause, to the want of discipline in the universities.
Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness,Some boundless contiguity of shade,Where rumour of oppression and deceit,Of unsuccessful or successful war,Might never reach me more! My ear is pained,My soul is sick, with every day's reportOf wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart,It does not feel for man; the natural bond
Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax 10That falls asunder at the touch of fire.He finds his fellow guilty of a skinNot colour'd like his own; and, having pow'rT' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy causeDooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.Lands intersected by a narrow frithAbhor each other. Mountains interpos'dMake enemies of nations, who had else,Like kindred drops, been mingled into one.Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; 20And, worse than all, and most to be deplor'd,As human nature's broadest, foulest blot,Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweatWith stripes, that mercy, with a bleeding heart,Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast.Then what is man? And what man, seeing this,And having human feelings, does not blush,And hang his head, to think himself a man?I would not have a slave to till my ground,To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 30And tremble when I wake, for all the wealthThat sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd.No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart'sJust estimation priz'd above all price,I had much rather be myself the slave,And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.We have no slaves at home. ─ Then why abroad?And they themselves, once ferried o'er the waveThat parts us, are emancipate and loos'd.Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs 40Receive our air, that moment they are free;They touch our country, and their shackles fall.That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proudAnd jealous of the blessing. Spread it then,And let it circulate through ev'ry veinOf all your empire; that where Britain's pow'rIs felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.Sure there is need of social intercourse,Benevolence, and peace, and mutual aid,Between the nations, in a world that seems 50To toll the death-bell of its own decease,And by the voice of all its elementsTo preach the general doom.[1] When were the windsLet slip with such a warrant to destroy?When did the waves so haughtily o'erleapTheir ancient barriers, deluging the dry?Fire from beneath, and meteors[2] from above,Portentous, unexampled, unexplain'd, Have kindled beacons in the skies; and th' oldAnd crazy earth has had her shaking fits 60More frequent, and foregone her usual rest.Is it a time to wrangle, when the propsAnd pillars of our planet seem to fail,And Nature[3] with a dim and sickly eyeTo wait the close of all? But grant her endMore distant, and that prophecy demandsA longer respite, unaccomplish'd yet;Still they are frowning signals, and bespeakDispleasure in his breast who smites the earthOr heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. 70And 'tis but seemly, that, where all deserveAnd stand expos'd by common peccancyTo what no few have felt, there should be peace,And brethren in calamity should love.Alas for Sicily! rude fragments nowLie scatter'd where the shapely column stood.Her palaces are dust. In all her streetsThe voice of singing and the sprightly chordAre silent. Revelry, and dance, and show,Suffer a syncope and solemn pause; 80While God performs upon the trembling stageOf his own works his dreadful part alone.How does the earth receive him? ─ with what signsOf gratulation and delight, her king?Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad,Her sweetest flow'rs, her aromatic gums,Disclosing paradise where'er he treads?She quakes at his approach. Her hollow womb,Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deepsAnd fiery caverns roars beneath his foot. 90The hills move lightly, and the mountains smoke,For he has touch'd them. From th' extremest pointOf elevation down into th' abyss,His wrath is busy, and his frown is felt.The rocks fall headlong, and the valleys rise,The rivers die into offensive pools,And, charg'd with putrid verdure, breathe a grossAnd mortal nuisance into all the air.What solid was, by transformation strange,Grows fluid; and the fixt and rooted earth 100Tormented into billows, heaves and swells,Or with vortiginous and hideous whirlSucks down its prey insatiable. ImmenseThe tumult and the overthrow, the pangsAnd agonies of human and of bruteMultitudes, fugitive on ev'ry side,And fugitive in vain. The sylvan sceneMigrates uplifted; and, with all its soil Alighting in far distant fields, finds outA new possessor, and survives the change. 