CHARITY.

CHARITY . Quâ nihil majus meliusve terris Fata donavere , boni{que} divi , Nec dabunt , quamvis redeant in aurum Tempora priscum . HOR. Lib. IV . Ode II . FAIREST and foremost of the train that wait On man's most dignified and happiest state , Whether we name thee Charity or love , Chief grace below , and all in all above , Prosper ( I press thee with a pow'rful plea ) A task I venture on , impell'd by thee : Oh never seen but in thy blest effects , Nor felt but in the soul that heav'n selects , Who seeks to praise thee , and to make thee known To other hearts , must have thee in his own . Come , prompt me with benevolent desires , Teach me to kindle at thy gentle fires , And though disgrac'd and slighted , to redeem A poet's name , by making thee the theme . God working ever on a social plan , By various ties attaches man to man : He made at first , though free and unconfin'd , One man the common father of the kind , That ev'ry tribe , though plac'd as he sees best , Where seas or desarts part them from the rest , Diff'ring in language , manners , or in face , Might feel themselves allied to all the race . When Cook — lamented , and with tears as just As ever mingled with heroic dust , Steer'd Britain's oak into a world unknown , And in his country's glory sought his own , Wherever he found man , to nature true , The rights of man were sacred in his view : He sooth'd with gifts and greeted with a smile The simple native of the new-found isle , He spurn'd the wretch that slighted or withstood The tender argument of kindred blood , Nor would endure that any should controul His free-born brethren of the southern pole . But though some nobler minds a law respect , That none shall with impunity neglect , In baser souls unnumber'd evils meet , To thwart its influence and its end defeat . While Cook is loved for savage lives he saved , See Cortez odious for a world enslaved ! Where wast thou then sweet Charity , where then Thou tutelary friend of helpless men ? Wast thou in Monkish cells and nunn'ries found , Or building hospitals on English ground ? No — Mammon makes the world his legatee Through fear not love , and heav'n abhors the fee : Wherever found ( and all men need thy care ) Nor age nor infancy could find thee there . The hand that siew 'till it could slay no more , Was glued to the sword-hilt with Indian gore ; Their prince as justly seated on his throne , As vain imperial Philip on his own , Trick'd out of all his royalty by art , That stripp'd him bare , and broke his honest heart , Died by the sentence of a shaven priest , For scorning what they taught him to detest . How dark the veil that intercepts the blaze Of heav'ns mysterious purposes and ways ; God stood not , though he seem'd to stand aloof , And at this hour the conqu'ror feels the proof . The wreath he won drew down an instant curse , The fretting plague is in the public purse , The canker'd spoil corrodes the pining state , Starved by that indolence their mines create . Oh could their antient Incas rise again , How would they take up Israel's taunting strain ! Art thou too fall'n Iberia , do we see The robber and the murth'rer weak as we ? Thou that hast wasted earth , and dared despise Alike the wrath and mercy of the skies , Thy pomp is in the grave , thy glory laid Low in the pits thine avarice has made . We come with joy from our eternal rest , To see th' oppressor in his turn oppress'd . Art thou the God the thunder of whose hand Roll'd over all our desolated land , Shook principalities and kingdoms down , And made the mountains tremble at his frown ? The sword shall light upon thy boasted pow'rs , And waste them , as thy sword has wasted ours . 'Tis thus Omnipotence his law fulfils , And vengeance executes what justice wills . Again — the band of commerce was design'd T' associate all the branches of mankind , And if a boundless plenty be the robe , Trade is the golden girdle of the globe : Wise to promote whatever end he means , God opens fruitful nature's various scenes , Each climate needs what other climes produce , And offers something to the gen'ral use ; No land but listens to the common call , And in return receives supply from all ; This genial intercourse and mutual aid , Cheers what were else an universal shade , Calls nature from her ivy-mantled den , And softens human rockwork into men . Ingenious Art with her expressive face Steps forth to fashion and refine the race , Not only fills necessity's demand , But overcharges her capacious hand ; Capricious taste itself can crave no more , Than she supplies from her abounding store ; She strikes out all that luxury can ask , And gains new vigour at her endless task . Hers is the spacious arch , the shapely spire , The painters pencil and the poets lyre ; From her the canvass borrows light and shade , And verse more lasting , hues that never fade . She guides the finger o'er the dancing keys , Gives difficulty all the grace of ease , And pours a torrent of sweet notes around , Fast as the thirsting ear can drink the sound . These are the gifts of art , and art thrives most Where commerce has enrich'd the busy coast : He catches all improvements in his flight , Spreads foreign wonders in his country's sight , Imports what others have invented well , And stirs his own to match them , or excel . 