When, fired with wrath for his intrigues, display'd In many an idle song, Saturnian Jove
Vow'd sure destruction to the tuneful race,
Appeased by suppliant Phoebus, "Bards," he said,
"Henceforth of plenty, wealth and pomp debarr'd,
But fed by frugal cares, might wear the bay
Secure of thunder."-Low the Delian bow'd,
Nor at the invidious favour dared repine.
OR, THE EFFECTS OF SUPERSTITION.
AT length fair Peace, with olive crown'd, regains
Her lawful throne, and to the sacred haunts
Of wood or fount the frighted muse returns.
Happy the bard who, from his native hills,
Soft musing on a summer's eve, surveys
His azure stream, with pensile woods enclosed;
Or o'er the glassy surface with his friend
Or faithful fair, through bordering willows green,
Wafts his small frigate. Fearless he of shouts
Or taunts, the rhetoric of the watery crew,
That ape confusion from the realms they rule;
Fearless of these; who shares the gentler voice
Of peace and music; birds of sweetest song
Attune from native boughs their various lay,
And cheer the forest; birds of brighter plume
With busy pinion skim the glittering wave,
And tempt the sun, ambitious to display
Their several merit, while the vocal flute,
Or number'd verse, by female voice endear'd,
Crowns his delight, and mollifies the scene.
If solitude his wandering steps invite
To some more deep recess, (for hours there are
When gay, when social minds to friendship's voice
Or beauty's charm her wild abodes prefer,)
How pleased he treads her venerable shades,
Her solemn courts! the centre of the grove!
The root-built cave, by far-extended rocks
Around embosom'd, how it soothes the soul!
If scoop'd at first by superstitious hands,
The rugged cell received alone the shoals
Of bigot minds, religion dwells not here,
Yet virtue pleased at intervals retires :
Yet here may wisdom, as she walks the maze,
Some serious truths collect, the rules of life,
And serious truths of mightier weight than gold!
I ask not wealth; but let me hoard with care,
With frugal cunning, with a niggard's art,
A few fix'd principles, in early life,
Ere indolence impede the search, explored;
Then like old Latimer, when age impairs
My judgment's eye, when quibbling schools attack
My grounded hope, or subtler wits deride,
Will I not blush to shun the vain debate,
And this mine answer; "Thus, 'twas thus I thought,
My mind yet vigorous, and my soul entire;
Thus will I think, averse to listen more
To intricate discussion, prone to stray.
Perhaps my reason may but ill defend
My settled faith; my mind, with age impair'd,
Too sure its own infirmities declare.
But I am arm'd by caution, studious youth,
And early foresight: now the winds may rise,
The tempest whistle, and the billows roar;
My pinnace rides in port, despoil'd and worn,
Shatter'd by time and storms, but while it shuns
The unequal conflict, and declines the deep,
Sees the strong vessel fluctuate, less secure.'
Thus while he strays, a thousand rural scenes
Suggest instruction, and instructing please.
And see betwixt the grove's extended arms
An Abbey's rude remains attract thy view,
Gilt by the mid-day sun: with lingering step
Produce thine axe, (for, aiming to destroy
Tree, branch, or shade, for never shall thy breast
Too long deliberate,) with timorous hand
Remove the obstructive bough; nor yet refuse,
Though sighing, to destroy that fav'rite pine,
Raised by thy hand, in its luxuriant prime
Of beauty fair, that screens the vast remains.
Aggrieved, but constant as the Roman sire,
The rigid Manlius, when his conquʼring son
Bled by a parent's voice, the cruel meed
Of virtuous ardour timelessly display'd;
Nor cease till, through the gloomy road, the pile
Gleam unobstructed: thither oft thine eye
Shall sweetly wander; thence returning, soothe
With pensie scenes thy philosophic mind.
These were thy haunts, thy opulent abodes,
O superstition! hence the dire disease
(Balanced with which the famed Athenian pest
Were a short headach, were the trivial pain
Of transient indignation) seized mankind.
Long time she raged, and scarce a southern gale
Warm'd our chill air, unloaded with the threats
Of tyrant Rome; but futile all, till she,
Rome's abler legate, magnified their power,
And in a thousand horrid forms attired.
Where then was truth to sanctify the page
Of British anuals ? if a foe expired,
The perjured monk suborn'd infernal shrieks
And fiends to snatch at the departing soul
With hellish emulation: if a friend,
High o'er his roof exultant angels tune
Their golden lyres, and waft him to the skies.
What then were vows, were oaths, were plighted faith?
The sovereign's just, the subject's loyal pact,
To cherish mutual good, annull'd and vain,
By Roman magic, grew an idle scroll
Ere the frail sanction of the wax was cold.