110Ocean has caught the frenzy, and, upwroughtTo an enormous and o'erbearing height,Not by a mighty wind, but by that voiceWhich winds and waves obey, invades the shoreResistless. Never such a sudden flood,Upridg'd so high, and sent on such a charge,Possess'd an inland scene. Where now the throngThat press'd the beach, and, hasty to depart,Look'd to the sea for safety? They are gone,Gone with the refluent wave into the deep─ 120A prince with half his people! Ancient towers,And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenesWhere beauty oft and letter'd worth consumeLife in the unproductive shades of death,Fall prone: the pale inhabitants come forth,And, happy in their unforeseen releaseFrom all the rigours of restraint, enjoyThe terrors of the day that sets them free.Who then, that has thee, would not hold thee fast,Freedom! whom they that lose thee so regret, 130That ev'n a judgment, making way for thee,Seems in their eyes a mercy for thy sake.Such evil sin hath wrought; and such a flameKindled in heav'n, that it burns down to earth,And, in the furious inquest that it makesOn God's behalf, lays waste his fairest works.The very elements, though each be meantThe minister of man, to serve his wants,Conspire against him. With his breath he drawsA plague into his blood; and cannot use 140Life's necessary means, but he must die.Storms rise t' o'erwhelm him: or, if stormy windsRise not, the waters of the deep shall rise,And, needing none assistance of the storm,Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there.The earth shall shake him out of all his holds,Or make his house his grave: nor so content,Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood,And drown him in her dry and dusty gulphs.What then! ─ were they the wicked above all, 150And we the righteous, whose fast anchor'd isleMov'd not, while theirs was rock'd, like a light skiff,The sport of ev'ry wave? No: none are clear,And none than we more guilty. But, where allStand chargeable with guilt, and to the shaftsOf wrath obnoxious, God may choose his mark:May punish, if he please, the less, to warnThe more malignant. If he spar'd not them,Tremble and be amaz'd at thine escape,Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee! 160 Happy the man who sees a God employedIn all the good and ill that chequer life!Resolving all events, with their effectsAnd manifold results, into the willAnd arbitration wise of the Supreme.Did not his eye rule all things, and intendThe least of our concerns (since from the leastThe greatest oft originate); could chanceFind place in his dominion, or disposeOne lawless particle to thwart his plan; 170Then God might be surprised, and unforeseenContingence might alarm him, and disturbThe smooth and equal course of his affairs.This truth philosophy, though eagle-eyedIn nature's tendencies, oft overlooks;And, having found his instrument, forgetsOr disregards, or, more presumptuous still,Denies the pow'r that wields it. God proclaimsHis hot displeasure against foolish men,That live an atheist life: involves the heav'n 180In tempests; quits his grasp upon the winds,And gives them all their fury; bids a plagueKindle a fiery boil upon the skin,And putrefy the breath of blooming health.He calls for famine, and the meagre fiendBlows mildew from between his shrivel'd lips,And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines,And desolates a nation at a blast.Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tellsOf homogeneal and discordant springs 190And principles; of causes, how they workBy necessary laws their sure effects;Of action and re-action. He has foundThe source of the disease that nature feels,And bids the world take heart and banish fear.Thou fool! will thy discovery of the causeSuspend the effect, or heal it? Has not GodStill wrought by means since first he made the world?And did he not of old employ his meansTo drown it? What is his creation less 200Than a capacious reservoir of meansForm'd for his use, and ready at his will?Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve; ask of him,Or ask of whomsoever he has taught;And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all.England, with all thy faults, I love thee still ─My country! and, while yet a nook is leftWhere English minds and manners may be found,Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy climeBe fickle, and thy year most part deform'd 210With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost,I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies And fields without a flower, for warmer FranceWith all her vines; nor for Ausonia's grovesOf golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers.To shake thy senate, and from heights sublimeOf patriot eloquence to flash down fireUpon thy foes, was never meant my task:But I can feel thy fortunes, and partakeThy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart 220As any thunderer there. And I can feelThy follies, too; and with a just disdainFrown at effeminates, whose very looksReflect dishonour on the land I love.How, in the name of soldiership and sense,Should England prosper, when such things, as smoothAnd tender as a girl, all essenced o'erWith odours, and as profligate as sweet;Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,And love when they should fight,—when such as thesePresume to lay their hand upon the ark 230Of her magnificent and awful cause?Time was when it was praise and boast enoughIn every clime, and travel where we might,That we were born her children. Praise enoughTo fill the ambition of a private man,That Chatham's language was his mother tongue,And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.Farewell those honours, and farewell with themThe hope of such hereafter! They have fall'n 240Each in his field of glory; one in arms,And one in council ─ Wolfe upon the lapOf smiling victory that moment won,And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame!They made us many soldiers. Chatham, stillConsulting England's happiness at home,Secured it by an unforgiving frown,If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought,Put so much of his heart into his act,That his example had a magnet's force, 250And all were swift to follow whom all loved.Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such!Or all that we have left is empty talkOf old achievements, and despair of new.Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers floatUpon the wanton breezes. Strew the deckWith lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets,That no rude savour maritime invadeThe nose of nice nobility! Breathe soft,Ye clarionets; and softer still, ye flutes; 260That winds and waters, lull'd by magic sounds,May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore!True, we have lost an empire─let it pass.True; we may thank the perfidy of France, That picked the jewel out of England's crown,With all the cunning of an envious shrew.And let that pass─'twas but a trick of state.A brave man knows no malice, but at onceForgets in peace, the injuries of war,And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. 270And shamed as we have been, to the very beardBraved and defied, and in our own sea provedToo weak for those decisive blows that onceEnsured us mastery there, we yet retainSome small pre-eminence; we justly boastAt least superior jockeyship, and claimThe honours of the turf as all our own.Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek,And show the shame ye might conceal at home,In foreign eyes!─be grooms, and win the plate, 280Where once your nobler fathers won a crown!─'Tis generous to communicate your skillTo those that need it. Folly is soon learned:And under such preceptors who can fail!There is a pleasure in poetic painsWhich only poets know. The shifts and turns,The expedients and inventions multiform,To which the mind resorts, in chase of termsThough apt, yet coy, and difficult to win,─To arrest the fleeting images that fill 290The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast,And force them sit, till he has pencilled offA faithful likeness of the forms he views:Then to dispose his copies with such artThat each may find its most propitious light,And shine by situation, hardly lessThan by the labour and the skill it cost,Are occupations of the poet's mindSo pleasing, and that steal away the thoughtWith such address from themes of sad import, 300That, lost in his own musings, happy man!He feels the anxieties of life, deniedTheir wonted entertainment, all retire.Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such,Or seldom such, the hearers of his song.Fastidious, or else listless, or perhapsAware of nothing arduous in a taskThey never undertook, they little noteHis dangers or escapes, and haply findThere least amusement where he found the most. 310But is amusement all? Studious of song,And yet ambitious not to sing in vain,I would not trifle merely, though the worldBe loudest in their praise who do no more.Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay?It may correct a foible, may chastise The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress,Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch;But where are its sublimer trophies found?What vice has it subdued? whose heart reclaimed 320By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform?Alas! Leviathan is not so tamed:Laugh'd at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard,Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales,That fear no discipline of human hands.The pulpit, therefore (and I name it fill'dWith solemn awe, that bids me well bewareWith what intent I touch that holy thing)─The pulpit (when the satirist has at last,Strutting and vapouring in an empty school, 330Spent all his force and made no proselyte)─I say the pulpit (in the sober useOf its legitimate, peculiar powers)Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand,The most important and effectual guard,Support, and ornament, of virtue's cause.There stands the messenger of truth: there standsThe legate of the skies!─His theme divine,His office sacred, his credentials clear.By him the violated law speaks out 340Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweetAs angels use, the gospel whispers peace.He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak,Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart,And, arm'd himself in panoply completeOf heavenly temper, furnishes with arms,Bright as his own, and trains, by every ruleOf holy discipline, to glorious war,The sacramental host of God's elect!Are all such teachers?─would to Heaven all were! 350But hark─the doctor's voice!