Or nothing much, his constancy in ill;
Vain tampering has but foster'd his disease, 'Tis desperate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. Haste now, philosopher, and set him free! Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear Of rectitude and fitness; moral truth 20
How lovely, and the moral sense how sure, Consulted and obeyed, to guide his steps Directly to the FIRST AND ONLY fair. Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the powers Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise, Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, And with poetic trappings grace thy prose Till it out-mantle all the pride of verse.- Ah, tinkling cymbal and high-sounding brass Smitten in vain! such music cannot charm The eclipse that intercepts truth's heavenly beam, And chills and darkens a wide-wandering soul. The still small voice is wanted. He must speak 685 Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect,
Who calls for things that are not, and they come.
Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a change
That turns to ridicule the turgid speech
And stately tone of moralists, who boast, As if, like him of fabulous renown,
They had indeed ability to smooth
The shag of savage nature, and were each An Orpheus and omnipotent in song. But transformation of apostate man
Abashed the devil stood
And felt how aweful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely.
From fool to wise, from earthly to divine,
Is work for Him that made him. And He by means in philosophic eyes Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves The wonder; humanizing what is brute In the lost kind, extracting from the lips Of asps their venom, overpowering strength By weakness, and hostility by love.
Patriots have toiled, and in their country's cause Bled nobly", and their deeds, as they deserve, Receive proud recompense. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic Muse, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn, Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass, To guard them, and to immortalize her trust. But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, To those who posted at the shrine of truth, Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood
Ungrateful country, if thou e'er forget
The sons who for thy civil rights have bled! How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed his head, And Russel's milder blood the scaffold wet: But these had fallen for profitless regret Had not thy holy church her champions bred, And claims from other worlds inspirited
The star of liberty to rise. Nor yet
(Grave this within thy heart!) if spiritual things Be lost, through apathy, or scorn, or fear,
Shalt thou thy humbler franchises support
However hardly won, or justly dear;
What came from Heaven, to Heaven by nature clings,
And if dissevered thence its course is short.
Wordsworth. Ecc. Sketches. Sonnet ix. part 3.
Well spent in such a strife may earn indeed, And for a time insure to his loved land The sweets of liberty and equal laws; But martyrs 22 struggle for a brighter prize, And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed In confirmation of the noblest claim, Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, To walk with God, to be divinely free, To soar, and to anticipate the skies.
Yet few remember them. They lived unknown Till persecution dragg'd them into fame
And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew -No marble tells us whither.
No bard embalms and sanctifies his song; And history 23, so warm on meaner themes, Is cold on this. She execrates indeed The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire, But gives the glorious sufferers little praise 24. He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain That hellish foes confederate for his harm Can wind around him, but he casts it off With as much ease as Samson his green withes.
22 Wars, hitherto the only argument Heroic deem'd ;-the better fortitude
Of patience and heroic martyrdom Unsung.
23 Thus fame shall be achieved, renown on earth, And what most merits fame in silence hid.
He looks abroad into the varied field 25 Of Nature, and though poor perhaps, compared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valleys his, And the resplendent rivers; his to enjoy With a propriety that none can feel, But who with filial confidence inspired Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say-my Father made them all. Are they not his by a peculiar right, And by an emphasis of interest his,
Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy,
Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love That plann'd, and built, and still upholds a world
Of mortal offspring can attain the heights Of envied life; though only few possess Patrician treasures or imperial state; Yet Nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasures and an ampler state Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp, The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column, and the arch The breathing marbles, and the sculptured gold Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys, &c.
Akenside. Pleas. of Imag. iii. 574.
These Nature's commoners who want a home,
Claim the wide world for their majestic dome.
Young. First Essay to Pope.
So clothed with beauty, for rebellious man? Yes-ye may fill your garners, ye that reap The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good In senseless riot; but ye will not find In feast or in the chase, in song or dance, A liberty like his, who unimpeach'd Of usurpation and to no man's wrong, Appropriates nature as his Father's work, And has a richer use of yours, than ye. He is indeed a freeman: free by birth Of no mean city, plann'd or ere the hills Were built, the fountains open'd, or the sea With all his roaring multitude of waves. His freedom is the same in every state; And no condition of this changeful life So manifold in cares, whose every day Brings its own evil with it, makes it less. For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, Nor penury, can cripple or confine.
No nook so narrow but he spreads them there With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds His body bound, but knows not what a range His spirit takes unconscious of a chain, And that to bind him is a vain attempt Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells. Acquaint thyself with God if thou wouldst taste His works. Admitted once to his embrace, Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before; Thine eye shall be instructed, and thine heart Made pure, shall relish with divine delight Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought. Brutes graze the mountain-top with faces prone
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