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And give the day to a musician's praise.
Remember Handel? who that 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

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That His most holy book from whom it came
Was never meant, was never used 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 judgement 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, 660 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 665 The idol of our worship while he lived,

The God of our idolatry once more,

Shall have its altar; and the world shall go

In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine.

The theatre too small, shall suffocate

Its squeezed contents, and more than it admits
Shall sigh at their exclusion, and return
Ungratified. For there some noble lord

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Shall stuff his shoulders with King Richard's bunch,

Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak,

And strut and storm and straddle, stamp and stare,

To show the world how Garrick did not act 19.

For Garrick was a worshipper himself;

He drew the Liturgy, and framed the rites
And solemn ceremonial of the day,

And call'd the world to worship on the banks
Of Avon famed in song. Ah! pleasant proof
That piety has still in human hearts

Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct.

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The mulberry tree was hung with blooming wreaths,
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.

And mirth without offence.

Decorum reign'd,

No few return'd

The rabble all alive,

Doubtless much edified, and all refreshed.

-Man praises man.

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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
Το gaze in his eyes and bless him.

Maidens wave for joy;

Their 'kerchiefs, and old women weep

19 How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore That painted coat which Joseph never wore.

Young. Satire iv.

That the world may know

How far he went for what was nothing worth.

Book vi. 238.

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While others not so satisfied unhorse

The gilded equipage, and turning loose

His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve.

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

That finds out every crevice of the head

That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs

Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near,
And his own cattle must suffice him soon.
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 lodged 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,

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Have poured 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 recompensed, 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,

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The time of rest, the promised 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.

For He whose car the winds are, and the clouds
The dust that waits upon his sultry march
When sin hath moved him and his wrath is hot,
Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend
Propitious, in his chariot paved with love,
And what his storms have blasted and defaced
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.
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 20,
Such is the impulse and the spur he feels
To give it praise proportioned to its worth,
That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems
The labour, were a task more arduous still.

Oh scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,
Scenes of accomplish'd bliss! which who can see
Though but in distant prospect, and not feel

20 True she is fair, oh how divinely fair!

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S. C.-9.

Addison. Cuto.

S

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 "1
Laughs with abundance; and the land once lean,
Or fertile only in its own disgrace,
Exults to see its thistly curse repealed.
The various seasons woven into one,
And that one season an eternal spring,
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

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,

The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart

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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. 790

21 The folds shall be full of sheep: the valleys also shall stand so thick with corn that they shall laugh and sing.

Psalm lxv.

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