Where erudition so unbless'd prevails,
Saints, and their lives, are legendary tales;
Christians, a brain-sick visionary crew,
That read the Bible with a Bible view,
And through the letter humbly hope to trace
The living word, the spirit, and the grace.
It matters not, whatever be the state
That full-bent will and strong desires create;
Where'er they fall, where'er they love to dwell,
They kindle there their heaven, or their hell;
The chosen scene surrounds them as their own,
All else is dead, insipid, or unknown.
However poor and empty be the sphere,
'Tis all, if inclination centre there:
Its own enthusiasts each system knows,
Down to laced fops, and powder-sprinkled beaus.
Great wits, affecting, what they call, to think,
That deep immersed in speculation sink,
Are great enthusiasts, howe'er refined,
Whose brain-bred notions so inflame the mind,
That, during the continuance of its heat,
The summum bonum is-its own conceit :
Critics, with all their learning recondite,
Poets, that severally be-mused write;
The virtuosos, whether great or small;
The connoisseurs, that know the worth of all;
Philosophers, that dictate sentiments,
And politicians, wiser than events;
Such, and such-like, come under the same law,
Although their heat be from a flame of straw;
Although in one absurdity they chime,
To make religious entheasm a crime.
Endless to say how many of their trade
Ambition, pride, and self-conceit have made.
If one, the chief of such a numerous name,
Let the great scholar justify his claim.
Self-love, in short, wherever it is found,
Tends to its own enthusiastic ground;
With the same force that goodness mounts above,
Sinks, by its own enormous weight, self-love-
By this the wavering libertine is press'd,
And the rank atheist totally possess'd:
Atheists are dark enthusiasts indeed,
Whose fire enkindles like the smoking weed:
Lightless, and dull, the clouded fancy burns,
Wild hopes, and fears, still flashing out by turns.
Averse to heaven, amid the horrid gleam,
They quest annihilation's monstrous theme,
On gloomy depths of nothingness to pore,
'Till all be none, and being be no more.
The sprightlier infidel, as yet more gay,
Fires off the next ideas in his way,
The dry fag-ends of every obvious doubt;
And puffs and blows for fear they should go out.
Boldly resolved, against conviction steel'd,
Nor inward truth, nor outward fact, to yield;
Urged with a thousand proofs, he stands unmoved
Fast by himself, and scorns to be out-proved;
To his own reason loudly he appeals,
No saint more zealous for what God reveals.
Think not that you are no enthusiast, then:
All men are such, as sure as they are men.
The thing itself is not at all to blame :
'Tis in each state of human life the same.
That which concerns us therefore is to see
What species of enthusiasts we be;
On what materials the fiery source
Of thinking life shall execute its force:
Whether a man shall stir up love, or hate,
From the mix'd medium of this present state;
Shall choose with upright heart and mind to rise,
And reconnoitre heaven's primeval skies;
Or down to lust and rapine to descend,
Brute for a time, and demon at its end.
When true religion kindles up the fire,
Who can condemn the vigorous desire?
That burns to reach the end for which 'twas given,
To shine, and sparkle in its native heaven?
What else was our creating Father's view?
His image lost why sought he to renew?
Why all the scenes of love that Christians know,
But to attract us from this poor below?
To save us from the fatal choice of ill,
And bless the free co-operating will?
Blame not enthusiasm, if rightly bent;
Or blame of saints the holiest intent,
The strong persuasion, the confirm'd belief,
Of all the comforts of a soul the chief;
That God's continual will, and work to save,
Teach, and inspire, attend us to the grave:
That they, who in his faith and love abide,
Find in his Spirit an immediate guide:
This is no more a fancy, or a whim,
Than that we live, and move, and are in Him;
Let Nature, or let Scripture, be the ground,
Here is the seat of true religion found.
An earthly life, as life itself explains,
The air and spirit of this world maintains;
As plainly does an heavenly life declare,
An heavenly spirit, and an holy air.
What truth more plainly does the gospel teach, What doctrine all its missionaries preach,
Than this, that every good desire and thought,
Is in us by the Holy Spirit wrought?
For this the working faith prepares the mind,
Hope is expectant, charity resign'd:
From this blest guide the moment we depart,
What is there left to sanctify the heart?
Reason and morals? And where live they most?
In Christian comfort, or in Stoic boast?
Reason may paint unpractised truth exact,
And morals rigidly maintain-no fact:
This is the power that raises them to worth,
That calls their ripening excellencies forth.
Not ask for this? May Heaven forbid the vain,
The sad repose!-What virtue can remain?
What virtue wanting, if, within the breast,
This faith, productive of all virtue, rest,
That God is always present to impart
His light and Spirit to the willing heart?
He, who can say, my willing heart began
To learn this lesson, may be christen'd man;
Before, a son of elements and earth;
But now, a creature of another birth;
Whose true regenerated soul revives,
And life from Him, that ever lives, derives;
Freed by compendious faith from all the pangs
Of long fetch'd motives, and perplex'd harangues;
One word of promise steadfastly embraced,
His heart is fix'd, its whole dependence placed :
The hope is raised, that cannot but succeed,
And found infallibility indeed:
Then flows the love that no distinction knows
Of system, sect, or party, friends, or foes;
I Nor loves by halves; but, faithful to its call,
Stretches its whole benevolence to all;
Its universal wish, the angelic scene,
That God within the heart of man may reign;
The true beginning to the final whole,
Of heaven, and heavenly life, within the soul
Author of certain antiquated Poems in the name of Rowley, a Priest of the fifteenth century; and others in modern English far inferior.
[Written, it is said, not long before the unhappy Author com.
mitted suicide.]
O GOD, whose thunder shakes the sky,
Whose eye this atom globe surveys;
To Thee, my only rock, I fly,
Thy mercy in thy justice praise.
The mystic mazes of thy will,
The shadows of celestial light,
Are past the power of human skill-
But what the Eternal acts is right.
O teach me in the trying hour,
When anguish swells the dewy tear,
To still my sorrows, own thy power,
Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.
If in this bosom aught but Thee,
Encroaching, sought a boundless sway,
Omniscience could the danger see,
And mercy look the cause away.
Then why, my soul, dost thou complain?
Why drooping seek the dark recess?
Shake off the melancholy chain,
For God created all to bless.
But ah! my breast is human still;
The rising sigh, the falling tear,
My languid vitals' feeble rill,
The sickness of my soul declare.
But yet, with fortitude resign'd,
I'll thank the' inflicter of the blow;
Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,
Nor let the gush of misery flow.
The gloomy mantle of the night,
Which on my sinking spirit steals,
Will vanish at the morning light
Which God, my east, my sun, reveals.
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