─fast wedg'd betweenTwo empirics he stands, and with swollen cheeksInspires the news, his trumpet. Keener farThan all invective is his bold harangue,While through that public organ of reportHe hails the clergy; and, defying shame,Announces to the world his own and theirs!He teaches those to read, whom schools dismiss'd,And colleges, untaught; sells accent, tone,And emphasis in score, and gives to pray'r 360The adagio and andante it demands.He grinds divinity of other daysDown into modern use; transforms old printTo zig-zag manuscript, and cheats the eyesOf gallery critics by a thousand arts.Are there who purchase of the Doctor's ware?Oh, name it not in Gath!─it cannot be,That grave and learned clerks should need such aid. He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll,Assuming thus a rank unknown before─ 370Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the church!I venerate the man whose heart is warm,Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life,Coincident, exhibit lucid proofThat he is honest in the sacred cause.To such I render more than mere respect,Whose actions say that they respect themselves.But, loose in morals, and in manners vain,In conversation frivolous, in dressExtreme, at once rapacious and profuse; 380Frequent in park with lady at his side,Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes;But rare at home, and never at his books,Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card;Constant at routs, familiar with a roundOf ladyships—a stranger to the poor;Ambitious of preferment for its gold,And well-prepar'd, by ignorance and sloth,By infidelity and love of world,To make God's work a sinecure; a slave 390To his own pleasures and his patron's pride:From such apostles, oh, ye mitred heads,Preserve the church! and lay not careless handsOn skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn.Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul,Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own ─Paul should himself direct me. I would traceHis master-strokes, and draw from his design.I would express him simple, grave, sincere;In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, 400And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste,And natural in gesture; much impress'dHimself, as conscious of his awful charge,And anxious mainly that the flock he feedsMay feel it too; affectionate in look,And tender in address, as well becomesA messenger of grace to guilty men.Behold the picture!—Is it like?—Like whom?The things that mount the rostrum with a skip,And then skip down again; pronounce a text; 410Cry—hem: and, reading what they never wrote,Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their workAnd with a well-bred whisper close the scene!In man or woman, but far most in man,And most of all in man that ministersAnd serves the altar, in my soul I loatheAll affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn;Object of my implacable disgust.What!—will a man play tricks, will he indulgeA silly fond conceit of his fair form, 420 And just proportion, fashionable mien,And pretty face, in presence of his God?Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes,As with the diamond on his lily hand,And play his brilliant parts before my eyes,When I am hungry for the bread of life?He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shamesHis noble office, and, instead of truth,Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock!Therefore, avaunt all attitude, and stare, 430And start theatric, practised at the glass!I seek divine simplicity in himWho handles things divine; and all besides,Though learned with labour, and though much admiredBy curious eyes and judgments ill-informed,To me is odious as the nasal twangHeard at conventicle, where worthy men,Misled by custom, strain celestial themesThrough the prest nostril, spectacle-bestrid.Some, decent in demeanour while they preach, 440That task perform'd, relapse into themselves,And, having spoken wisely, at the closeGrow wanton, and give proof to every eye—Whoe'er was edified, themselves were not!Forth comes the pocket mirror.—First we strokeAn eye-brow; next, compose a straggling lock;Then with an air, most gracefully perform'd,Fall back into our seat, extend an arm,And lay it at its ease with gentle care,With handkerchief in hand depending low: 450The better hand, more busy, gives the noseIts bergamot, or aids the indebted eyeWith opera glass, to watch the moving scene,And recognize the slow-retiring fair. ─Now this is fulsome; and offends me moreThan in a churchman slovenly neglectAnd rustic coarseness would. An heavenly mindMay be indifferent to her house of clay,And slight the hovel as beneath her care;But how a body so fantastic, trim, 460And quaint, in its deportment and attire,Can lodge a heavenly mind—demands a doubt.He that negotiates between God and man,As God's ambassador, the grand concernsOf judgment and of mercy, should bewareOf lightness in his speech. 