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Some show that nice sagacity of smell,

And read with such discernment, in the 'port
And figure of the man, his secret aim,
That oft we owe our safety to a skill

We could not teach, and must despair to learn.
But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop
To quadrupede instructors, many a good
And useful quality, and virtue too,
Rarely exemplified among ourselves.
Attachment never to be wean'd, or chang'd
By any change of fortune; proof alike
Against unkindness, absence, and negle&t;
Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat
Can move or warp; and gratitude for small
And trivial favours, lasting as the life,
And glistening even in the dying eye.

Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms
Wins public honour; and ten thousand sit
Patiently present at a sacred song,
Commemoration-mad content to hear
(Oh wonderful effect of music's power!).

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Messiah's eulogy for Handel's sake!

But less, methink, than sacrilege might serve

(For, was it less, what heathen would have dar'd

To strip Jove's statute of his oaken wreath,
And hang it up in honour of a man?)

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Much less might serve, when all that we design,
Is but to gratify an itching ear,

And give the day to a musician's praise.

Remember Handel; Who, was not born
Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets,

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Or can, the more than Homer of his age?

Yes we remember him; and, while we praise

A talent so divine, remember too

That His most holy book from whom it came

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Was never meant, was never us'd before,
To buckram out the memory of a man.
But hush!-the muse perhaps is too severe;
And, with a gravity beyond the size

And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed
Less impious than absurd, and owing more
To want of judgment than to wrong design.
So in the chapel of old Ely House,

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When wandering Charles, who meant to be the third,
Had fled from William, and the news was fresh,

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The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce,
And eke did rear right merrily, two staves,
Sung to the praise and glory of king George!

-Man praises man; and Garrick's memory next,

When time hath somewhat mellow'd it, and made
The idol of our worship while he liv'd

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The god of our idolatry once more,

Shall have its altar; and the world shall go

In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine.

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And strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp, and stare,

To show the world how Garrick did not act

For Garrick was a worshipper himself;

He drew the liturgy, and fram'd the rites
And solemn ceremonial of the day,

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And call'd the world to worship on the banks
Of Avon, fam'd in song.

Ah, pleasant proof

That piety has still in human hearts

Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct.

The mulberry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths;

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The mulberry-tree stood centre of the dance;

The mulberry-tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs;

And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-tree
Supplied such relics as devotion holds
Still sacred, and preserves with pious care.
So 'twas an hallow'd time: decorum reign'd,
And mirth without offence. No few return'd,
Doubtless, much edified, and all refresh'd.
-Man praises man. The rabble, all alive,
From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes,
Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day,
A pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes.
Some shout him, and some hang upon his car,
To gaze in his eyes, and bless him. Maidens wave
Their 'kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy:

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While others, not so satisfied, unhorse

The gilded equipage, and, turning loose

His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve.

Why? what has charm'd them? Hath he sav'd the state?
No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No.
Enchanting novelty, that moon at full,

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That finds out every crevice of the head

That is not sound and perfect, hath in their's

Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near,

And his own cattle must suffice him soon.

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Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise,
And dedicate a tribute, in its use

And just direction sacred, to a thing

Doom'd to the dust, or lodg'd already there!
Encomium in old time was poets' work;
But, poets having lavishly long since
Exhausted all materials of the art,

The task now falls into the public hand;

And I, contented with an humble theme,

Have pour'd my stream of panegyric down

The vale of nature, where it creeps and winds
Among her lovely works with a secure
And unambitious course, reflecting clear,
If not the virtues, yet the worth, of brutes.
And I am recompens'd, and deem the toils
Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine
May stand between an animal and woe,
And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.

The groans of nature in this nether world,
Which Heaven has heard for ages, have an end.
Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung,
Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp,
The time of rest, the promis'd sabbath, comes.
Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh
Fulfill'd their tardy and disastrous course
Over a sinful world; and what remains
Of this tempestuous state of human things
Is merely as the working of a sea
Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest:

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For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds

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The dust that waits upon his sultry march,

When sin hath mov'd him, and his wrath is hot,
Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend,
Propitious, in his chariot pav'd with love;

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And what his storms have blasted and defac'd
For man's revolt shall with a smile repair.

Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet
Not to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch:
Nor can the wonders it records be sung
To meaner music, and not suffer loss.

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But, when a poet, or when one like me,

Happy to rove among poetic flowers,

Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last

On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair,.
Such is the impulse and the spur he feels
To give it praise proportion'd to its worth,
That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems
The labour, were a task more arduous still.

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Oh scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, Scenes of accomplish'd bliss! which who can see,

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Though but in distant prospect, and not feel

His soul refresh'd with foretaste of the joy?

Rivers of gladness water all the earth,

And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach

Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field

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Laughs with abundance; and the land, once lean,

Or fertile only in its own disgrace,

Exults to see its thistly curse repeal'd.

The various seasons woven into one,

And that one season an eternal spring,

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The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence,

For there is none to covet, all are full.

The lion, and the libbard, and the bear

Graze with the fearless flocks; all bask at noon

Together, or all gambol in the shade

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Of the same grove, and drink one common stream.

Antipathies are none. No foe to man

Lurks in the serpent now: the mother sees,
And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand
Stretch'd forth to dally with the crested worm,
To stroke his azure neck, or to receive
The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue.
All creatures worship man, and all mankind
One Lord, one Father. Error has no place :
That creeping pestilence is driven away;

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The breath of heaven has chas'd it. In the heart

No passion touches a discordant string,
But all is harmony and love.

Disease

Is not the pure and uncontaminate blood

Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age.
One song employs all nations; and all cry,

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Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us!" The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks Shout to each other, and the mountain tops From distant mountains catch the flying joy;

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Till, nation after nation taught the strain,
Each rolls the rapturous hosanna round.
Behold the measure of the promise fill'd;
See Salem built, the labour of a God!
Bright as a sun the sacred city shines;
All kingdoms and all princes of the earth
Flock to that light; the glory of all lands
Flows into her; unbounded is her joy,

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And endless her increase. Thy rams are there,

* Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there;
The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind,
And Saba's spicy groves, pay tribute there.
Praise is in all her gates; upon her walls,
And in her streets, and in her spacious courts,
Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there
Kneels with the native of the farthest west;

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Saw never, such as Heaven stoops down to see.

Thus heaven-ward all things tend. For all were once Perfect, and all must be at length restor❜d.

So God has greatly purpos'd; who would else

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In his dishonour'd works himself endure
Dishonour, and be wrong'd without redress.
Haste, then, and wheel away a shatter'd world,
Ye slow-revolving seasons! we would see
(A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet)
A world that does not dread and hate his laws,
And suffer for its crime; would learn how fair

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Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is,
Is sullied in the stream, taking a taint
From touch of human lips, at best impure.

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*Nebaioth and Kedar, the sons of Ishmael, and progenitors of the Arabs, in the prophetic scripture here alluded to, may be reasonably considered as representatives of the Gentiles at large.

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