Thou Servant of almighty Jove,
Who, free and fwift as Thought, could'st rove
To the bleak North's extremeft Goal;-
Thou, who magnanimous could'ft bear
The fovereign Thund'rer's Arms in Air,
And shake thy native Pole!
Oh cruel Fate! what barbarous Hand,
What more than Gothic Ire,
At fome fierce Tyrant's dread Command,
To check thy daring Fire,
Has plac'd thee in this fervile Cell,
Where Discipline and Dulnefs dwell;
Where Genius ne'er was feen to roam:
Where ev'ry selfish Soul's at reft,
Nor ever quits the carnal Breast,
But lurks and fneaks at Home!
Though dim'd thine Eye, and clipt thy Wing,
So grov'ling! once fo great!
The grief-inspired Mufe fhall fing
In tend'reft Lays thy Fate:
What Time by thee scholastic Pride,
Takes his precife, pedantic Stride,
Nor on thy Mis'ry cafts a Care;
The Stream of Love ne'er from his Heart
Flows out, to act fair Pity's Part;
But ftinks, and ftagnates there.
Yet ufeful ftill, hold to the Throng -
Hold the reflecting Glass,
That not untutor'd at thy Wrong
The Paffenger may pafs:
Thou Type of Wit and Senfe confin'd,
Cramp'd by th' Oppreffors of the Mind;
Born to look downward on the Ground!
Type of the Fall of Greece and Rome!
While more than mathematic Gloom,
Envelopes all around!
ART of PREACHING,
A FRAGMENT.
In Imitation of HORACE'S ART OF POETRY.
By the late Rev. CHRISTOPHER PITT.
HOULD fome fam'd Hand, in this fantastic Age,
Draw RICH, as RICH appears upon the Stage, With all his Poftures, in one motley Plan,
The God, the Hound, the Monkey and the Man;
Here o'er his Head high-brandishing a Leg,
And there juft hatch'd, and breaking from his Egg;
While Monster crowds on Monster through the Piece,
Who could help laughing at a Sight like this?
Or as a Drunkard's Dream together brings
A Court of Coblers, and a Mob of Kings;
Such is a Sermon, where confus'dly dark,
Join Hoadly, Sharp, South, Sherlock, Wake, and Clarke.
So Eggs of different Parishes will run
To batter, when you beat fix Yolks to one;
So fix bright chymic Liquors if you mix,
In one dark Shadow vanifh all the fix.
This Licence Priefts and Painters ever had,
To run bold Lengths, but never to run mad;
For thefe can't reconcile God's Grace to Sin,
Nor those paint Tygers in an Afs's Skin;
No common Dauber in one Piece would join
A Fox and Goose, - unless upon a Sign.
Some fteal a Page of Senfe from Tillotson,
And then conclude divinely with their own;
Like Oil on Water mounts the Prelate up,
His Grace is always fure to be at Top;
That Vein of Mercury it's Beams will spread,
And fhine more ftrongly through a Mine of Lead.
With fuch low Arts your Hearers never bilk,
For who can bear a Fuftian lin'd with Silk?
Sooner than preach fuch Stuff, I'd walk the Town,
Without my Scarf in Whifton's draggled Gown;
Ply at the Chapter and at Child's to read
For Pence, and bury for a Groat a Head.
Some eafy Subject chufe, within your Power,
you will ne'er hold out for Half an Hour.
Still to your Hearers all your Sermons fort;
Who'd preach against Corruption at the Court?
Againit Church Pow'r at Vifitations bawl?
Or talk about Damnation at Whitehall?
Harangue the Horfe-guards on a Cure of Souls?
Condemn the Quirks of Chancery at the Rolls?
Or rail at Hoods anal Organs at St. Paul's?
Or be, like David Jones, fo indiscreet,
To rave at Ufurers in Lonbard-ftreet?
Begin with Care, nor, like that Curate vile, Set out in this high prancing ftumbling Syle: "Whoever with a piercing Eye can fee,
"Through the paft Records of Futurity”—
Talks much, and fays juft nothing, for an Hour.
Truth and the Text he labours to display,
Till both are quite interpreted away :
So frugal Dames infipid Water pour,
Till Green, Bohea, or (Coffee are no more.
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