Verses to Mr. Hervey, on His Meditations
In these lov’d scenes, what rapt’rous graces shine, Live in each leaf, and breathe in ev’ry line! What sacred beauties beam throughout the whole, To charm the sense, and steal upon the soul! In classic elegance, and thoughts — his own, We see our faults as in a mirror shown: Each truth, in glaring characters exprest, All own the twin resemblance in their breast: His easy periods, and persuasive page, At once amend, and entertain the age: Nature’s wide fields all open to his view, He charms the mind with something ever new: On fancy’s pinions, his advent’rous soul Wantons unbounded, and pervades the whole: From death’s dark caverns in the earth below, To spheres where planets roll, or comets glow.
See him explore, with more than human eyes, The dreary sepulchre, where Granville lies: Converse with stones, or monumental brass, The rude inscriptions, — -or the painted glass:
xii VERSES TO MR. I1ERVEY,
To gloomy vaults descend with awful tread, And view the silent mansions of the dead.
To gayer scenes he next adapts his lines, Where lavish nature in embroid’ry shines: The jess’mine groves, the woodbine’s fragrant bow’rs, With all the painted family of flow’rs: There, Sacharissa! in each fleeting grace, Read all the transient honors of thy face.
With equal dignity now see him rise To paint the sable horrors of the skies: When all the wide horizon lies in shade, And midnight phantoms sweep along the glade: All nature hush’d — a solemn silence reigns, And scarce a breeze disturbs the sleeping plains.
Last, yet not less, in majesty of phrase, He draws the full-orb’d moon’s expansive blaze; The waving meteors trembling from on high, With all the mute artill’ry of the sky: Systems on systems, which in order roll, And dart their lambent beams from pole to pole.
Hail, mighty genius! whose excursive soul No bounds confine, no limits can control: Whose eye expatiates, and whose mind can rove, Through earth, through aether, and the realms
above: From thhigs inanimate direct * the rod, Jn just gradation, to ascend to God. Taught by thy lines, see hoary age grows wise, And all the rebel in his bosom dies: E’en thoughtless youth, in luxury of blood, Fly the infectious world, and dare — be good: Thy sacred truths shall reach th’ impervious heart; Discord shall cease, disease forget to smart; E’en malice love, and calumny commend; Pride beg an alms, and av’rice turn a friend.
* An allusion to the custom of showing curious objects, and particularising their respective deli* eacies, by the pointing of a rod.
ON HIS MEDITATIONS. xi
Centred in Christ, who fires the soul within, The flesh shall know no pain, the soul no sin: E’en in the terrors of expiring breath, We bless the friendly stroke, and live — in death.
Oxford, April 28, 1748.
BY A PHYSICIAN.
CELESTIAL meditant! whose ardors rise Deep from the tombs, and kindle to the skies; How shall an earthly bard’s profaner string Resound the flights of thy seraphic wing? When great Elijah in the fiery car, Flam’d visible to heav’n, a living star, A seer remain’d to thunder what he knew, And with his mantle caught his spirit too.
Wit, fancy, fire, and elegance, have long Been lost in vicious or ignoble song: Sunk from the chastely grand, the pure sublime, They flatter’d wealth and pow’r, or murder’d time. ‘Tis thine their devious lustre to reduce, To prove their noblest pow’r, their genuine use; From earth-born fumes to clear their tainted flame, And point their flight to heav’n — from whence they came.
O more than bard in prose! to whom belong, Harmonious style and thought, in rhymeless song; Oft, by thy friendly conduct, let me tread The softly whispering mansions of the dead: Where the grim form, calcining hinds and lords, Grins at each fond distinction pride records. Dumb, with immortal energy they teach; Lifeless, they threaten; mould’ring as they preach To each succeeding age, through every clime, The span of life and endless round of time: Hence may propitious melancholy flow, And safety find m« in the vaults of woe.
xiv VERSES TO MR. HERVEY,
While ev’ry virtue forms thy mental feast, I glow with fair sincerity at least; I feel (thy face unknown) thy heart refin’d, And taste, with bliss, the beauties of thy mind; Collecting clearly, through thy sacred plan, What reverence of God! what love to man! — O! when at last our deathless forms shall rise, And flow’rs and stars desist to moralize; Shall then my soul, by thine inform’d, survey, And bear the splendors of essential day? But while my thoughts indulge the glorious scope, (My utmost worth beneath my humblest hope) Conscience, or some exhorting angel, cries, ‘No lazy wishes reach above the skies. Would you indeed the perfect scenes survey, And share the triumphs of unbounded day; His love-diffusive life with ardor live, And die like this divine contemplative.’ Loudon, July 9, 1748.
