And he hall gild yon mountains height again,
E'er yet the pleafing toil becomes a pain.
Is this the rugged path, the steep afcent
That virtue points to? Can a life thus fpent
Lead to the bliss fhe promises the wife,
Detach the foul from earth, and speed her to the fkies?
Ye devotees to your ador'd employ,
Enthufiafts, drunk with an unreal joy,
Love makes the music of the blest above,
Heav'ns harmony is univerfal love;
Andearthly founds, though fweet and well combin'd,
And lenient as foft opiates to the mind,
Leave vice and folly unfubdu'd behind.
Grey dawn appears, the sportsman and his train
Speckle the bofom of the diftant plain,
'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighb'ring lairs,
Save that his fcent is lefs acute than their's,
For perfevering chace, and headlong leaps,
True beagle as the ftaunchest hound he keeps.
Charg'd with the folly of his life's mad fcene,
He takes offence, and wonders what you mean;
The joy, the danger and the toil o'erpays,
'Tis exercise, and health and length of days,
Again impetuous to the field he flies,
Leaps ev'ry fence but one, there falls and dies;
Like a flain deer, the tumbril brings him home,
Unmifs'd but by his dogs and by his groom.
Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place,
Lights of the world, and ftars of human race-
But if eccentric ye forfake
your sphere,
Prodigious, ominous, and view'd with fear.
The comets baneful influence is a dream,
Your's real, and pernicious in th' extreme.
What then-are appetites and lufts laid down,
With the fame eafe the man puts on his gown?
Will av'rice and concupifcence give place,
Charm'd by the founds, your rev'rence, or your grace?
No. But his own engagement binds him fast,
Or if it does not, brands him to the last
What atheists call him, a defigning knave,
A mere church juggler, hypocrite and flave.
Oh laugh, or mourn with me, the rueful jeft,
A caffock'd huntfman, and a fiddling prieft;
He from Italian fongfters takes his uce,
Set Paul to mufic, he shall quote him too.
He takes the field, the mafter of the pack
Cries, well done Saint-and claps him on the back.
Is this the path of fanctity? Is this
To ftand a way-mark in the road to bliss?
Himself a wand'rer from the narrow way,
His filly fheep, what wonder if they stray?
Go, caft your orders at your Bishop's feet,
your difhonour'd gown to Monmouth Street, The facred function, in your hands is made, Sad facrilege! No function but a trade.
Occiduus is a pastor of renown,
When he has pray'd and preach'd the fabbath down,
With wire and catgut he concludes the day,
Quav'ring and femiquav'ring care away.
The full concerto fwells upon your ear;
All elbows fhake. Look in, and you would fwear
The Babylonian tyrant with a nod
Had fummon'd them to ferve his golden God.
So well that thought th' employment seems to fuit,
Pfalt'ry and fackbut, dulcimer, and Alute,
Oh fie! 'Tis evangelical and pure,
Obferve each face, how fober and demure,
Extafy fets her ftamp on ev'ry mien,
Chins fall'n, and not an eye-ball to be seen.
Still I infift, though mufic heretofore
Has charm'd me much, not ev'n Occiduus more,
Love, joy and peace make harmony, more meet
For fabbath evenings, and perhaps as fweet.
Will not the fickleft sheep of ev'ry flock,
Refort to this example as a rock,
There stand and juftify the foul abuse
Of fabbath hours, with plaufible excufe?
If apoftolic gravity be free
To play the fool on Sundays, why not we?
If he, the tinkling harpfichord regards
As inoffenfive, what offence in cards?
Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay,
Laymen have leave to dance, if parfons play.
Oh Italy! Thy fabbaths will be soon
Our fabbaths, clos'd with mumm'ry and buffoon.
Preaching and pranks will share the motley scene,
Our's parcell'd out, as thine have ever been,
God's worship and the mountebank between.
What fays the prophet? Let that day be bleft
With holiness and confecrated reft.
Paftime and bus'nefs both it should exclude,
And bar the door the moment they intrude,
Nobly distinguish'd above all the fix,
By deeds in which the world muft never mix.
Hear him again. He calls it a delight,
A day of luxury, obferv'd aright,
When the glad foul is made heav'ns welcome gueft,
Sits banquetting, and God provides the feast..
But triflers are engag'd and cannot come;
Their answer to the call is-Not at home.
Oh the dear pleasures of the velvet plain,
The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again.
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