In doctrine, uncorrupt; in language, plain;
And plain in manner. Decent, solemn, chaste,
And natural in gesture. Much impress'd
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? pronounce 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 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 shames
His noble office; and, instead of truth,
Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock.
Therefore, avaunt! all attitude and stare,
And start theatric, practised at the glass!
I seek divine simplicity in him
Who handles things divine; and all beside,
Though learn'd with labour, and though much admired By curious eyes, and judgments ill-form'd,
RETIRE; the world shut out;-thy thoughts call home! Imagination's airy wing repress;
Lock up thy senses;-let no passion stir;
Wake all to Reason;-let her reign alone:
Then, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth
Of Nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire,
As I have done; and shall inquire no more.
In Nature's channel, thus the questions run.
What am I? and from whence? I nothing know,
But that I am; and, since I am, conclude
Something eternal. Had there e'er been nought,
Nought still had been: eternal there must be.
But what eternal?-Why not human race;
And Adam's ancestors without an end?—
That's hard to be conceived; since every
Of that long-chain'd succession is so frail:
Can every part depend, and not the whole?
Yet, grant it true, new difficulties rise:
I'm still quite out at sea, nor see the shore.
Whence earth, and these bright orbs?-eternal too?—
Grant matter was eternal; still these orbs
Would want some other father. Much design
Is seen in all their motions, all their makes.
Design implies intelligence and art:
That can't be from themselves-
-or man; that art
Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow?
And nothing greater, yet allow'd, than man.—
Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain,
Shot through vast masses of enormous weight?
Who bade brute matter's restive lump assume
Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly?
Has matter innate motion? then, each atom,
Asserting its indisputable right
To dance, would form a universe of dust.
Has matter none? then, whence these glorious forms,
And boundless flights, from shapeless, and reposed?
Has matter more than motion? Has it thought,
Judgment, and genius? Is it deeply learn'd
In mathematics? Has it framed such laws,
Which, but to guess, a Newton made immortal?
If so, how each sage atom laughs at me,
Who think a clod inferior to a man!
If art, to form; and counsel, to conduct-
And that with greater far than human skill,
Resides not in each block;-a GODHEAD reigns.—
And, if a God there is, that God how great!
Dublin Bay Shipwreck-Deserted Passengers.
How beautifully still is all around!
Calm as the couch where slumber seals the eye
Of infant innocence, in deep repose
These sandy ridges and the waters sleep,
Wrapp'd in the golden effluence of day.
Far different the scene, when wintry winds
Rush from their frozen caves, and Eurus rides
On the dark clouds, when by her powerful spell
The attractive moon has call'd around her throne
The congregated floods. Then roars the might
Of ocean, sheeted all in raging foam;
The labouring vessels fly; the thundering surge
Rolls o'er the piers; and mariners thank Heaven,
That they are not at sea.
That night's sad horrors, when a luckless bark
Was hurl'd upon these sands. Elate with hope,
Some hundred warriors, who in many a field
Had gathered laurels, in this bark resought
Their native Erin. Nearer as they drew,
Each spell of country, with magnetic power,
Wrought in their souls, and all the joys of home
Rush'd on their fancy. Some, in thought, embraced
Their happy parents, and the lover clasp'd
His fair one to his breast. Another morn,
And all these joys are real! Onward speed,
Thou fleet-wing'd bark! More fleet than sea-bird skims
The floods, she sped. Soon Erin's shores arose:—
Howth glimmer'd in the west, and Wicklow's hills
Were blue in the horizon. Then they hail'd
Their own green island, and they chanted loud
Their patriot gratulations, till the sun
Gave them his last farewell. He sank in clouds
Of red portentous glare; when dreary night
Condensed around them, and a mountain swell
Announced the coming tempest. Wrapp'd in sleet,
And arrowy fire, it came. The cutting blast
Smote sore;-yawn'd the precipitous abyss;-
Roar'd the torn surges. From his slippery stand,
In vain the pilot cast a wistful look,
Some friendly light to spy;—but all was dark;
Nor moon, nor star, nor beacon light, was seen;
While in the yeasty foam, half-buried, toil'd
The reeling ship. At length, that dreadful sound
Which mariners most dread-the fierce, wild din
Of breakers, raging on the leeward shore,
Appall'd the bravest. On the sands she struck,
Shivering, as in the cold and deadly grasp
Of dissolution. Agonizing screams
Were heard within, which told that hope was fled.
Then might some counsel sage, perchance, have wrought
A great deliverance. But what shipwreck'd crew
'Tis most despised. In such a fearful hour,
Each better feeling dies, and cruel self
Sears all of human in the heart of man.
None counsell'd safety-but a fell design
Rose in the captain's breast, above the throng
To close the hatches, while himself and crew
Flee to the boat, and hope or chance to 'scape,
Leave to the captives none. The recreant slaves
Their ship deserting, in the faithful skiff,
For once too faithful, sweep the foaming gulf,
And reach the strand. But ah! the gallant throng,
Lock'd in the dungeon-hold, around them hear
The roaring cataracts;-their shrieks and groans,
With threats and prayers, and mingled curses, speak
Their soul's last agonies. What boots their prayers,
Their groans, or rage to madness by their wrongs
Exasperated high? Will storms grow calm,
Or warring surges hear the suppliant's voice,
When man has steel'd his heart? Oh! now to die
Amid the strife of arms were ecstacy!
Ay-e'en to perish in the conflict rude
With seas and storms, beneath the cope of heaven,
Where their last breath might mingle with the winds!
But thus to die inglorious! thus immured,
As in some den of hell! They chafe in vain:
So chafes the lion in the hunter's trap;
So in his coffin turns, with dire dismay,
The wretch unwittingly entomb'd alive.
Now torn and wreck'd-deep-cradled in the sands,
The vessel lies. Through all her yawning sides.
She drinks the flood. Loud o'er her roars the surge;
Oh! let me hail thee, as in gorgeous robes
Blooming thou leavest the chambers of the East,
Crown'd with a gemm'd tiara, thick emboss'd
With studs of living light. The stars grow dim
And vanish in thy brightness: but on earth
Ten thousand glories, sparkling into life,
Their absence well repay. The mists, dispersea,
Flit o'er the mountain-tops. Cliffs, glens, and woods,
And lakes, and oceans, now are burnish'd o'er
With scintillating gold. Where'er the eye
Erratic turns, it greets thee: for thy form,
Nature, delighted, multiplies, and makes
Each sand, each dew-drop, the small floret's crown,
The tiny orbit of the insect's eye,
And the rayed texture of the sparry rock,
A mirror for thy glory. Life awakes
From dewy slumber.-Hark! the jocund lark
Awakes her carols; now their morning hymn
The birds are chanting, and the voice of joy
Has fill'd the ethereal vault. Reflection fair
Of thy Creator! strange had heathen worlds
Not paid thee rites divine! Shouldst thou refuse
Thy wonted smile, or stay thy chariot-wheels,
Soon Nature's mighty pulse would cease to beat,
And, all her powers collapsing, might she dread
Sad dissolution. But the Eternal's breath
Has kindled thee with fires that never know
Extinction nor exhaustion. His command
Proud to fulfil, thou measurest days and weeks,
Months, years, and cycles, to the sons of men,
And seest their generations rise and bloom,
Wax old and die; thyself unchanged by Time.
Ne'er has his hand thy golden tresses shorn,
Nor on thy dazzling forehead has he left
Trace of his wrinkling breath, nor aught thy speed
And juvenile strength abated. Matchless orb!
Roll ever glorious, ever round thee pour
The streams of life and joy, thy Maker's praise
Exalting high, his nobiest image thou!
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