'Tis pitifulTo court a grin, when you should woo a soul;To break a jest, when pity would inspirePathetic exhortation; and to addressThe skittish fancy with facetious tales, 470When sent with God's commission to the heart!So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip Or merry turn in all he ever wrote,And I consent you take it for your text,Your only one, till sides and benches fail.No: he was serious in a serious cause,And understood too well the weighty termsThat he had ta'en in charge. He would not stoopTo conquer those by jocular exploits,Whom truth and soberness assail'd in vain. 480Oh, popular applause! what heart of manIs proof against thy sweet seducing charms?The wisest and the best feel urgent needOf all their caution in thy gentlest gales;But, swell'd into a gust—who then, alas!With all his canvas set, and inexpert,And therefore heedless, can withstand thy pow'r?Praise from the rivelled lips of toothless, baldDecrepitude; and in the looks of leanAnd craving poverty; and in the bow 490Respectful of the smutched artificer;Is oft too welcome, and may much disturbThe bias of the purpose. How much more,Pour'd forth by beauty splendid and polite,In language soft as adoration breathes?Ah, spare your idol! think him human still.Charms he may have, but he has frailties too!Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire.All truth is from the sempiternal sourceOf light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome, 500Drew from the stream below. More favoured, weDrink, when we choose it, at the fountain-head.To them it flowed much mingled and defiledWith hurtful error, prejudice, and dreamsIllusive of philosophy, so call'd,But falsely. Sages after sages stroveIn vain to filter off a crystal draughtPure from the lees, which often more enhancedThe thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bredIntoxication and delirium wild. 510In vain they push'd inquiry to the birthAnd spring-time of the world; ask'd, Whence is man?Why form'd at all? and wherefore as he is?Where must he find his Maker? with what ritesAdore him? Will he hear, accept, and bless?Or does he sit regardless of his works?Has man within him an immortal seed?Or does the tomb take all? If he surviveHis ashes, where? and in what weal or woe?Knots worthy of solution, which alone 520A Deity could solve. Their answers, vague,And all at random, fabulous and dark,Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of lifeDefective and unsanctioned, proved too weak To bind the roving appetite, and leadBlind nature to a God not yet revealed.'Tis revelation satisfies all doubts,Explains all mysteries, except her own,And so illuminates the path of life,That fools discover it, and stray no more. 530Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir,My man of morals, nurtured in the shadesOf Academus—is this false or true?Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools?If Christ, then why resort at every turnTo Athens or to Rome, for wisdom shortOf man's occasions, when in him resideGrace, knowledge, comfort—an unfathomed store?How oft, when Paul has served us with a text,Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preached! 540Men that, if now alive, would sit contentAnd humble learners of a Saviour's worth,Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth,Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too!And thus it is.—The pastor, either vainBy nature, or by flattery made so, taughtTo gaze at his own splendour, and te exaltAbsurdly, not his office, but himself;Or unenlightened, and too proud to learn;Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach; 550Perverting often, by the stress of lewdAnd loose example, whom he should instruct;Exposes, and holds up to broad disgraceThe noblest function, and discredits muchThe brightest truths that man has ever seen.For ghostly counsel, if it either fallBelow the exigence, or be not backedWith show of love, at least with hopeful proofOf some sincerity on the giver's part;Or be dishonour'd, in the exterior form 560And mode of its conveyance, by such tricksAs move derision, or by foppish airsAnd histrionic mummery, that let downThe pulpit to the level of the stage,Drops from the lips a disregarded thing.The weak perhaps are moved, but are not taught,While prejudice in men of stronger mindsTakes deeper root, confirm'd by what they see.A relaxation of religion's holdUpon the roving and untutored heart 570Soon follows, and, the curb of conscience snapped,The laity run wild.—But do they now?Note their extravagance, and be convinced.As nations, ignorant of God, contriveA wooden one, so we, no longer taughtBy monitors that mother church supplies, Now make our own. Posterity will ask(If e'er posterity see verse of mine)Some fifty or an hundred lustrums hence,What was a monitor in George's days! 580My very gentle reader, yet unborn,Of whom I needs must augur better things,Since Heaven would sure grow weary of a worldProductive only of a race like ours,A monitor is wood. Plank shaven thin.We wear it at our backs. There, closely bracedAnd neatly fitted, it compresses hardThe prominent and most unsightly bones,And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its useSovereign and most effectual to secure 590A form, not now gymnastic as of yore,From rickets and distortion, else our lot.But, thus admonish'd, we can