BY A PHYSICIAN.
TO form the taste, and raise the nobler part, To mend the morals, and to warm the heart; To trace the genial source, we nature call, And prove the God of nature friend of all; Hervey for this his mental landscape drew, And sketch’d the whole creation out to view. Th’ enamell’d bloom, and variegated rlow’r, Whose crimson changes with the changing hour; The humble shrub, whose fragrance scents the morn, With buds disclosing to the early dawn; The oaks that grace Britannia’s mountains side, And spicy Lebanon’s superior * pride;
* The cedar.
ON HIS MEDITATIONS. xv
All loudly sov’reigu excellence proclaim,
And animated worlds confess the same.
The azure fields that form th’ extended sky, The planetary globes that roll on high, And solar orbs, of proudest blaze, combine, To act subservient to the great design; Men, angels, seraphs, join the gen’ral voice, And in the Lord of nature all rejoice.
His, the grey winter’s venerable guise, Its shrouded glories, and instructive skies*; His the snow’s plumes that brood the sick’ning
blade; His the bright pendant that impearls the glade; The waving forest, or the whisp’ring brake; The surging billow, or the sleeping lake. The same, who pours the beauties of the spring, Or mounts the whirlwind’s desolating wing; The same, who smiles in nature’s peaceful form, Frowns in the tempest, and directs the storm.
‘Tis thine, bright teacher, to improve the age; ‘Tis thine, whose life’s a comment on thy page. Thy happy page! whose periods sweetly flow, Whose figures charm us, and whose colours glow. Where artless piety pervades the whole, Refines the genius, and exalts the soul. For let the witling argue all he can, It is religion still that makes the man. [bright; ‘lis this, ray friend, that streaks our morning ‘Tis this, that gilds the horrors of our night. When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few; When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue; ‘Tis this, that wards the blow, or stills the smart; Disarms affliction, or repels its dart; Within the breast bids purest rapture rise; Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies.
When the storm thickens and the thunder rolls, When the earth trembles to th’ affrighted poles;
* Referring to the Winter-Piece.
xvi VERSES TO MR. HERVEY,
The virtuous mind, nor doubts nor fears assail; For storms are zephyrs, or a gentler gale.
And when disease obstructs the lab’ring breath, When the heart sickens, and each pulse is death; E’en then religion shall sustain the just, Grace their last moments, nor desert their dust.
Aug. 5, 1748.
AS some new star attracts th’ admiring sight,
His splendors pouring through the fields of light,
Whole nights, delighted with th’ unusual rays,
On the fair heav’nly visitant we gaze:
So thy fam’d volumes sweet surprise impart,
Mark’d by all eyes, and felt in ev’ry heart.
Nature inform’d by thee, new paths has trod,
And rises, here, a preacher for her God;
By fancy’s aids mysterious heights she tries,
And lures us by our senses, to the skies.
To deck thy style collected graces throng,
Bold as the pencil’s tints, yet soft as song.
In themes, how rich thy vein! how pure thy choice!
Transcripts of truths, own’d clear from Scripture’s
Thy judgment these, and piety attest, [voice:
Transcripts — read only fairer in thy breast.
There, what thy works would show, we best may see,
And all they teach in doctrine, lives in thee.
Oh ! — might they live! Our prayers their strife
engage; But thy fix’d languors yield us sad presage. In vain skill’d med’cine tries her healing art; Disease, long foe, entrenches at thy heart. Yet on new labors still thy mind is prone, For a world’s good too thoughtless of thy own. Active, like day’s kind orb, life’s course you run, Its sphere still glorious, though a setting sun. Redemption opes thee wide her healing plan, Health’s only balm, her sov’reign’st gift to man.
ON HIS MEDITATIONS. xvsi
Themes sweet like these thy ardors, fresh, excite: Warm at the soul, they nerve thy hand to write; Make thy try’d virtues in their charms appear, Patience, rais’d hope, firm faith, and love sincere; Like a big constellation, bright they glow, And beam out lovelier by thy night of woe.
Known were thy merits to the public long, Ere own’d thus feebly in my humble song. Damp’d are my fires; my heart dark cares depress; A heart, too feeling from its own distress. Proud on thy friendship, yet to build my fame, I gain’d my page * a sanction from thy name. Weak these returns (by gratitude though led) Where mine shall in thy fav’rite leaves be read. Yet, o’er my conscious meanness hope prevails y Love gives me merit, where my genius fails. On its strong base my small desert I raise, Averse to flatt’ry, as unskill’d to praise.
