The God of our idolatry once more,

Shall have its altar; and the world shall go
In pilgrimage to bow before his fhrine.

The theatre, too fmall, fhall fuffocate

Its fqueez'd contents, and more than it admits
Shall figh at their exclufion, and return
Ungratified. For there fome noble lord

Shall ftuff his shoulders with king Richard's bunch,

Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak,

And strut, and ftorm and ftraddle, ftamp and

stare,

To fhow the world how Garrick did not act.
For Garrick was a worshipper himself;

He drew the Liturgy, and fram'd the rites
And folemn ceremonia! of the day,

And call'd the world to worship on the banks
Of Avon, fam'd in fong. Ah, pleasant proof!
That piety has ftill in human hearts

Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. The mulb'ry tree was hung with blooming wreaths;

The mulb'ry tree ftood centre of the dance;

The mulb'ry tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs ;

And from his touchwood trunk, the mulb'ry

tree

Supplied fuch relics, as devotion holds

Still facred, and preserves with pious care.

So

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, ftalls and ftyes,
Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day,
A pompous and flow-moving pageant comes.
Some thout him, and fome hang upon his ear,

To gaze in's eyes, and bless him. Maidens wave

Their 'kerchiefs. and old women weep for joy;
While others, not fo fatisfied, unhorfe

The gilded equipage, and, turning loose
His steeds, ufurp a place they well deserve.
Why? what has charm'd them? Hath he fav'd
the state?

No. Doth he purpose its falvation? No.
Inchanting novelty, that moon at full,

That finds out ev'ry crevice of the head
That is not found and perfect, hath in theirs
Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near,
And his own cattle muft fuffice him foon.
Thus idly do we wafte the breath of praife,
And dedicate a tribute, in its use

And just direction, facred, to a thing
Doom'd to the duft, or lodg'd already there.
Encomium in old time was poet's work;
But poets having lavishly long fince
Exhaufted all materials of the art,

The

The tafk 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 loft, if verse of mine
May ftand between an animal and woe,
And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.

The groans of nature in this nether world,
Which Heav'n has heard for ages, have an end
Foretold by prophets, and by poets fung,
Whofe fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp,
The time of reft, the promis'd fabbath comes.
Six thousand years of forrow have well-nigh
Fulfill'd their tardy and difaftrous course
Over a finful world; and what remains
Of this tempeftuous ftate of human things,
Is merely as the working of a fea

Before a calm, that rocks itself to reft:

For He whofe car the winds are, and the clouds,
The dust that waits upon his fultry march,
When fin hath mov'd him, and his wrath is hot,
Shall vifit earth in mercy; fhall defcend

Propitious, in his chariot pav'd with love,
And what his ftorms have blafted and defac'd

For

For man's revolt, fhall 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 fung
To meaner mufic, and not fuffer lofs.
But when a poet, or when one like me,
Happy to rove among poetic flow'rs,
Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last
On fome fair theme, fome theme divinely fair,
Such is the impulse and the fpur he feels
To give it praise proportion'd to its worth,
That not t' attempt it, arduous as he deems
The labour, were a task more arduous still.

Oh fcenes furpaffing fable, and yet true,
Scenes of accomplish'd bliss! which who can fee
Though but in distant prospect, and not feel
His foul 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
Laughs with abundance, and the land, once lean,
Or fertile only in its own difgrace,
Exults to fee its thiftly curfe repeal'd.
The various feasons 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

Graze with the fearless flocks; all bask at noon Together, or all gambol in the fhade

Of the fame grove, and drink one common ftream.

Antipathies are none. No foe to man

Lurks in the ferpent now; the mother fees,
And smiles to fee her infant's playful hand
Stretch'd forth to dally with the crefted 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 peftilence is driv'n away :

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

No paffion touches a discordant string,
But all is harmony and love. Disease
Is not the pure and uncontaminate blood
Holds its due courfe, nor fears the froft of age.
One fong employs all nations; and all cry,
"Worthy the Lamb, for he was flain for us."
The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks
Shout to each other, and the mountain tops
From diftant mountains catch the flying joy,
Till nation after nation taught the strain,
Earth rolls the rapturous Hofanna round.
Behold the measure of the promise fill'd;
See Salem built, the labour of a God!

Bright