'Tis thus reciprocating each with each , Alternately the nations learn and teach ; While Providence enjoins to ev'ry soul An union with the vast terraqueous whole . Heav'n speed the canvass gallantly unfurl'd To furnish and accommodate a world ; To give the Pole the produce of the sun , And knit th' unsocial climates into one . — Soft airs and gentle heavings of the wave Impel the fleet whose errand is to save , To succour wasted regions , and replace The smile of opulence in sorrow's face . — Let nothing adverse , nothing unforeseen , Impede the bark that plows the deep serene , Charg'd with a freight transcending in its worth The gems of India , nature's rarest birth , That flies like Gabriel on his Lord's commands , An herald of God's love , to pagan lands . — But ah ! what wish can prosper , or what pray'r , For merchants rich in cargoes of despair , Who drive a loathsome traffic , gage and span , And buy the muscles and the bones of man ? The tender ties of father , husband , friend , All bonds of nature in that moment end , And each endures while yet he draws his breath , A stroke as fatal as the scythe of death . The sable warrior , frantic with regret Of her he loves , and never can forget , Loses in tears the far receding shore , But not the thought that they must meet no more ; Depriv'd of her and freedom at a blow , What has he left that he can yet forego ? Yes , to deep sadness sullenly resign'd , He feels his body's bondage in his mind , Puts off his gen'rous nature , and to suit His manners with his fate , puts on the brute . Oh most degrading of all ills that wait On man , a mourner in his best estate ! All other sorrows virtue may endure , And find submission more than half a cure ; Grief is itself a med'cine , and bestow'd T' improve the fortitude that bears the load , To teach the wand'rer , as his woes encrease , The path of wisdom , all whose paths are peace . But slav'ry ! — virtue dreads it as her grave , Patience itself is meanness in a slave : Or if the will and sovereignty of God Bid suffer it awhile , and kiss the rod , Wait for the dawning of a brighter day , And snap the chain the moment when you may . Nature imprints upon whate'er we see That has a heart and life in it , be free ; The beasts are chartered — neither age nor force Can quell the love of freedom in a horse : He breaks the cord that held him at the rack , And conscious of an unincumber'd back , Snuffs up the morning air , forgets the rein , Loose fly his forelock and his ample mane , Responsive to the distant neigh he neighs , No stops , till overleaping all delays , He finds the pasture where his fellows graze . Canst thou , and honour'd with a Christian name , Buy what is woman-born , and feel no shame ? Trade in the blood of innocence , and plead Expedience as a warrant for the deed ? So may the wolf whom famine has made bold To quit the forest and invade the fold ; So may the ruffian who with ghostly glide , Dagger in hand , steals close to your bed-side ; Not he , but his emergence forc'd the door , He found it inconvenient to be poor . Has God then giv'n its sweetness to the cane Unless his laws be trampled on — in vain ? Built a brave world , which cannot yet subsist , Unless his right to rule it be dismiss'd ? Impudent blasphemy ! so folly pleads , And av'rice being judge , with ease succeeds . But grant the plea , and let it stand for just , That man make man his prey , because he must , Still there is room for pity to abate And sooth the sorrows of so sad a state . A Briton knows , or if he knows it not , The Scripture plac'd within his reach , he ought , That souls have no discriminating hue , Alike important in their Maker's view , That none are free from blemish since the fall , And love divine has paid one price for all . The wretch that works and weeps without relief , Has one that notices his silent grief , He from whose hands alone all pow'r proceeds , Ranks its abuse among the foulest deeds , Considers all injustice with a frown , But marks the man that treads his fellow down . Begone , the whip and bell in that hard hand , Are hateful ensigns of usurp'd command , Not Mexico could purchase kings a claim To scourge him , weariness his only blame . Remember , heav'n has an avenging rod ; To smite the poor is treason against God . Trouble is grudgingly and hardly brook'd , While life's sublimest joys are overlook'd . We wander o'er a sun-burnt thirsty soil Murm'ring and weary of our daily toil , Forget t' enjoy the palm-tree's offer'd shade , Or