ON READING HIS HORE LYRICE.
HAIL, heaven-born Muse! that with celestial flame,
And high seraphic numbers, durst attempt
To gain thy native skies. No common theme
Merits thy thought, self-conscious of a soul
Superior, though on earth detain'd awhile;
Like some propitious angel, that's design'd
A resident in this inferior orb,
To guide the wandering souls to heavenly bliss,
Thou seem'st; while thou their everlasting sons
Hast sung to mortal ears, and down to earth
Transfer'd the work of Heav'n; with thought sublime,
And high sonorous words, thou sweetly sing'st
To thy immortal lyre. Amaz'd, we view
The towering height stupendous, while thou soar'st
Above the reach of vulgar eyes or thought,
Hymning the' Eternal Father; as of old
When first the' Almighty from the dark abyss
Of everlasting night and silence call'd
The shining worlds with one creating word;
And rais'd from nothing all the heavenly hosts,
And with eternal glories fill'd the void;
Harmonious seraphs tun'd their golden harps,
And with their cheerful Hallelujahs bless'd
The bounteous author of their happiness;
From orb to orb the' alternate music rang,
And from the crystal arches of the sky
Reach'd our then glorious world, the native seat
Of the first happy pair, who join'd their songs
To the loud echos of the' angelic choirs,
And fill'd with blissful hymns, terrestrial beaven,
The paradise of God, where all delights
Abounded, and the pure ambrosial air,
Fann'd by mild zephyrs, breath'd eternal sweets,
Forbidding death and sorrow; and bestow'd
Fresh heavenly bloom, and gay immortal youth.
Not so, alas! the vile apostate race,
Who in mad joys their brutal hours employ'd,
Assaulting with their impious blasphemies
The Power supreme, who gave them life and breath;
Incarnate fiends! outrageous they defied
The' Eternal's thunder, and Almighty wrath
Fearless provok'd, which all the other devils
Would dread to meet; remembering well the day
When driv'n from pure immortal seats above,
A fiery tempest hurl'd them down the skies,
And hung upon the rear, urging their fall
To the dark, deep, unfathomable gulf,
Where bound on sulphurous lakes to glowing rocks
With adamantine chains, they wail their woes,
And know Jehovah great as well as good;
And fix'd for ever by eternal fate,
With horror find His arm omnipotent.
Prodigious madness! that the sacred Muse, First taught in Heaven to mount immortal heights, And trace the boundless glories of the sky, Should now to every idol basely bow, And curse the deity she once ador'd; Erecting trophies to each sordid vice, And celebrating the infernal praise Of haughty Lucifer, the desperate foe Of God and man, and winning every hour
New votaries to hell; while all the fiends
Hear these accursed lays, and thus outdone,
Raging they try to match the human race,
Redoubling all their hellish blasphemies,
And with loud curses rend the gloomy vault.
Ungrateful mortals! ah! too late you'll find
What 'tis to banter Heaven and laugh at hell;
To dress up vice in false delusive charms,
And with gay colours paint her hideous face,
Leading besotted souls through flowery paths,
In gaudy dreams, and vain fantastic joys,
To dismal scenes of everlasting woe;
When the great Judge shall rear his awful throne,
And raging flames surround the trembling globe,
While the load thunders roll from pole to pole,
And the last trump awakes the sleeping dead;
And guilty souls to ghastly bodies driven,
Within those dire eternal prisons shut,
Expect their sad inexorable doom.
Say now, ye men of wit! what turn of thought
Will please you then? Alas, how dull and poor,
Ev'n to yourselves, will your lewd flights appear!
How will you envy then the happy fate
Of idiots! and perhaps in vain you'll wish,
You'd been as very fools as once you thought
Others, for the sublimest wisdom scorn'd;
When pointed lightnings from the wrathful Judge
Shall singe your laurels, and the men
Who thought they flew so high, shall fall so low.
No more, my Muse, of that tremendous thought,
Resume thy more delightful theme, and sing
The' immortal man, that with inmortal verse
Rivals the hymns of angels, and like them
Despises mortal critics' idle rules:
While the celestial flame that warms thy soul
Inspires us, and with holy transports moves
Our labouring minds, and nobler scenes presents
Than all the pagan poets ever sung,
Homer, or Virgil; and far sweeter notes
Than Horace ever taught his sounding lyre,
And purer far, though Martial's self might seem
A modest poet in our Christian days.
May those forgotten and neglected lie;
No more let men be fond of fabulous gods,
Nor heathen wit debauch one Christian line,
While with the coarse and daubing paint we hide
The shining beauties of eternal truth,
That in her native dress appears most bright,
And charms the eyes of angels.-Oh! like thee,
Let every nobler genius tune his voice
To subjects worthy of their towering thoughts.
Let Heaven and Anna then your tuneful art
Improve, and consecrate your deathless lays
TO HIM who reigns above, and Her who rules below.
SAY, human seraph, whence that charming force,
That flame! that soul! which animates each line;
And how it runs with such a graceful ease,
Loaded with pondrous sense! Say, did not HE,
The lovely Jesus, who commands thy breast,
Inspire thee with himself! With Jesus dwells,
Knit in mysterious bands, the Paraclete,
The breath of GOD, the everlasting source
Of love; and what is love in souls like thine,
But air, and incense to the poet's fire?
Should an expiring saint, whose swimming eyes
Mingle the images of things about him,
But hear the least exalted of thy strains,
How greedily he'd drink the music in,
Thinking his heavenly convoy waited near!
So great a stress of powerful harmony,
Nature unable longer to sustain,
Would sink oppress'd with joy to endless rest.
Let none henceforth of Providence complain,
As if the world of spirits lay unknown,
Fenc'd round with black impenetrable night;
What though no shining angel darts from thence,
With leave to publish things conceal'd from sense,
In language bright as theirs, we are here told,
When life its narrow round of years hath roll'd,
What 'tis employs the bless'd, what makes their
bliss;
Songs such as WATTS's are, and love like his.
But then, dear sir, be cautious how you use,
To transports so intensely rais'd your Muse,
Lest, while the' ecstatic impulse you obey,
The soul leap out, and drop the duller clay.
HENRY GROVE'.
1 A learned presbyterian divine, and master of an academy at Taunton in Somersetshire. He died in 1737.
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