walk erect—One proof at least of manhood! while the friendSticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge.Our habits, costlier than Lucullus wore,And by caprice as multiplied as his,Just please us while the fashion is at full,But change with every moon. The sycophant,Who waits to dress us, arbitrates their date; 600Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye;Finds one ill made, another obsolete,This fits not nicely, that is ill conceived;And, making prize of all that he condemnsWith our expenditure defrays his own.Variety's the very spice of life,That gives it all its flavour. We have runThrough every change that fancy at the loom,Exhausted, has had genius to supply;And, studious of mutation still, discard 610A real elegance, a little us'd,For monstrous novelty and strange disguise.We sacrifice to dress, till household joysAnd comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry,And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires;And introduces hunger, frost, and woe,Where peace and hospitality might reign.What man that lives, and that knows how to live,Would fail to exhibit at the public showsA form as splendid as the proudest there, 620Though appetite raise outcries at the cost?A man o' the town dines late, but soon enough,With reasonable forecast and dispatch,T' ensure a side-box station at half price.You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress,His daily fare as delicate. Alas!He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seemsWith an old tavern quill, is hungry yet. The rout is folly's circle, which she drawsWith magic wand. So potent is the spell, 630That none, decoy'd into that fatal ring,Unless by heav'n's peculiar grace, escape.There we grow early gray, but never wise;There form connexions, but acquire no friend;Solicit pleasure, hopeless of success;Waste youth in occupations only fitFor second childhood, and devote old ageTo sports which only childhood could excuse.There they are happiest who dissemble bestTheir weariness; and they the most polite 640Who squander time and treasure with a smile,Though at their own destruction. She, that asksHer dear five hundred friends, contemns them all,And hates their coming. They (what can they less?)Make just reprisals; and, with cringe and shrug,And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her.All catch the frenzy, downward from her grace,Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies,And gild our chamber ceilings as they passTo her who, frugal only that her thrift 650May feed excesses she can ill afford,Is hackney'd home unlacquey'd; who, in hasteAlighting, turns the key in her own door,And, at the watchman's lantern borrowing light,Finds a cold bed her only comfort left.Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their wives,On fortune's velvet altar off'ring upTheir last poor pittance—fortune, most severeOf goddesses yet known, and costlier farThan all that held their routs in Juno's heaven! 660So fare we in this prison-house the world;And 'tis a fearful spectacle to seeSo many maniacs dancing in their chains.They gaze upon the links that hold them fastWith eyes of anguish, execrate their lot,Then shake them in despair, and dance again!Now basket up the family of plaguesThat waste our vitals; peculation, saleOf honour, perjury, corruption, fraudsBy forgery, by subterfuge of law, 670By tricks and lies as numerous and as keenAs the necessities their authors feel;Then cast them, closely bundled, every bratAt the right door. Profusion is the sire.Profusion unrestrained, with all that's baseIn character, has litter'd all the land,And bred, within the memory of no few,A priesthood such as Baal's was of old,A people such as never was till now.It is a hungry vice:—it eats up all 680 That gives society its beauty, strength,Convenience, and security, and use:Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapp'dAnd gibbeted as fast as catchpole clawsCan seize the slipp'ry prey; unties the knotOf union, and converts the sacred bandThat holds mankind together to a scourge.Profusion, deluging a state with lustsOf grossest nature and of worst effects,Prepares it for its ruin: hardens, blinds, 690And warps, the consciences of public men,Till they can laugh at virtue; mock the foolsThat trust them; and, in th' end, disclose a faceThat would have shock'd credulity herself,Unmask'd, vouchsafing this their sole excuse ─Since all alike are selfish, why not they?This does profusion, and th' accursed causeOf such deep mischief has itself a cause.In colleges and halls, in ancient days,When learning, virtue, piety, and truth, 700Were precious, and inculcated with care,There dwelt a sage call'd Discipline. His head,Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er,Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth,But strong for service still, and unimpair'd.His eye was meek and gentle, and a smilePlay'd on his lips; and in his speech was heardPaternal sweetness, dignity, and love.The occupation dearest to his heartWas to encourage goodness. He would stroke 710The head of modest and ingenuous worth,That blush'd at its own praise; and press the youthClose to his side that pleas'd him. Learning grew,Beneath his care, a thriving vig'rous plant;The mind was well informed, the passions heldSubordinate, and diligence was choice.If e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must,That one among so many overleap'dThe limits of control, his gentle eyeGrew stern, and darted a severe rebuke: 720His frown was full of terror, and his voiceShook the delinquent with such fits of aweAs left him not, till penitence had wonLost favour back again, and closed the breach.But Discipline, a faithful servant long,Declined at length into the vale of years:A palsy struck his arm; his sparkling eyeWas quench'd in rheums of age; his voice, unstrung,Grew tremulous, and moved derision moreThan reverence in perverse rebellious youth. 