For let the witling argue all he can
It is religion still that makes the man.
'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright; 1 'Tis this, that gilds the horrors of our night.
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few;
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue;
'Tis this, that wards the blow, or stills the smart;
Disarms affliction, or repels its dart;
Within the breast bids purest rapture rise;
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies.
When the storm thickens, and the thunder rolls,
When the earth trembles to th' affrighted poles;
The virtuous mind, nor doubts, nor fears assail:
For storms are zephyrs, or a gentler gale.
And when disease obstructs the lab'ring breath,
Where the heart sickens and each pulse is death;
Ev'n then religion shall sustain the just,
Grace their last moments, nor desert their dust.
August 5th, 1748.
AS some new star attracts th' admiring sight,
His splendors pouring through the fields of light,
Whole nights, delighted with th' unusual rays,
On the fair heavenly visitant we gaze:
So thy fam'd volumes sweet surprise impart;
Mark'd by all eyes, and felt in every heart.
Nature, inform'd by thee, new paths has trod,
And rises here, a preacher for her God;
By fancy's aid, mysterious heights she tries,
And lures us by our senses to the skies.
To deck thy style collected graces throng,
Bold as the pencil's tint, yet soft as song.
In themes how rich thy vein! how pure thy choice!
Transcripts of truth, own'd clear from scripture's voice ;
Thy judgment these, and piety attest,
Transcripts-read only fairer in thy breast.
There, what thy works would shew, we best may see,
And all they teach in doctrine, lives in thee.
Oh!-might they live!--Our pray'rs their strife engage, But thy fix'd langors yield us sad presage.
In vain skill'd medicine tries her healing art:
Disease, long foe, entrenches at thy heart.
Yet on new labors still thy mind is
prone,
For a world's good too thoughtless of thy own.
Active, like day's kind orb, life's course you run,
Its sphere still glorious, through a setting sun.
Redemption opes thee wide her healing plan,
Health's only balm, her sov'reign gift to man.
Themes sweet like these thy ardors, fresh, excite:
Warm at the soul, they nerve thy hand to write;
Make thy try'd virtues in thy charms appear,
Patience rais'd hope, firm faith, and love sincere;
Like a big constellation, bright they glow,
And beam out lovelier by thy night of woe.
Known were thy merits to the public long,
Ere own'd thus feebly in my humbling song.
Damp'd are my fires; heart dark cares depress
A heart, too feeling from its own distress.
Proud on thy friendship, yet to built my fame,
I gain'd my page* a sanction from thy name,
Weak these returns (by gratitude though led)
Where mine shall in thy fav'rite leaves be read.
Yet o'er my conscious meanness hope prevails;
Love gives me merit where my genius fails.
On its strong base my small desert I raise,
Averse to flatt'ry as unskill'd to praise.
MOSES BROWNE.
Mile-End Green, Feb. 23, 1749.
WHENCE flow these solemn sounds? this raptur'd
Cherubic notes my wond'ring ear detain!
Yet 'tis a mortal's voice: 'tis HERVEY sings:
Sublime he soars on contemplation's wings:
In every period breathes ecstatic thought;
HERVEY, 'twas heav'n thy sacred lessons taught.
Celestial visions bless thy studious hours,
Thy lonely walks, and thy sequester'd bow'rs.
What fav'ring pow'r, dispensing secret aids,
Thy cavern'd cell, thy curtain'd couch pervades ?
Still hov'ring near, observant of thy themes,
In whispers prompts thee, or inspires thy dreams?
JESUS! effulgence of paternal light!
Ineffably divine! supremely bright!
Whose energy according worlds attest,
Kindled these ardors in thy glowing breast.
We catch thy flame, as we thy page peruse;
And faith in every object JESUS views.
We in the bloomy breathing garden trace
Somewhat-like emanations of his grace:
Yet must all sweetness and all beauty yield,
Idume's grove, and Sharon's flow'ry field,
Compar'd with JESUS; meanly, meanly shows
The brightest lily, faint the loveliest rose.