taste the fountain in the neighb'ring glade : Else who would lose that had the pow'r t' improve Th' occasion of transmuting fear to love ? Oh 'tis a godlike privilege to save , And he that scorns it is himself a slave . — Inform his mind , one flash of heav'nly day Would heal his heart and melt his chains away ; ' Beauty for ashes ' is a gift indeed , And slaves , by truth enlarg'd , are doubly freed : Then would he say , submissive at thy feet , While gratitude and love made service sweet , My dear deliv'rer out of hopeless night , Whose bounty bought me but to give me light , I was a bondman on my native plain , Sin forg'd , and ignorance made fast the chain ; Thy lips have shed instruction as the dew , Taught me what path to shun , and what pursue ; Farewell my former joys ! I sigh no more For Africa's once lov'd , benighted shore , Serving a benefactor I am free , At my best home if not exiled from thee . Some men make gain a fountain , whence proceeds A stream of lib'ral and heroic deeds , The swell of pity , not to be confin'd Within the scanty limits of the mind , Disdains the bank , and throws the golden sands , A rich deposit , on the bord'ring lands : These have an ear for his paternal call , Who makes some rich for the supply of all , God's gift with pleasure in his praise employ , And THORNTON is familiar with the joy . Oh could I worship aught beneath the skies , That earth hath seen or fancy can devise , Thine altar , sacred liberty , should stand , Built by no mercenary vulgar hand , With fragrant turf and flow'rs as wild and fair As ever dress'd a bank or scented summer air . Duely as ever on the mountain's height The peep of morning shed a dawning light ; Again , when evening in her sober vest Drew the grey curtain of the fading west , My soul should yield thee willing thanks and praise For the chief blessings of my fairest days : But that were sacrilege — praise is not thine , But his who gave thee and preserves thee mine : Else I would say , and as I spake , bid fly A captive bird into the boundless sky , This triple realm adores thee — thou art come From Sparta hither , and art here at home ; We feel thy force still active , at this hour Enjoy immunity from priestly pow'r , While conscience , happier than in antient years , Owns no superior but the God she fears . Propitious spirit ! yet expunge a wrong Thy rights have suffer'd , and our land , too long , Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts that share The fears and hopes of a commercial care ; Prisons expect the wicked , and were built To bind the lawless and to punish guilt , But shipwreck , earthquake , battle , fire and flood , Are mighty mischiefs , not to be withstood , And honest merit stands on slipp'ry ground , Where covert guile and artifice abound : Let just restraint for public peace design'd , Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind , The foe of virtue has no claim to thee , But let insolvent innocence go free . Patron , of else the most despised of men , Accept the tribute of a stranger's pen ; Verse , like the laurel its immortal meed , Should be the guerdon of a noble deed , I may alarm thee , but I fear the shame ( Charity chosen as my theme and aim ) I must incur , forgetting HOWARD'S name . Blest with all wealth can give thee , to resign Joys doubly sweet to feelings quick as thine , To quit the bliss thy rural scenes bestow , To seek a nobler amidst scenes of woe , To traverse seas , range kingdoms , and bring home Not the proud monuments of Greece or Rome , But knowledge such as only dungeons teach , And only sympathy like thine could reach ; That grief , sequester'd from the public stage , Might smooth her feathers and enjoy her cage , Speaks a divine ambition , and a zeal The boldest patriot might be proud to feel . Oh that the voice of clamor and debate , That pleads for peace 'till it disturbs the state , Were hush'd in favour of thy gen'rous plea , The poor thy clients , and heaven's smile thy fee . Philosophy that does not dream or stray , Walks arm in arm with nature all his way , Compasses earth , dives into it , ascends Whatever steep enquiry recommends , Sees planetary wonders smoothly roll Round other systems under her controll , Drinks wisdom at the milky stream of light That cheers the silent journey of the night , And brings at his return a bosom charged , With rich instruction , and a soul enlarged . The treasured sweets of the capacious plan That heav'n spreads wide before the view of man , All prompt his pleased pursuit , and to pursue Still prompt him , with a pleasure always new : He too has a connecting pow'r , and draws Man to the center of the common cause , Aiding a dubious and deficient sight With a new medium and a purer light . All truth is precious if not all divine , And what dilates the pow'rs must needs refine , He reads the skies , and watching ev'ry change , Provides the faculties an ampler