730So colleges and halls neglected muchTheir good old friend; and Discipline at length O'erlook'd and unemployed, fell sick and died.Then study languish'd, emulation slept,And virtue fled. The schools became a sceneOf solemn farce, where Ignorance in stilts,His cap well lined with logic not his own,With parrot tongue perform'd the scholar's part,Proceeding soon a graduated dunce.Then compromise had place, and scrutiny 740Became stone-blind; precedence went in truck,And he was competent whose purse was so.A dissolution of all bonds ensued;The curbs, invented for the mulish mouthOf head-strong youth, were broken; bars and boltsGrew rusty by disuse; and massy gatesForgot their office, opening with a touch;Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade;The tassell'd cap and the spruce band a jest,A mock'ry of the world! What need of these 750For gamesters, jockeys, brothellers impure,Spendthrifts, and booted sportsmen, oft'ner seenWith belted waist and pointers at their heelsThan in the bounds of duty? What was learn'd,If aught was learn'd in childhood, is forgot;And such expense as pinches parents blue,And mortifies the lib'ral hand of love,Is squander'd in pursuit of idle sportsAnd vicious pleasures; buys the boy a name,That sits a stigma on his father's house, 760And cleaves through life inseparably closeTo him that wears it. What can after-gamesOf riper joys, and commerce with the world,The lewd vain world, that must receive him soon,Add to such erudition, thus acquir'd,Where science and where virtue are profess'd?They may confirm his habits, rivet fastHis folly, but to spoil him is a taskThat bids defiance to th' united pow'rsOf fashion, dissipation, taverns, stews. 770Now, blame we most the nurslings or the nurse?The children, crook'd, and twisted, and deform'd,Through want of care; or her, whose winking eyeAnd slumb'ring oscitancy mars the brood?The nurse no doubt. Regardless of her charge,She needs herself correction; needs to learnThat it is dang'rous sporting with the world,With things so sacred as a nation's trust,The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge.All are not such. I had a brother once—780Peace to the mem'ry of a man of worth,A man of letters, and of manners too!Of manners sweet as virtue always wears,When gay good-nature dresses her in smiles. He graced a college,[4] in which order yetWas sacred; and was honoured, loved, and wept,By more than one, themselves conspicuous there.Some minds are tempered happily, and mixedWith such ingredients of good sense and tasteOf what is excellent in man, they thirst 790With such a zeal to be what they approve,That no restraints can circumscribe them moreThan they themselves by choice, for wisdom's sake.Nor can example hurt them; what they seeOf vice in others but enhancing moreThe charms of virtue in their just esteem.If such escape contagion, and emergePure, from so foul a pool, to shine abroad,And give the world their talents and themselves,Small thanks to those whose negligence or sloth 800Exposed their inexperience to the snare,And left them to an undirected choice.See then the quiver broken and decayed,In which are kept our arrows. Rusting thereIn wild disorder, and unfit for use,What wonder, if discharged into the world,They shame their shooters with a random flight,Their points obtuse, and feathers drunk with wine.Well may the church wage unsuccessful war,With such artillery armed. Vice parries wide 810The undreaded volley with a sword of straw,And stands an impudent and fearless mark.Have we not tracked the felon home, and foundHis birthplace and his dam? The country mourns,Mourns, because every plague that can infestSociety, and that saps and worms the baseOf the edifice that Policy has raised,Swarms in all quarters; meets the eye, the ear,And suffocates the breath at every turn.Profusion breeds them; and the cause itself 820Of that calamitous mischief has been found:Found too where most offensive, in the skirtsOf the robed pedagogue. Else, let the arraignedStand up unconscious, and refute the charge.So when the Jewish leader stretched his arm,And waved his rod divine, a race obscene,Spawned in the muddy beds of Nile, came forthPolluting Egypt. Gardens, fields, and plainsWere covered with the pest. The streets were filled:The croaking nuisance lurked in every nook, 830Nor palaces nor even chambers 'scaped,And the land stank, so numerous was the fry.