But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop Man praises man. Defert in arts or arms Wins public honor; and ten thousand fit Patiently prefent at a facred fong, Commemoration-mad; content to hear (Oh wonderfu. ffect of mufic's pow'r!) Meffiah's eulogy, for Handel's fake. But lefs, methinks, than facrilege might ferve(For was it lefs, what heathen would have dar'd To ftrip Jove's ftatue of his oaken wreath, And hang it up in honor of a man?) Much lefs might ferve, when all that we defign Is but to gratify an itching ear, And give the day to a musician's praife. Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets, Or can, the more than Homer of his age? That His moft holy book from whom it came And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed To want of judgment than to wrong defign. So in the chapel of old Ely House, When wand'ring Charles, who meant to be the third, Had Had fled from William, and the news was fresh, The idol of our worship while he liv❜d, The god of our idolatry once more, Shall have its altar; and the world fhall go The theatre, too fmall, fhall fuffocate 1ts fqueez'd contents, and more than it admits Shall figh at their exclufion, and return Ungratified. For there fome noble lord Shall ftuff his fhoulders with king Richard's bunch, wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak, Or And strut, and ftorm and straddle, stamp and stare, He drew the Liturgy, and fram'd the rites And And folemn ceremonial of the day, And call'd the world to worship on the banks Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. The mulb'ry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths; The mulb'ry-tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs; Still facred, and preferves with pious care. Their 'kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy: While others, not fo fatisfied, unhorse The gilded equipage, and, turning loose His steeds, ufurp a place they well deserve. Why? what has charm'd them? Hath he fav'd the state? No. Doth he purpose its falvation? No. Inchanting novelty, that moon at full, That finds out ev'ry crevice of the head That is not found and perfect, hath in theirs Wrought this difturbance. But the wane is near, And his own cattle muft fuffice him foon. Thus idly do we wafte the breath of praise, And dedicate a tribute, in its use And just direction, facred, to a thing Doom'd to the duft, or lodg'd already there, The task now falls into the public hand; |