Thus grac'd, the man asserts a poet's name,

And the world cheerfully admits the claim.
Pity religion has so seldom found

A skilful guide into poetic ground!

The flow'rs would spring where'er she deign'd to

stray,

And ev'ry muse attend her in her way.

Virtue indeed meets many a rhiming friend,

And many a compliment politely penn'd;
But, unattir'd in that becoming vest

Religion weaves for her, and half undress'd,
Stand in the desert, shiv'ring and forlorn,

A wintry figure, like a wither'd thorn.
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 curst
And loathsome ribaldry has done his worst;
Fancy has sported all her pow'rs 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 heav'n, 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 flow'ry 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,
Debas'd to servile purposes of pride,

How are the pow'rs 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 discov'ry, 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 flatt'ry, 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 their's 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 flow ry shades,
That not a glimpse of genuine light pervades,

The pois'nous, 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 theorists 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 rhet'ric they display
Shines as it runs, but, grasp'd at, slips away.
Plac'd 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 fatalists 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 is both unjust alike.