MOSES BROWNE.
Mile-End Green,
Feb. 23, 1749.
WHENCE flow these solemn sounds? this rapturous strain? Cherubic notes my wond’ring ear detain! Yet ’tis a mortal’s voice: ’tis Ilervey sings: Sublime he soars on Contemplation’s wings: In ev’ry period breathes ecstatic thought. Hervey, ’twas He&v’n thy sacred lessons taught. Celestial visions bless thy studious hours, Thy lonely walks, and thy sequester’d bow’rs. What fav’ring power, dispensing secret aids, Thy cavern’d cell, thy curtain’d couch, pervades? Still hov’ring near, observant of thy themes, In whispers prompts thee, or inspires thy dreams.
* Sunday Thoughts.
xviii VERSES TO MR. HERVEY,
Jesus! effulgence of paternal light! Ineffably divine! supremely bright! Whose energy according worlds attest, Kindled these ardors in thy glowing breast. We catch thy flame, as we thy page peruse; And faith in every object Jesus views. We in the blooming breathing garden trace Somewhat — like emanations of his grace: Yet must all sweetness and all beauty yield, Idume’s grove, and Sharon’s flow’ry field, Compar’d with Jesus: meanly, meanly shows The brightest lily, faint the loveliest rose.
Divine instructor! lead through midnight glooms, To moralizing stars, and preaching tombs: Through the still void a Saviour’s voice shall break, A ray from Jacob’s Star the darkness streak: To him the fairest scenes their lustre owe; His cov’nant brightens the celestial bow, His vast benevolence profusely spreads The yellow harvest, and the verdant meads.
Thy pupil, Hervey, a Redeemer finds In boundless oceans, and in viewless winds: He reins at will the furious blast, and guides The rending tempests, and the roaring tides. O give, my soul, thy welfare to his trust: Who rais’d the world, can raise thy sleeping dust! He will, lie will, when nature’s course is run, Midst falling stars, and an extinguish’d sun: He will with myriads of his saints appear. O may I join them, though the meanest there!
Though nearer to the throne my Hervey sings; Though I at humbler distance strike the strings; Yet both shall mingle in the same employ, Both drink the fulness of eternal joy.
JOHN DUICK.
Clerkenwell-Green,
Feb. 24, 1749-50.
ON HIS MEDITATIONS. xi
WHAT numbers of our race survey
The monarch of the golden day,
Night’s ample canopy unfurl’d,
In gloomy grandeur round the world,
The earth in spring’s embroidery drest,
And ocean’s ever-working breast!
And still no grateful honors rise
To him who spread the spacious skies,
Who hung this air-suspended ball,
And lives, and reigns, and shines, in all!
To chase our sensual fogs away,
And bright to pour th’ eternal ray
Of Deity inscrib’d around
Wide nature to her utmost bound,
Is Hervey’s task: and well his skill
Celestial can the task fulfil:
Ascending from these scenes below,
Ardent the Maker’s praise to show,
His sacred Contemplations soar,
And teach our wonder to adore.
Now he surveys the realms beneath,
The realms of horror and of death;
Now entertains his vernal hours
In flow’ry walks, and blooming bow’rs;
Now hails the black-brow’d night, that brings
Ethereal dews upon her wings;
Now marks the planets, as they roll
On burning axles round the pole:
While tombs, and flow’rs, and shades, and stars,
Unveil their sacred characters
Of justice, wisdom, pow’r, and love;
And lift the soul to realms above,
Where dwells the God, in glory crown’d,
Who sends his boundless influence round.
So Jacob, in his blissful dreams,
Array’d in heav’n’s refulgent beams,
Saw from the ground a scale arise,
Whose summit mingled with the skies;
xx VERSES TO MR. IIERVEY,
Angels were pleas’d to pass the road,
The stage to earth, and path to God.
Hervey, proceed: for nature yields
Fresh treasure in her ample fields;
And in seraphic ecstasy
Still bear us to the throne on high.
Ocean’s wild wonders next explore,
His changing scenes, and secret store;
Or let dire earthquake claim thy toil,
Earthquake, that shakes a guilty isle.
So, if small things may shadow forth,
Dear man, thy labours, and thy worth,
The bee upon the rlow’ry lawn,
Imbibes the lucid drops of dawn,
Works them in his mysterious mould,
And turns the common dew to gold.
