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'Tis call'd a satire, and the world appears
Gath'ring around it with erected ears:

A thousand names are toss'd into the crowd;
Some whisper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud;
Just as the sapience of an author's brain
Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain.
Strange! how the frequent interjected dash
Quickens a market, and helps off the trash;
Th' important letters, that include the rest,
Serve as a key to those that are suppress'd;
Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw,
The world is charm'd, and Scrib. escapes the law.
So, when the cold damp shades of night prevail,
Worms may be caught by either head or tail;
Forcibly drawn from many a close recess,
They meet with little pity, no redress;
Plunged in the stream, they lodge upon the mud,
Food for the famish'd rovers of the flood.

All zeal for a reform, that gives offence
To peace and charity, is mere pretence,-
A bold remark, but which, if well applied,
Would humble many a towering poet's pride:
Perhaps the man was in a sportive fit,
And had no other play-place for his wit;
Perhaps enchanted with the love of fame,
He sought the jewel in his neighbour's shame;
Perhaps whatever end he might pursue,'

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The cause of virtue could not be his view.
At every stroke wit flashes in our eyes;
The turns are quick, the polish'd points surprise,
But shine with cruel and tremendous charms,
That, while they please, possess us with alarms;
So have I seen, and hasten'd to the sight
On all the wings of holiday delight,

Where stands that monument of ancient power,
Named, with emphatic dignity, the Tower,

Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and small,
In starry forms disposed upon the wall;

We wonder, as we gazing stand below,

That brass and steel should make so fine a show: But though we praise th' exact designer's skill,

Account them implements of mischief still.

No works shall find acceptance in that day,
When all disguises shall be rent away,
That square not truly with the Scripture plan,
Nor spring from love to God, or love to man.
As He ordains things sordid in their birth
To be resolved into their parent earth;
And though the soul shall seek superior orbs,
Whate'er this world produces, it absorbs;
So self starts nothing, but what tends apace
Home to the goal where it began the race.
Such as our motive is, our aim must be ;
If this be servile, that can neʼer be free :
If self employ us, whatsoe'er is wrought,
We glorify that self, not him we ought;
Such virtues had need prove their own reward,
The Judge of all men owes them no regard.
True Charity, a plant divinely nursed,
Fed by the love from which it rose at first,
Thrives against hope, and, in the rudest scene,
Storms but enliven its unfading green;
Exuberant is the shadow it supplies,

Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies.
To look at Him, who form'd us and redeem'd,
So glorious now, though once so disesteem'd,
To see a God stretch forth his human hand,
T'uphold the boundless scenes of his command;
To recollect, that, in a form like ours,

He bruised beneath his feet th' infernal powers,
Captivity led captive, rose to claim

The wreath he won so dearly in our name;
That, throned above all height, he condescends
To call the few that trust in him his friends;
That in the heaven of heavens, that space he deems
Too scanty for th' exertion of his beams,

And shines, as if impatient to bestow
Life and a kingdom upon worms below:
That sight imparts a never-dying flame,
Though feeble in degree, in kind the same.
Like him the soul, thus kindled from above,
Spreads wide her arms of universal love;

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And, still enlarged as she receives the grace,
Includes creation in her close embrace.
Behold a Christian! and, without the fires
The founder of that name alone inspires,
Though all accomplishment, all knowledge meet,
To make the shining prodigy complete,
Whoever boasts that name-behold a cheat!
Were love, in these the world's last doting years,
As frequent as the want of it
appears,
The churches warm'd, they would no longer hold
Such frozen figures, stiff as they are cold;
Relenting forms would lose their power, or cease;
And e'en the dipt and sprinkled live in peace;
Each heart would quit its prison in the breast,
And flow in free communion with the rest.
The statesman, skill'd in projects dark and deep,
Might burn his useless Machiavel, and sleep;
His budget often fill'd, yet always poor,
Might swing at ease behind his study door,
No longer prey upon our annual rents,
Or scare the nation with its big contents:
Disbanded legions freely might depart,
And slaying man would cease to be an art.
No learned disputants would take the field,
Sure not to conquer, and sure not to yield;
Both sides deceived, if rightly understood,
Pelting each other for the public good.
Did Charity prevail, the press would prove
A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love;
And I might spare myself the pains to show
What few can learn, and all suppose they know.
Thus have I sought to grace a serious lay
With many a wild, indeed, but flowery spray,
In hopes to gain, what else I must have lost,
Th' attention pleasure has so much engross'd.
But if, unhappily deceived, I dream,

And prove too weak for so divine a theme,
Let Charity forgive me a mistake,

That zeal, not vanity, has chanced to make,
And spare the poet for his subject's sake.

CONVERSATION.

THE title of this piece, which was composed in July, 1781, might seem to imply similarity to Table Talk. The reader, however, will remark, that they are altogether distinct in their objects, the latter being in fact a conversation, while the present poem teaches the art of conversing. From a hint in one of his letters, the poet appears to have intended to commence a second volume of poetry with this piece; but afterwards, as it would seem, abandoned the idea of publishing two small volumes instead of one of more respectable size. None of Cowper's efforts shew greater versatility than Conversation. It abounds in admirable description and well-drawn character; it is one of the smoothest in versification, and most sprightly in manner of all his earlier efforts, qualities which rendered this poem a favourite from the beginning. The poet assumes here a new office- a master of manners as well as a teacher of piety; but the great aim of his writings is never long forgotten. We sit down to be delighted, and are so; but at the same time are surprised into wisdom, and rise from the perusal of this his lightest essay both wiser and better. The solemn tenderness of the scene at Emmaus; the description of a Christian's conversation; the picture of fanaticism; the cheerful influence of religion upon the temper and conduct, are equal in true poetry to any passages which had previously adorned English literature; and yet some of them were quoted in contemporary criticism as evidence of the "author's being a good devout gentleman without one particle of genius." We have sometimes heard the same sentiment

expressed in our own day; and, in reply, would only ask the objector to point out an equal number of lines superior to the ten which conclude Conversation. But Cowper contended not for poetical superiority; he had in his own heart the best of consolations." The critics cannot," says he, " deprive me of the pleasure I have in reflecting, that, so far as my leisure has been employed in writing for the public, it has been conscientiously employed, and with a view to its advantage.'

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