To Mr. R— Robert Raikes (1736-1811), printer, philanthropist and early founder of Sunday schools in Gloucester in the 1780s. He was a subscriber to . , ON HIS Benevolent Scheme for rescuing Poor Children from Vice and Misery , BY PROMOTING SUNDAY SCHOOLS . O , R— ! my timid soul would fain aspire To rapture such as thine ; to the pure zeal Which fires thy soul in blest Religion's cause . Say , can I catch one saint , one glimmering spark , To warm my cheerless bosom ? Will the flame Which ever seeds thy fervency of soul , Illumine mine ? Ah , no ! on me 'twere lost ; My faculties , my poverty of thought , Wou'd ever disappoint the grand design , And render great commissions all abortive . Vain were the hope to save a ruin'd world ! Ev'n Jesu's sufferings ne'er convinc'd the whole ; Then shall an atom the fix'd axis move , And win a world from hell ? Thou greatly dar'st , Yet limited thy power ; stand forth , ye few ! You who wou'd give a lustre to your name , And prove the grand impression of Jehovah ; Who weep , like R— , the glory of your God , Defac'd , demolish'd , beauty trod in dust ; Leave not the wreck deserted on the beach , Where Ignorance , Vice , and loud-mouth'd Reprobation , Exulting yell , and wring the melting soul : O ! freeze , to hear the hoary-headed sinner , With ceaseless profanation , taint the air ; Grown old in dark stupidity , he treads , Fearless , tho' feeble ; on the verge of fate Sin leaves him not ; and innate flames of vice Still fiercely burn ; the fact exists in will : The last remain of life presents a gloom Which frights the shrinking soul ; lo ! back she starts , Struck with dire horror , loth to hear the sound , The dreadful summons of offended Heaven — She lingers — the strong blast to atoms rends The frame which held her . — O ! ye better souls , Ye nobler few , who slumber in your race , Tho' well begun , and forwarded with hope , Say , will you see a fellow-spirit lost , Thus swallow'd in the ever-yawning gulf , That frights the mental eye , and e'en appals The man who firmest stands , nor lend your aid To save him , as a soul once meant for Heaven ? O , think ! the coming hour will soon be yours ; Let not a form which bears your Maker's image Defeat the end of being : know 'tis yours , In heavenly tints to dip the infant soul ; To raise the new idea , lift it high , Ev'n to Jehovah's Throne : the ductile mind , Pliant as wax , shall wear the mould you give ; Sharp Gratitude you've call'd to life , shall cut , In cyphers deep , the now expanded heart ; And , ev'n beyond the chambers of the grave , The joyous spirit shall your records bear , To meet your eyes when trembling worlds expire . What then shall live , or stand in that dread hour , But acts like these , when panting spirits call For every little test to aid their plea ? May yours resound , supported in the blast By grateful Infants , and by ripen'd Man , To whom you gave perfection . Angels smile , And songs of glory shake the vault of Heaven . Not to the vain I lift my poor appeal , Who never yet have dar'd to own a soul , Or name a Deity with heart-felt joy ; 'Tis to the mind who feels like generous R— , Whose heart can mourn , whose manly eye can melt , At the dread thought of human souls destroy'd . What pen , tho' dipp'd in horror's deepest dye , Can justly paint the poor unletter'd tribe , Assembled in a groupe ? The florid youth , Robust , impetuous , ardent in his strength , Lively and bounding as the skipping roe , The blush of beauty blowing on his cheek ; Within , a strong epitome of hell ; There vices rage , and passions wildly roar ; Strong appetites , which never knew restraint , Scream for indulgence , till the soul distract , Seizes in haste the draught of poisons mix'd When sin began , and ruin'd nature fell ; The dire infusion stronger grows by time ; And still fermenting , sins on sins arise , In order horrible . Thus ever lost , The poor benighted soul ne'er hopes to light On Gilead's sovereign balm , its worth not known , Or long misus'd ; ah ! hapless , hapless state , Where Immortality itself is sick , And hopes annihilation . Dreadful thought ! Poor miserable refuge ! poorer still The soul who hopes to find it . O , befriend , Ere 'tis too late , the tender , budding