THOMAS GIBBONS.
London,
May 26, 1750.
DELIGHTFUL author! whom the saints inspire!
And whisp’ring angels with their ardors fire;
From youth like mine, wilt thou accept of praise?
Or smile with candor on a stripling’s lays?
My little laurel (but a shoot at most)
Has hardly more than one small wreath to boast.
Such as it is — (ah! might it worthier be!)
Its scanty foliage all is due to thee.
Oh! if, amongst the honours of thy brow,
This slender circlet may but humbly grow:
If its faint verdure haply may find place —
A foil to others — though its own disgrace;
Accept it, Hervey, from a heart sincere,
And, for the giver’s sake, — the tribute wear.
Thy soul-improving works perus’d, what tongue Can hold from praise, or check th’ applausive song?
ON HIS MEDITATIONS. xxi
But ah! from whence shall gratitude obtain Language that may its glowing zeal explain? How to such wondrous worth adapt a strain? Describ’d by thee, cold sepulchres can charm; Storms calm the soul; and freezing winter warm. Clear’d from her gloomy shades, we view pale night Surrounded with a blaze of mental light. Lo! where she comes! all silent! pensive! slow! On her dark robe unnumber’d meteors glow! High on her head a starry crown she wears! Bright in her hand the lamp of reason bears! Smiling, — behold! she points the soul to heav’n, And bids the weeping sinner be forgiven!
But when thy fancy shifts the solemn scene, And ruddy morning gilds the cheerful green; With sudden joy we view the prospect chang’d, And blushing sweets in beauteous order rang’d. We aee the violets, smell the dewy rose, And each perfume that from the woodbine flows: A boundless perspective there greets our eyes; Kich vales descend, and verdant mountains rise; The shepherds’ cottages, the rural folds; All, that thy art describes, the eye beholds!
Amazing limner! whence this matchless pow’r? Thy work ’s a garden ! — ev’ry word a flow’r! Thy lovely tints almost the bloom excel, And none but nature’s self can paint so well!
Hail, holy man ! — henceforth thy work shall stand (Like some fair column by a master-hand, Which, whilst it props, adorns the tow’ring pile) At once to grace, and elevate our isle: Though simple, lofty; though majestic, plain; Whose bold design the rules of art restrain: In which the nicest eye sees nothing wrong: Though polish’d, just; and elegant, though strong.
ST. GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
July 24,1750.
xxii VERSES TO MR. HERVEV,
IN pleasure’s lap the muses long have lain, And hung, attentive, on her siren strain: Still toils the bard beneath some weak design, And puny thought but haltp along the line: Or tuneful nothings, stealing on the mind, Melt into air, nor leave a trace behind. While to thy rapt’rous prose, we feel, belong The strength of wisdom, and the voice of song: This lifts the torch of sacred truth on high, And points the captives to their native sky.
How false the joys, which earth or sense inspires, That clog the soul, and damp her purer fires; Truths, which thy solemn scenes, my friend, declare Whose glowing colours paint us as we are. Yet not morosely stern, nor idly gay, Dull melancholy reigns, or trifles sway; 111 would the strains of levity befit, And sullen gloom but sadden all thy wit: Truth, judgment, sense, imagination join; And ev’ry muse, and ev’ry grace, is thine. Religion prompting the true end of man, Conspiring genius executes the plan; Strong to convince, and elegant to charm, Plaintive to melt, or passionate to warm. Rais’d by degrees, we elevate our aim; And grow immortal as we catch thy flame; True piety informs our languid hearts, And all the vicious, and the vain, departs. So, when foul spreading fogs creep slowly on, Blot the fair morn, and hide the golden sun; Ardent he pours the boundless blaze of day, Rides through the sky, and shines the mist away. O, had it been the Almighty’s gracious will, That I had shar’d a portion of thy skill; Had this poor breast receiv’d the heav’nly beam, Which spreads its lustre through thy various theme; That speaks deep lessons from the silent tomb, And crowns thy garden with fresh springing bloom;
ON HIS MEDITATIONS. xxiii
Or, piercing through creation’s ample whole, Now soothes the night, or gilds the starry pole; Or marks how winter calls her howling train, Her snows and storms, that desolate the plain; With thee the muse should trace the pleasing road, That leads from nature up to nature’s God; Humble to learn, and, as she knows the more, Glad to obey, and happy to adore.
PETER WHALLEY.
Northampton,
August 25, 1750.