range , And wins mankind , as his attempts prevail , A proudcer station on the gen'ral scale . But reason still unless divinely taught , Whate'er she learns , learns nothing as she ought ; The lamp of revelation only , shows , What human wisdom cannot but oppose , That man in nature's richest mantle clad , And graced with all philosophy can add , Though fair without , and luminous within , Is still the progeny and heir of sin . Thus taught down falls the plumage of his pride , He feels his need of an unerring guide , And knows that falling he shall rise no more , Unless the pow'r that bade him stand , restore . This is indeed philosophy ; this known , Makes wisdom , worthy of the name , his own ; And without this , whatever he discuss , Whether the space between the stars and us , Whether he measure earth , compute the sea , Weigh sunbeams , carve a fly , or spit a flea , The solemn trifler with his boasted skill Toils much , and is a solemn trifler still , Blind was he born , and his misguided eyes Grown dim in trifling studies , blind he dies . Self-knowledge truly learn'd , of course implies The rich possession of a nobler prize , For self to self , and God to man reveal'd , ( Two themes to nature's eye for ever seal'd ) Are taught by rays that fly with equal pace From the same center of enlight'ning-grace . Here stay thy foot , how copious and how clear Th' o'erflowing well of Charity springs here ! Hark ! 'tis the music of a thousand rills , Some through the groves , some down the sloping hills , Winding a secret or an open course , And all supplied from an eternal source . The ties of nature do but feebly bind , And commerce partially reclaims mankind , Philosophy without his heav'nly guide , May blow up self-conceit and nourish pride , But while his province is the reas'ning part , Has still a veil of midnight on his heart : 'Tis truth divine exhibited on earth , Gives Charity her being and her birth . Suppose ( when thought is warm and fancy flows , What will not argument sometimes suppose ) An isle possess'd by creatures of our kind , Endued with reason , yet by nature blind . Let supposition lend her aid once more , And land some grave optician on the shore , He claps his lens , if haply they may see , Close to the part where vision ought to be , But finds that though his tubes assist the sight , They cannot give it , or make darkness light . He reads wise lectures , and describes aloud A sense they know not , to the wond'ring crowd , He talks of light and the prismatic hues , As men of depth in erudition use , But all he gains for his harangue is — Well — What monstrous lies some travellers will tell . The soul whose sight all-quick'ning grace renews , Takes the resemblance of the good she views , As di'monds stript of their opaque disguise , Reflect the noon-day glory of the skies . She speaks of him , her author , guardian , friend , Whose love knew no beginning , knows no end , In language warm as all that love inspires , And in the glow of her intense desires Pants to communicate her noble fires . She sees a world stark blind to what employs Her eager thought , and feeds her flowing joys , Though wisdom hail them , heedless of her call , Flies to save some , and feels a pang for all : Herself as weak as her support is strong , She feels that frailty she denied so long , And from a knowledge of her own disease , Learns to compassionate the sick she sees . Here see , acquitted of all vain pretence , The reign of genuine Charity commence ; Though scorn repay her sympathetic tears , She still is kind , and still she perseveres ; The truth she loves , a sightless world blaspheme , 'Tis childish dotage , a delirious dream , The danger they discern not , they deny , Laugh at their only remedy , and die : But still a soul thus touch'd , can never cease Whoever threatens war to speak of peace , Pure in her aim and in her temper mild , Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child , She makes excuses where she might condemn , Reviled by those that hate her , prays for them ; Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast , The worst suggested , she believes the best ; Not soon provoked , however stung and teaz'd , And if perhaps made angry , soon appeas'd , She rather waves than will dispute her right , And injur'd , makes forgiveness her delight . Such was the pourtrait an apostle drew , The bright original was one he knew , Heav'n held his hand , the likeness must be true . When one that holds communion with the skies , Has filled his urn where these pure waters rise , And once more mingles with us meaner things , 'Tis ev'n as if an angel shook his wings ; Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide , That tells us whence his treasures are supplied . So when a ship well freighted with the stores The sun matures on India's spicy shores , Has dropt her anchor and her canvas furl'd , In some safe haven of