mind , Now choak'd by ignorance ; cherish the spark , The particle of Godhead , which impels To good if nourish'd , if o'erwhelm'd must die ! Ye sacred few , who shudder at the sound Of blasphemy , breath'd from the tender lip Whose lisping accent Innocence shou'd guide , Whose heart shou'd white-rob'd Purity adorn : O , think , how lost the beauteous reprobate Of twelve or fourteen years , nurs'd up in sin ; On whose sweet form her bounteous Maker smil'd , And gave as the grand stroke of fair Creation : Her passions soft and gentle ; pure her thought , Her soul so Angel-like , it spoke perfection ; Eyes form'd to bend the stubborn breast of man To more than human softness ; accents mild To charm his ear , and sooth his sullen soul , When panting in the iron grasp of woe ! O , she was meant so perfect , fair , and good , That Angels with unusual ardour gaz'd , Bless'd the fair form , and hail'd the joyous hour ! But ah ! down , down she sinks , for ever lost , For ever tarnish'd , blasted in the bud ; The early falsehood points the flowing tongue , The artful leer deforms the eager eye ; The smile ost practis'd , deeply to deceive ; Each soft allurement Heaven so frankly gave , All , all , devoted to eternal shame : Charming in sin , too oft she meets her fate , So early , that the most obdurate weeps , And gives that pity she was form'd to raise . Awake , ye rich , that sleep ! awake to save ! And infants , yet unborn , in choral song , Shall bless the hand which form'd a social father , A father on whose lip instruction hangs , Who snatches from the burning flame the brand ! The poor illiterate , chill'd by freezing want , Within whose walls pale Penury still sits , With icy hand impressing every meal , Cannot divide his slender hard-earn'd mite Betwixt his bodily and mental wants ; The soul must go — for hunger loudly pleads , And Nature will be answer'd ; thus his race , Envelop'd , groping , sink in vulgar toils ; To eat and sleep includes the soul's best wish ; And mean deceit , and treacherous , low-phras'd guile , Fill the vast space for better purpose given . Oppress'd like you , so Amram's son once felt , O'erburthen'd with a gross inconstant race ; Fain wou'd ye to their promis'd Canaan guide These wretched wanderers , lead them to their rest , As nursing fathers bear the sucking babe ; Fain wou'd ye to the sheltering hive allure , And fix the swarm where endless pleasures flow . Not wishing to diminish a spirit of Religion , but in allusion to the Second Chapter of Numbers , Verse 17 ; " And I will take off that spirit which is upon thee , and I will put it upon them . " Take off , great God ! some portion of thy spirit , Too much for one weak form ; o'erpower'd he sinks , Yet glories in the flame ; and fainting thus , Wou'd lift a world to Heaven . Omniscient Power ! Bring forward yet thy seventy elect ! Bid them to thy great mandate fix their seal , And loudly sound — " Ye chosen , aid my people ; Guide them , I charge you , thro' the dreary wilds , Support the faint , and tell the lazy-blind , Who , mole-like , never saw , nor ever wish'd it ; O , tell them , 'tis in Mercy you are given ; That unto you I gave extensive souls , Great faculties , and ample means , to save Souls I thought worth creating . Then rejoice , That you are thus commission'd ; open'd fair To you the path of glory , while their souls Wander in darkness , and despair to find Salvation without help . To you I give The means ; then answer well your sacred charge . " Ye Heaven-attempting souls , where virtues lie Listless , inactive , waiting but the call Of great Jehovah , listen to his voice , A voice ne'er heard in vain ; hark ! hark ! it sounds From Misery's lowest shed ; the accent soft , The humble sigh , the infant's early tear , The husband's stifled , sympathetic groan , The mother's feelings , more than ever felt , Tho' borne in silence and in pensive mood . These are all shades in which the Godhead's seen ; Well felt those woes where great Religion sits On the house-top , and sheds her heavenly dews On the poor group ; — be't yours to fix her there . In dress like this , Omniscience softly tries Your friendly doors , and thus disguis'd , oft meets The stern repulse , and virtue-killing frown .