Divine instructor! lead through midnight glooms,
To moralizing stars, and preaching tombs!
Through the still void a Saviour's voice shall break,
ray from Jacob's star the darkness streak:
To him the fairest scenes their lustre owe;
His cov❜nant brightens the celestial bow;
His vast benevolence profusely spreads
The yellow harvests, and the verdant meads.
Thy pupil, HERVEY, a Redeemer finds
In boundless oceans, and in viewless winds :
He rains at will the furious blasts, and guides
The rending tempests, and the roaring tides.
O give, my soul, thy welfare to his trust:
Who rais'd a world, can raise thy sleeping dust!
He will, he will; when nature's course is run,
Midst falling stars, and an extinguish'd sun;
He will, with myriads of his saints appear;
may I join them, though the meanest there! Though nearer to the throne my HERVEY sings; Though I at humbler distance strike the strings; Yet both shall mingle in the same employ,
Both drink the fullness of eternal joy.
Clerkenwell Green, Feb. 24, 1749.
WHAT numbers of our race survey
The monarch of the golden day,
Night's ample canopy unfurl'd
In gloomy grandeur round the world,
The earth in spring's embroidery drest,
And ocean's ever-working breast!
And still no grateful honors rise
To him who spread the spacious skies,
Who hung this air-suspended ball,
And lives, and reigns, and shines in all?
To chase our sensual fogs away,
And bright to pour th' eternal ray,
Of Deity inscrib'd around
Wide nature to her utmost bound,
Is HERVEY'S task: and well his skill
Celestial, can the task fulfil:
Ascending from their scenes below,
Ardent the Maker's praise to show,
His sacred contemplations soar,
And teach our wonder to adore.
Now he surveys the realms beneath,
The realms of horror and of death;
Now entertains his vernal hours
In flow'ry walks, and blooming bow'rs;
Now hails the black-brow'd night, that brings
Etherial dews upon her wings;
Now marks the planets as they roll
On burning axles round the pole:
While tombs, and flow'rs, and shades, and stars,
Unveil their sacred characters
Of justice, wisdom, pow'r and love;
And lift the soul to realms above,
Where dwells the God, in glory crown'd,
Who sends his boundless influence round..
So Jacob, in his blissful dreams,
Array'd in heav'n's refulgent beams,
Saw from the ground a scale arise,
Whose summit mingled with the skies;
Angels were pleas'd to pass the road,
The stage to earth, and path to God,
HERVEY, proceed: for nature yields
Fresh treasures in her ample fields;
And in seraphic ecstacy,
Still bear us to the throne on high.
Ocean's wild wonders next explore,
His changing scenes and secret store;
Or let dire earthquakes claim thy toil,
Earthquakes, that shake a guilty isle.
So, if small things may shadow forth,
Dear man, thy labors, and thy worth,
The bee upon the flow'ry lawn
Imbibes the lucid drops of dawn,
Works them in his mysterious mould,
And turns the common dew to gold.
DELIGHTFUL author! whom the saints inspire! And whisp'ring angels with their arduous fire! From youth like mine, wilt thou accept of praise! Or smile with candor on a stripling's lays?
My little laurel (but a shoot at most)
Has hardly more than one small wreath to boast.
Such as it is-(ah! might it worthier be!)
Its scanty foliage all is due to THEE.
Oh! if amongst the honors of thy brow,
This slender circlet may but humbly grow:
If its faint verdure happily may find place-
A foil to others;-though its own disgrace;
Accept it, HERVEY, from a heart sincere ;
And, for the giver's sake,—the tribute wear.
Thy soul-improving works perus'd what tongue
Can hold from praise or check th' applausing song?
But ah! from whence shall gratitude obtain
Language that may its glowing zeal explain?
How to such wondrous worth adapt a strain?
Describ'd by thee, cold sepulchres can charm 5
Storms calm the soul; and freezing winter, warm.
Clear'd from her gloomy shades, we view pale night
Surrounded with a blaze of mental light.
|