our western world , 'Twere vain enquiry to what port she went , The gale informs us , laden with the scent . Some seek , when queazy conscience has its qualms , To lull the painful malady with alms ; But charity not feign'd , intends alone Another's good — theirs centers in their own ; And too short-lived to reach the realms of peace , Must cease for ever when the poor shall cease . Flavia , most tender of her own good name , Is rather careless of a sister's fame , Her superfluity the poor supplies , But if she touch a character , it dies . The seeming virtue weigh'd against the vice , She deems all safe , for she has paid the price , No charity but alms aught values she , Except in porcelain on her mantle-tree . How many deeds with which the world has rung , From pride in league with ignorance have sprung ? But God o'erules all human follies still , And bends the tough materials to his will . A conflagration or a wintry flood , Has left some hundreds without home or food , Extravagance and av'rice shall subscribe , While fame and self-complacence are the bribe . The brief proclaim'd , it visits ev'ry pew , But first the 'Squire's , a compliment but due : With slow deliberation he unties His glitt'ring purse , that envy of all eyes , And while the clerk just puzzles out the psalm , Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm , 'Till finding what he might have found before , A smaller piece amidst the precious store , Pinch'd close between his finger and his thumb , He half exhibits , and then drops the sum ; Gold to be sure ! — throughout the town 'tis told How the good 'Squire gives never less than gold . From motives such as his , though not the best , Springs in due time supply for the distress'd , Not less effectual than what love bestows , Except that office clips it as it goes . But lest I seem to sin against a friend , And wound the grace I mean to recommend , ( Though vice derided with a just design Implies no trespass against love divine ) Once more I would adopt the graver stile , A teacher should be sparing of his smile . Unless a love of virtue light the flame , Satyr is more than those he brands , to blame , He hides behind a magisterial air His own offences , and strips others bare , Affects indeed a most humane concern That men if gently tutor'd will not learn , That muleish folly not to be reclaim'd By softer methods , must be made asham'd , But ( I might instance in St. Patrick's dean ) Too often rails to gratify his spleen . Most sat'rists are indeed a public scourge , Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge , Their acrid temper turns as soon as stirr'd The milk of their good purpose all to curd , Their zeal begotten as their works rehearse , By lean despair upon an empty purse ; The wild assassins start into the street , Prepar'd to poignard whomsoe'er they meet ; No skill in swordsmanship however just , Can be secure against a madman's thrust , And even virtue so unfairly match'd , Although immortal , may be prick'd or scratch'd . When scandal has new minted an old lie , Or tax'd invention for a fresh supply , 'Tis called a satyr , 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 dang'rous 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 ; Plung'd 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 tow'ring 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 , The cause of virtue could not be his view . At ev'ry 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 antient pow'r , Named with emphatic dignity , the tow'r , 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 ne'er 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 nurs'd , Fed by the love from which it rose at first , Thrives against hope and in the rudest scene , Storms but enliven its unfading green ; Exub'rant 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 bruis'd beneath his feet th' infernal pow'rs , Captivity led captive rose to claim The wreath he won so dearly , in our name , That thron'd above all height , he condescends To call the few that trust in him his friends , That in the heav'n of heav'ns , 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 , And still enlarg'd 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 accomplishments , 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 pow'r or cease , And ev'n 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 filled yet always poor , Might swing at ease behind his study door , No longer prey upon our annual rents , Nor 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 deceiv'd 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 flow'ry spray , In hopes to gain what else I must have lost , Th' attention pleasure has so much engross'd . But if unhappily deceiv'd I dream , And prove too weak for so divine a theme , Let Charity forgive me a mistake That zeal not vanity has chanc'd to make , And spare the poet for his subject sake .