On BARCLAY's Apology for the Quakers. Matthew Green Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.001 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. I. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 153-157. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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On BARCLAY's Apology for the Quakers . By the Same . THESE sheets primaeval doctrines yield , Where revelation is reveal'd : Soul-phlegm from literal feeding bred , Systems lethargick to the head They purge , and yield a diet thin , That turns to gospel-chyle within . Truth sublimate may here be seen Extracted from the parts terrene . In these is shewn , how men obtain What of Prometheus poets feign : To scripture-plainness dress is brought , And speech , apparel to the thought . They hiss from instinct at red coats , And war , whose work is cutting throats , Forbid , and press the law of love : Breathing the spirit of the dove . Lucrative doctrines they detest , As manufactur'd by the priest ; And throw down turnpikes , where we pay For stuff , which never mends the way ; And tythes , a Jewish tax , reduce , And frank the gospel for our use . They sable standing armies break ; But the militia useful make : Since all unhir'd may preach and pray , Taught by these rules as well as they ; Rules , which , when truths themselves reveal , Bid us to follow what we feel . The world can't hear the small still voice , Such is its bustle and its noise ; Reason the proclamation reads , But not one riot passion heeds . Wealth , honour , power the graces are , Which here below our homage share : They , if one votary they find To mistress more divine inclin'd , In truth's pursuit to cause delay Throw golden apples in his way . Place me , O heav'n , in some retreat There let the serious death-watch beat , There let me self in silence shun , To feel thy will , which should be done . Then comes the Spirit to our hut , When fast the senses' doors are shut ; For so divine and pure a guest The emptiest rooms are furnish'd best . O Contemplation ! air serene From damps of sense , and fogs of spleen ! Pure mount of thought ! thrice holy ground , Where grace , when waited for , is found . Here 'tis the soul feels sudden youth , And meets exulting , virgin Truth ; Here , like a breeze of gentlest kind , Impulses rustle thro' the mind ; Here shines that light with glowing face , The fuse divine , that kindles grace ; Which , if we trim our lamps , will last , Till darkness be by dying past , And then goes out at end of night , Extinguish'd by superior light . Ah me ! the heats and colds of life , Pleasure's and pain's eternal strife , Breed stormy passions , which confin'd , Shake , like th' Aeolian cave , the mind ; And raise despair , my lamp can last , Plac'd where they drive the furious blast . False eloquence , big empty sound , Like showers , that rush upon the ground , Little beneath the surface goes , All streams along and muddy flows . This sinks , and swells the buried grain , And fructifies like southern rain . His art , well hid in mild discourse , Exerts persuasion's winning force , And nervates so the good design , That king Agrippa's case is mine . Well-natur'd , happy shade , forgive ! Like you I think , but cannot live . Thy scheme requires the world's contempt , That , from dependence life exempt ; And constitution fram'd so strong , This world's worst climate cannot wrong . Not such my lot , not Fortune's brat , I live by pulling off the hat ; Compell'd by station every hour To bow to images of power ; And , in life's busy scenes immers'd , See better things , and do the worst . Eloquent Want , whose reasons sway , And make ten thousand truths give way , While I your scheme with pleasure trace , Draws near , and stares me in the face . Consider well your state , she cries , Like others kneel , that you may rise ; Hold doctrines , by no scruples vex'd , To which preferment is annex'd , Nor madly prove , where all depends , Idolatry upon your friends . See , how you like my rueful face , Such you must wear , if out of place . Crack'd is your brain to turn recluse Without one farthing out at use . They , who have lands , and safe bank-stock , With faith so founded on a rock , May give a rich invention ease , And construe scripture how they please . The honour'd prophet , that of old Us'd heav'n's high counsels to unfold , Did , more than courier angels , greet The crows , that brought him bread and meat .