The Task, and Other Poems Part 3

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 By rigour, or whom laughed into reform?

Alas, Leviathan is not so tamed.

Laughed 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, filled With solemn awe, that bids me well beware With what intent I touch that holy thing-- The pulpit, when the satirist has at last, Strutting and vapouring in an empty school, Spent all his force, and made no proselyte-- I say the pulpit, in the sober use Of 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 stands The legate of the skies; his theme divine, His office sacred, his credentials clear.

By him, the violated Law speaks out Its thunders, and by him, in strains as sweet As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace.

He stablishes the strong, restores the weak, Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart, And, armed himself in panoply complete Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule Of holy discipline, to glorious war, The sacramental host of G.o.d's elect.

Are all such teachers? would to heaven all were!

But hark--the Doctor's voice--fast wedged between Two empirics he stands, and with swollen cheeks Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far Than all invective is his bold harangue, While through that public organ of report He hails the clergy, and, defying shame, Announces to the world his own and theirs, He teaches those to read whom schools dismissed, And colleges, untaught; sells accents, tone, And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer The adagio and andante it demands.

He grinds divinity of other days Down into modern use; transforms old print To zigzag ma.n.u.script, and cheats the eyes Of 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, a.s.suming thus a rank unknown before, Grand 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 proof That 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 dress Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse, Frequent 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 round Of ladyships, a stranger to the poor; Ambitions of preferment for its gold, And well prepared by ignorance and sloth, By infidelity and love o' the world, To make G.o.d's work a sinecure; a slave To his own pleasures and his patron's pride.-- From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, Preserve the Church! and lay not careless hands On 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 trace His master-strokes, and draw from his design.

I would express him simple, grave, sincere; In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste, And natural in gesture; much impressed Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too; affectionate in look And tender in address, as well becomes A 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; p.r.o.nounce a text, Cry--Hem; and reading what they never wrote, Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, And with a well-bred whisper close the scene.

In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn; Object of my implacable disgust.

What!--will a man play tricks, will he indulge A silly fond conceit of his fair form And just proportion, fashionable mien, And pretty face, in presence of his G.o.d?

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, prost.i.tutes and shames His n.o.ble office, and, instead of truth, Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock!

Therefore, avaunt, all att.i.tude and stare And start theatric, practised at the gla.s.s.

I seek divine simplicity in him Who handles things divine; and all beside, Though learned with labour, and though much admired By curious eyes and judgments ill-informed, To me is odious as the nasal tw.a.n.g Heard at conventicle, where worthy men, Misled by custom, strain celestial themes Through the prest nostril, spectacle-bestrid.

Some, decent in demeanour while they preach, That task performed, relapse into themselves, And having spoken wisely, at the close Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye-- Whoe'er was edified themselves were not.

Forth comes the pocket mirror. First we stroke An eyebrow; next compose a straggling lock; Then with an air, most gracefully performed, Fall back into our seat; extend an arm, And lay it at its ease with gentle care, With handkerchief in hand, depending low: The better hand, more busy, gives the nose Its bergamot, or aids the indebted eye With opera gla.s.s to watch the moving scene, And recognise the slow-retiring fair.

Now this is fulsome, and offends me more Than in a Churchman slovenly neglect And rustic coa.r.s.eness would. A heavenly mind May be indifferent to her house of clay, And slight the hovel as beneath her care.

But how a body so fantastic, trim, And quaint in its deportment and attire, Can lodge a heavenly mind--demands a doubt.

He that negotiates between G.o.d and man, As G.o.d's amba.s.sador, the grand concerns Of judgment and of mercy, should beware Of lightness in his speech. 'Tis pitiful To court a grin, when you should woo a soul; To break a jest, when pity would inspire Pathetic exhortation; and to address The skittish fancy with facetious tales, When sent with G.o.d'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 terms That he had ta'en in charge. He would not stoop To conquer those by jocular exploits, Whom truth and soberness a.s.sailed in vain.

Oh, popular applause! what heart of man Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms?

The wisest and the best feel urgent need Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales; But swelled into a gust--who then, alas!

With all his canvas set, and inexpert, And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power?

Praise from the riveled lips of toothless, bald Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean And craving poverty, and in the bow Respectful of the s.m.u.tched artificer, Is oft too welcome, and may much disturb The bias of the purpose. How much more, Poured 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 source Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome Drew from the stream below. More favoured, we Drink, when we choose it, at the fountain head.

To them it flowed much mingled and defiled With hurtful error, prejudice, and dreams Illusive of philosophy, so called, But falsely. Sages after sages strove, In vain, to filter off a crystal draught Pure from the lees, which often more enhanced The thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bred Intoxication and delirium wild.

In vain they pushed inquiry to the birth And spring-time of the world; asked, Whence is man?

Why formed at all? and wherefore as he is?

Where must he find his Maker? With what rites Adore 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 survive His ashes, where? and in what weal or woe?

Knots worthy of solution, which alone A Deity could solve. Their answers vague, And all at random, fabulous and dark, Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life, Defective and unsanctioned, proved too weak To bind the roving appet.i.te, and lead Blind nature to a G.o.d 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.

Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir, My man of morals, nurtured in the shades Of Academus, is this false or true?

Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools?

If Christ, then why resort at every turn To Athens or to Rome for wisdom short Of man's occasions, when in Him reside Grace, knowledge, comfort, an unfathomed store?

How oft when Paul has served us with a text, Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preached!

