That prize belongs to none but the sincere,
The least obliquity is fatal here.
With caution taste the sweet Circean cup: He that sips often, at last drinks it up. Habits are soon assum'd; but, when we strive To strip them off, 'tis being flay'd alive. Call'd to the temple of impure delight, He that abstains, and he alone, does right. If a wish wander that way, call it home; He cannot long be safe whose wishes roam. But, if you pass the threshold, you are caught; Die then, if pow'r Almighty save you not. There, hard'ning by degrees, till double steel'd, 590 Take leave of nature's God, and God reveal'd; Then laugh at all you trembled at before; And, joining the free-thinkers' brutal roar, Swallow the two grand nostrums they dispense— That scripture lies, and blasphemy is sense: If clemency revolted by abuse
Be damnable, then damn'd without excuse.
Some dream that they can silence when they will The storm of passion, and say, Peace, be still; But "Thus far and no farther," when address'd 600 To the wild wave, or wilder human breast, Implies authority that never can,
That never ought to be the lot of man.
But, muse, forbear; long flights forebode a fall; Strike on the deep-ton'd chord the sum of all.
Hear the just law-the judgment of the skies!
He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies :
And he that will be cheated to the last,
Delusions, strong as hell, shall bind him fast.
But, if the wand'rer his mistake discern,
Judge his own ways, and sigh for a return,
Bewilder'd once, must he bewail his loss
For ever and for ever? No-the cross!
There, and there only (though the deist rave,
And atheist, if earth bear so base a slave);
There, and there only, is the pow'r to save.
There no delusive hope invites despair;
No mock'ry meets you, no deception, there.
The spells and charms, that blinded you before,
All vanish there, and fascinate no more.
I am no preacher, let this hint suffice-
The cross, once seen, is death to ev'ry vice:
Else he that hung there suffer'd all his pain,
Bled, groan'd, and agoniz'd, and died, in vain.
[Written Jan. 1781. Published 1782.]
Pensantur trutinâ.-HOR. Lib. ii. Epist. i.
MAN, on the dubious waves of error toss'd,
His ship half founder'd, and his compass lost,
Sees, far as human optics may command,
A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land:
Spreads all his canvass, ev'ry sinew plies;
Pants for 't, aims at it, enters it, and dies!
Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes,
His well-built systems, philosophic dreams;
Deceitful views of future bliss, farewell!
He reads his sentence at the flames of hell.
Hard lot of man-to toil for the reward
Of virtue, and yet lose it! Wherefore hard?—
He that would win the race must guide his horse
Obedient to the customs of the course;
Else, though unequall'd to the goal he flies,
A meaner than himself shall gain the prize.
Grace leads the right way: if you choose the wrong,
Take it, and perish; but restrain your tongue.
Charge not, with light sufficient, and left free,
Your wilful suicide on God's decree.
Oh how unlike the complex works of man,
Heav'n's easy, artless, unincumber'd, plan!
No meretricious graces to beguile,
No clust'ring ornaments to clog the pile;
From ostentation, as from weakness, free,
It stands like the cerulean arch we see,
Majestic in its own simplicity.
Inscrib'd above the portal, from afar
Conspicuous as the brightness of a star,
Legible only by the light they give,
Stand the soul-quick'ning words—BELIEVE, AND LIVE!
Too many, shock'd at what should charm them most, Despise the plain direction, and are lost.
Heav'n on such terms! (they cry, with proud disdain)
Incredible, impossible, and vain!—
Rebel, because 'tis easy to obey;
And scorn, for its own sake, the gracious way.
These are the sober, in whose cooler brains
Some thought of immortality remains;
The rest, too busy, or too gay, to wait
On the sad theme, their everlasting state,
Sport for a day, and perish in a night;
The foam upon the waters not so light.
Who judg'd the pharisee? What odious cause Expos'd him to the vengeance of the laws? Had he seduc'd a virgin, wrong'd a friend, Or stabb'd a man to serve some private end? Was blasphemy his sin? Or did he stray From the strict duties of the sacred day? Sit long and late at the carousing board? (Such were the sins with which he charg'd his Lord.)
No-the man's morals were exact.
'Twas his ambition to be seen of men ;
His virtues were his pride, and that one vice
Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price;
He wore them, as fine trappings, for a show;
A praying, synagogue-frequenting, beau.
The self-applauding bird, the peacock, see-
Mark what a sumptuous pharisee is he!
Meridian sun-beams tempt him to unfold
His radiant glories; azure, green, and gold:
He treads as if, some solemn music near,
His measur'd step were govern'd by his ear;
And seems to say-Ye meaner fowl, give place;
I am all splendour, dignity, and grace!
Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes; Though he, too, has a glory in his plumes. He, christian like, retreats with modest mien To the close copse, or far-sequester'd green, And shines, without desiring to be seen. The plea of works, as arrogant and vain, Heav'n turns from with abhorrence and disdain : Not more affronted by avow'd neglect Than by the mere dissembler's feign'd respect. What is all righteousness that men devise? What--but a sordid bargain for the skies? But Christ as soon would abdicate his own, As stoop from heav'n to sell the proud a throne. His dwelling a recess in some rude rock; Book, beads, and maple-dish, his meagre stock; 80 In shirt of hair and weeds of canvass dress'd, Girt with a bell-rope that the pope has bless'd; Adust with stripes told out for ev'ry crime, And sore tormented, long before his time;
His pray'r preferr'd to saints that cannot aid;
His praise postpon'd, and never to be paid;
See the sage hermit, by mankind admir'd,
With all that bigotry adopts inspir'd,
Wearing out life in his religious whim,
Till his religious whimsy wears out him.
His works, his abstinence, his zeal, allow'd,
You think him humble-God accounts him proud.
High in demand though lowly in pretence,
Of all his conduct this the genuine sense-
My penitential stripes, my streaming blood,
Have purchas'd heav'n, and prove my title good.
Turn eastward now, and fancy shall apply
To your weak sight her telescopic eye.
The bramin kindles on his own bare head
The sacred fire-self-torturing his trade!
His voluntary pains, severe and long,
Would give a barb'rous air to British song;
No grand inquisitor could worse invent,
Than he contrives, to suffer, well content.
Which is the saintlier worthy of the two?
Past all dispute, yon anchorite, say you.
Your sentence and mine differ. What's a name?
I say the bramin has the fairer claim.
If suff'rings, scripture no where recommends,
Devis'd by self, to answer selfish ends,
Give saintship, then all Europe must agree
Ten starvling hermits suffer less than he.
The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear,
And prejudice have left a passage clear)
Pride has attain'd its most luxuriant growth,
And poison'd ev'ry virtue in them both.
Pride may be pamper'd while the flesh grows lean; Humility may clothe an English dean;
That grace was Cowper's-his, confess'd by all-
Though plac'd in golden Durham's second stall. 120
Not all the plenty of a bishop's board,
His palace, and his lacqueys, and "My Lord,"
More nourish pride, that condescending vice,
Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice;
It thrives in mis'ry, and abundant grows
In mis'ry fools upon themselves impose.
But why before us protestants produce
An Indian mystic, or a French recluse?
Their sin is plain; but what have we to fear,
Reform'd, and well instructed? You shall hear. 130
Yon ancient prude, whose wither'd features show She might be young some forty years ago,
Her elbows pinion'd close upon her hips,
Her head erect, her fan upon her lips,
Her eye-brows arch'd, her eyes both gone astray
To watch yon am'rous couple in their play,
With bony and unkerchief'd neck, defies
The rude inclemency of wintry skies,
And sails, with lappet-head and mincing airs,
Duly, at clink of bell, to morning pray'rs.
To thrift and parsimony much inclin❜d,
She yet allows herself that boy behind.
The shiv'ring urchin, bending as he goes,
With slip-shod heels, and dew-drop at his nose;
His predecessor's coat advanc'd to wear,
Which future pages yet are doom'd to share;
Carries her bible, tuck'd beneath his arm,
And hides his hands, to keep his fingers warm.
She, half an angel in her own account,
Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount, 150
Though not a grace appears, on strictest search,
But that she fasts, and, item, goes to church.
Conscious of age, she recollects her youth,
And tells, not always with an eye to truth,
Who spann'd her waist, and who, where'er he came,
Scrawl'd upon glass miss Bridget's lovely name ;
Who stole her slipper, fill'd it with tokay,
And drank the little bumper ev'ry day.
Of temper as envenom'd as an asp;
Censorious, and her ev'ry word a wasp;
In faithful mem'ry she records the crimes,
Or real, or fictitious, of the times;
Laughs at the reputations she has torn,
And holds them, dangling at arm's length, in scorn. Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride,
Of malice fed while flesh is mortified:
Take, Madam, the reward of all your pray'rs,
Where hermits and where bramins meet with theirs:
Your portion is with them.-Nay, never frown;
But, if you please, some fathoms lower down. 170
Artist, attend! your brushes and your paint-
Produce them-take a chair-now draw a saint.
Oh, sorrowful and sad! the streaming tears
Channel her cheeks-a Niobe appears!
Is this a saint? Throw tints and all away-
True piety is cheerful as the day;
Will weep, indeed, and heave a pitying groan,
For others' woes, but smiles upon her own.
146 yet are] are yet 1782-1788.
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