But is amufement all? ftudious of fong,
And yet ambitious not to fing in vain,
I would not trifle merely, though the world
Be loudeft in their praise who do no more.
Yet what can fatire, whether grave or gay?
It may correct a foible, may chastise
The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress,
Retrench a fword-blade, or difplace a patch;
But where are its fublimer trophies found?
What vice has it fubdu'd? whofe heart reclaim'd
By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform?
Alas! Leviathan is not fo tam'd:
Laugh'd at, he laughs again; and, ftricken hard,
Turns to the ftroke his adamantine fcales,
That fear no difcipline of human hands.
The pulpit, therefore (and I name it fill'd
With folemn awe, that bids me well beware
With what intent I touch that holy thing)-
The pulpit (when the fat rift has at last,
Strutting and vap'ring in an empty fchool,
Spent all his force and made no proselyte)—
I fay the pulpit (in the fober use
Of its legitimate, peculiar pow'rs)
Muft ftand acknowledg'd, while the world fhall
The most important and effectual guard,
Support, and ornament, of virtue's caufe.
There ftands the messenger of truth: there ftands
The legate of the íkies !-His theme divine,
His office facred, his credentials clear.
By him the violated law fpeaks out
Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet
As angels ufe, the gospel whispers peace.
He 'stablishes the ftrong, reftores the weak,
Reclaims the wand'rer, binds the broken heart,
And, arm'd himself in panoply complete
Of heav'nly temper, furnishes with arms,
Bright as his own, and trains, by ev'ry rule
Of holy difcipline, to glorious war,
The facramental hoft of God's elect!
Are all fuch teachers?-would to heav'n all were!
But hark-the doctor's voice!-faft wedg'd between
Two empirics he ftands, and with fwoln cheeks
Infpires the news, his trumpet. Keener far
Than all invective is his bold harangue,
While through that public organ of report
He hails the clergy; and, defying shame,
Announces to the world his own and their's!
He teaches thofe to read, whom schools dismiss'd
And colleges, untaught; fells accent, tone,
And emphasis in fcore, and gives to pray'r
Th' adagio and andante it demands.
He grinds divinity of other days
Down into modern use; transforms old print
To zig zag manufcript, and cheats the eyes
Of gall'ry critics by a thousand arts.
Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware?
Oh, name it not in Gath!-it cannot be,
That grave and learned clerks thould need fuch aid.
He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll,
Affuming thus a rank unknown before-
Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the church!
I venerate the man whofe heart is warm, Whofe hands are pure, whofe doctrine and whofe life,
Coincident, exhibit lucid proof
That he is honeft in the facred caufe.
To fuch I render more than mere respect, Whose actions fay that they respect themselves. But, loose in morals, and in manners vain,
In converfation frivolous, in dress
Extreme, at once rapacious and profufe;
Frequent in park with lady at his fide,
Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes;
But rare at home, and never at his books,
Or with his pen, fave when he scrawls a card;
Conftant at routs, familiar with a round
Of lady fhips-a ftranger to the poor;
Ambitious of preferment for its gold,
And well-prepar'd, by ignorance and floth,
By infidelity and love of world,
To make God's work a finecure; a flave
To his own pleasures and his patron's pride:
From fuch apoftles, oh, ye mitred heads,
Preferve the church! and lay not careless hands
On fculls that cannot teach, and will not learn.
Would I defcribe a preacher, fuch as Paul, Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and ownPaul fhould himself direct me. I would trace His mafter-ftrokes, and draw from his defign. I would express him fimple, grave, fincere; In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, And plain in manner; decent, folemn, chafte,
And natural in gefture; much imprefs'd
Himself, as confcious of his awful charge,
And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds
May feel it too; affectionate in look,
And tender in addrefs, as well becomes
A meffenger of grace to guilty men.
Behold the picture !-Is it like ?-Like whom?
The things that mount the roftrum with a skip,
And then skip down again; pronounce a text;
Cry-hem; and, reading what they never wrote,
Juft fifteen minutes, huddle up their work,
And with a well-bred whisper close the scene!
In man or woman, but far most in man,
And moft of all in man that minifters
And ferves the altar, in my foul I loath
All affectation. 'Tis my perfe&t scorn;
Object of my implacable difguft.
What!-will a man play tricks, will he indulge
A filly fond conceit of his fair form,
And juft proportion, fashionable mien,
And pretty face, in prefence of his God?
Or will he feek to dazzle me with tropes,
As with the di'mond on his lily hand,
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