Men that, if now alive, would sit content And 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 vain By nature, or by flattery made so, taught To gaze at his own splendour, and to exalt Absurdly, not his office, but himself; Or unenlightened, and too proud to learn, Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach, Perverting often, by the stress of lewd And loose example, whom he should instruct, Exposes and holds up to broad disgrace The n.o.blest function, and discredits much The brightest truths that man has ever seen.

For ghostly counsel, if it either fall Below the exigence, or be not backed With show of love, at least with hopeful proof Of some sincerity on the giver's part; Or be dishonoured in the exterior form And mode of its conveyance, by such tricks As move derision, or by foppish airs And histrionic mummery, that let down The 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 minds Takes deeper root, confirmed by what they see.

A relaxation of religion's hold Upon the roving and untutored heart Soon follows, and the curb of conscience snapt, The laity run wild.--But do they now?

Note their extravagance, and be convinced.

As nations, ignorant of G.o.d, contrive A wooden one, so we, no longer taught By monitors that Mother Church supplies, Now make our own. Posterity will ask (If e'er posterity sees verse of mine), Some fifty or a hundred l.u.s.trums hence, What was a monitor in George's days?

My very gentle reader, yet unborn, Of whom I needs must augur better things, Since Heaven would sure grow weary of a world Productive only of a race like us, A monitor is wood--plank shaven thin.

We wear it at our backs. There, closely braced And neatly fitted, it compresses hard The prominent and most unsightly bones, And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use Sovereign and most effectual to secure A form, not now gymnastic as of yore, From rickets and distortion, else, our lot.

But thus admonished we can walk erect, One proof at least of manhood; while the friend Sticks 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, That waits to dress us, arbitrates their date, Surveys 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 condemns, With our expenditure defrays his own.

Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavour. We have run Through every change that fancy, at the loom Exhausted, has had genius to supply, And, studious of mutation still, discard A real elegance, a little used, For monstrous novelty and strange disguise.

We sacrifice to dress, till household joys And 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 shows A form as splendid as the proudest there, Though appet.i.te raise outcries at the cost?

A man o' the town dines late, but soon enough, With reasonable forecast and despatch, To 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 seems With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet.

The rout is folly's circle which she draws With magic wand. So potent is the spell, That none decoyed into that fatal ring, Unless by Heaven's peculiar grace, escape.

There we grow early gray, but never wise; There form connections, and acquire no friend; Solicit pleasure hopeless of success; Waste youth in occupations only fit For second childhood, and devote old age To sports which only childhood could excuse.

There they are happiest who dissemble best Their weariness; and they the most polite, Who squander time and treasure with a smile, Though at their own destruction. She that asks Her 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 pa.s.s, To her who, frugal only that her thrift May feed excesses she can ill afford, Is hackneyed home unlackeyed; who, in haste Alighting, 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 offering up Their last poor pittance--Fortune, most severe Of G.o.ddesses yet known, and costlier far Than all that held their routs in Juno's heaven.-- So fare we in this prison-house the world.

And 'tis a fearful spectacle to see So many maniacs dancing in their chains.

They gaze upon the links that hold them fast With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot, Then shake them in despair, and dance again.

Now basket up the family of plagues That waste our vitals. Peculation, sale Of honour, perjury, corruption, frauds By forgery, by subterfuge of law, By tricks and lies, as numerous and as keen As the necessities their authors feel; Then cast them, closely bundled, every brat At the right door. Profusion is its sire.

Profusion unrestrained, with all that's base In character, has littered 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 That gives society its beauty, strength, Convenience, and security, and use; Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapped And gibbeted, as fast as catchpole claws Can seize the slippery prey; unties the knot Of union, and converts the sacred band That holds mankind together to a scourge.

Profusion, deluging a state with l.u.s.ts Of grossest nature and of worst effects, Prepares it for its ruin; hardens, blinds, And warps the consciences of public men Till they can laugh at virtue; mock the fools That trust them; and, in the end, disclose a face That would have shocked credulity herself, Unmasked, vouchsafing this their sole excuse;-- Since all alike are selfish, why not they?

This does Profusion, and the accursed cause Of such deep mischief has itself a cause.

In colleges and halls, in ancient days, When learning, virtue, piety, and truth Were precious, and inculcated with care, There dwelt a sage called Discipline. His head, Not yet by time completely silvered o'er, Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, But strong for service still, and unimpaired.

His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile Played on his lips, and in his speech was heard Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love.

The occupation dearest to his heart Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke The head of modest and ingenuous worth, That blushed at its own praise, and press the youth Close to his side that pleased him. Learning grew Beneath his care, a thriving, vigorous plant; The mind was well informed, the pa.s.sions held Subordinate, and diligence was choice.

If e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must, That one among so many overleaped The limits of control, his gentle eye Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke; His frown was full of terror, and his voice Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe As left him not, till penitence had won Lost 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 eye Was quenched in rheums of age, his voice unstrung Grew tremulous, and moved derision more Than reverence in perverse, rebellious youth.

So colleges and halls neglected much Their good old friend, and Discipline at length, O'erlooked and unemployed, fell sick and died.

Then study languished, emulation slept, And virtue fled. The schools became a scene Of solemn farce, where ignorance in stilts, His cap well lined with logic not his own, With parrot tongue performed the scholar's part, Proceeding soon a graduated dunce.

Then compromise had place, and scrutiny Became stone-blind, precedence went in truck, And he was competent whose purse was so.