This was the fruit the private spirit brought: 415
Occasion'd by great zeal and little thought.
While crowds unlearn'd, with rude devotion warm,
About the sacred viands buzz and swarm,
The fly-blown text creates a crawling brood;
And turns to maggots what was meant for food.
A thousand daily sects rise up and die;
A thousand more the perish'd race supply:
So all we make of Heaven's discover'd will
Is, not to have it, or to use it ill.

The danger's much the same; on several shelves
If others wreck us, or we wreck ourselves.

What then remains, but, waving each extreme, The tides of ignorance and pride to stem? Neither so rich a treasure to forego;

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Nor proudly seek beyond our power to know: 430
Faith is not built on disquisitions vain;
The things we must believe are few and plain;)
But since men will believe more than they need,
And every man will make himself a creed,
In doubtful questions 'tis the safest way
To learn what unsuspected ancients say;
For 'tis not likely we should higher soar
In search of Heaven, than all the Church before:
Nor can we be deceiv'd, unless we see
The Scripture and the Fathers disagree.
If after all they stand suspected still,
(For no man's faith depends upon his will ;)
'Tis some relief, that points not clearly known,
Without much hazard may be let alone:

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And after hearing what our church can say,
If still our reason runs another way,
That private reason 'tis móre just to curb,
Than by disputes the public peace disturb.
For points obscure are of small use to learn;
(But common quiet is mankind's concern.)

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Thus have I made my own opinions clear: Yet neither praise expect, nor censure fear: And this unpolish'd rugged verse I chose, As fittest for discourse, and nearest prose: For while from sacred truth I do not swerve, 455 Tom Sternhold's, or Tom Shadwell's rhymes will

serve.

97

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS:

A FUNERAL PINDARIC POEM.

SACRED TO THE HAPPY MEMORY OF KING CHARLES II.

I.

THUS long my grief has kept me dumb:
Sure there's a lethargy in mighty woe,
Tears stand congeal'd and cannot flow;

And the sad soul retires into her inmost room;
Tears, for a stroke foreseen, afford relief;

But, unprovided for a sudden blow,

Like Niobe we marble grow;

And petrify with grief.

Our British heaven was all serene,
No threat'ning cloud was nigh,

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10

Ver. 1. Thus long my grief] The following just, though severe sentence, has been passed on this Threnodia, by one who was always willing, if possible, to extenuate the blemishes of our poet. 'Its first and obvious defect is the irregularity of its metre, to which the ears of that age, however, were accustomed. What is worse, it has neither tenderness nor dignity; it is neither magnificent nor pathetic. He seems to look round him for images which he cannot find, and what he has he distorts by endeavouring to enlarge them. He is, he says, petrified with grief, but the marble relents, and trickles in a joke. There is throughout the composition a desire of splen-dour without wealth. In the conclusion, he seems too much pleased with the prospect of the new reign, to have lamented his old master with much sincerity.' Dr. Johnson. Dr. J. W.

Not the least wrinkle to deform the sky;
We liv'd as unconcern'd and happily
As the first age in nature's golden scene;
Supine amidst our flowing store,

We slept securely, and we dreamt of more :
When suddenly the thunder-clap was heard,
It took us unprepar'd and out of guard,
Already lost before we fear'd.

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The amazing news of Charles at once were spread, At once the general voice declar'd,

'Our gracious prince was dead.'

No sickness known before, no slow disease,
To soften grief by just degrees :

But like a hurricane on Indian seas

The tempest rose;

An unexpected burst of woes:

With scarce a breathing space betwixt,
This now becalm'd, and perishing the next.
As if great Atlas from his height

Should sink beneath his heavenly weight,
And with a mighty flaw, the flaming wall
(As once it shall,)

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Should gape immense, and rushing down, o'erwhelm this nether ball;

So swift and so surprising was our fear:

Our Atlas fell indeed; but Hercules was near. 35

II.

His pious brother, sure the best

Who ever bore that name,

Was newly risen from his rest,

And, with a fervent flame,

His usual morning vows had just address'd
For his dear sovereign's health;

And hop'd to have them heard,
In long increase of years,

In honour, fame, and wealth:

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Guiltless of greatness thus he always pray'd, 45
Nor knew nor wish'd those vows he made
On his own head should be repaid.

Soon as the ill omen'd rumour reach'd his ear,
(Ill news is wing'd with fate, and flies apace,)
Who can describe the amazement of his face!
Horror in all his pomp was there,

Mute and magnificent without a tear:

And then the hero first was seen to fear.

Half unarray'd he ran to his relief,

So hasty and so artless was his grief:

Approaching greatness met him with her charms
Of power and future state;

But look'd so ghastly in a brother's fate,
He shook her from his arms.

Arriv'd within the mournful room, he saw

A wild distraction, void of awe,

And arbitrary grief unbounded by a law.
God's image, God's anointed lay
Without motion, pulse, or breath,

A senseless lump of sacred clay,

An image now of death.

Amidst his sad attendants' groans and cries,

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