With thee, Plantagenet!1 from civil broils
The land awhile respired, and all was peace.
Then Becket rose, and, impotent of mind,
From regal courts with lawless fury march'd
The church's blood-stain'd convicts, and forgave,
Bid murderous priests the sovereign frown contemn,
And with unhallowed crosier bruised the crown.
Yet vielded not supinely tame a prince
Of Henry's virtues; learn'd, courageous, wise,
Of fair ambition. Long his regal soul,
Firm and erect, the peevish priest exiled,
And braved the fury of revengeful Rome.
In vain! let one faint malady diffuse
The pensive gloom which superstition loves,
And see him dwindled to a recreant groom,
Rein the proud palfrey while the priest ascends!
Was Coeur-de-Lion bless'd with whiter days?
Here the cowl'd zealots with united cries
Urged the crusade; and see! of half his stores
Despoil'd, the wretch whose wiser bosom chose
To bless his friends, his race, his native land.
Of ten fair sons that rode their annual race,
Not one beheld him on his vacant throne;
While haughty Longchamp,' 'mid his livery files
Of wanton vassals, spoil'd his faithful realm,
Battling in foreign fields; collecting wide
A laurel harvest for a pillaged land.
Oh, dear-bought trophies! when a prince deserts
His drooping realm to pluck the barren sprays!
When faithless John usurp'd the sullied crown,
What ample tyranny! the groaning land
Deem'd earth, deem'd heaven, its foe! six tedious years Our helpless fathers in despair obey'd
The papal interdict; and who obey'd
The sov'reign plunder'd. Oh, inglorious days!
When the French tyrant, by the futile grant
Of papal rescript, claim'd Britannia's throne,
And durst invade! be such inglorious days
Or hence forgot, or not recall'd in vain!
Scarce had the tortured ear, dejected, heard
Rome's loud anathema, but heartless, dead
To every purpose, men nor wish'd to live
Nor dared to die. The poor laborious hind
Heard the dire curse, and from his trembling hand
Fell the neglected crook that ruled the plain:
Thence journeying home, in every cloud he sees
A vengeful angel, in whose waving scroll
He reads damnation; sees its sable train
Of grim attendants pencil'd by despair!
The weary pilgrim from remoter climes
By painful steps arrived, his home, his friends,
His offspring left to lavish on the shrine
Of some far-honour'd saint his costly stores,
Inverts his footstep, sickens at the sight
Of the barr'd fane, and silent sheds a tear.
The wretch, whose hope by stern oppression chased From every earthly bliss, still as it saw
Triumphant wrong, took wing, and flew to heaven,
1 Bishop of Ely, Lord Chancellor.
And rested there, now mourn'd his refuge lost
And wonted peace. The sacred fane was barr'd;
And the lone altar, where the mourners throng'd
To supplicate remission, smoked no more:
While the green weed luxuriant round uprose.
Some from their deathbed, whose delirious faith
Through every stage of life to Rome's decrees
Obsequious, humbly hoped to die in peace,
Now saw the ghastly king approach, begirt
In tenfold terrors; now expiring heard
The last loud clarion sound, and heaven's decree
With unremitting vengeance bar the skies.
Nor light the grief, by superstition weigh'd,
That their dishonour'd corse, shut from the verge
Of hallowed earth, or tutelary fane,
Must sleep with brutes, their vassals, on the field,
Un'neath some path, in marl unexorcised!
No solemn bell extort a neighbour's tear!
No tongue of priest pronounce their soul secure,
Nor fondest friend assure their peace obtain'd!
The priest, alas! so boundless was the ill!
He, like the flock he pillaged, pined forlorn;
The vivid vermeil fled his fady cheek,
And his big paunch, distended with the spoils
Of half his flock, emaciate, groan'd beneath
Superior pride and mightier lust of power!
'Twas now Rome's fondest friend, whose meagre hand Told to the midnight lamp his holy beads
With nice precision, felt the deeper wound,
As his gull'd soul revered the conclave more.
Whom did the ruin spare ? for wealth, for power,
Birth, honour, virtue, enemy and friend,
Sunk helpless, in the dreary gulf involved,
And one capricious curse enveloped all!
Were kings secure ? in tow'ring stations born,
In flattery nursed, inured to scorn mankind,
Or view diminish'd from their site sublime,
As when a shepherd, from the lofty brow
On some proud cliff surveys his lessening flock
In snowy groups diffusive scud the vale.
Awhile the furious menace John return'd,
And breathed defiance loud. Alas! too soon
Allegiance sickening, saw its sovereign yield
An angry prey to scruples not his own.
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