Classic Poem

When plac'd within the consecrated aisle,
In pensive solitude I sat a while;
At length with all the grace that Heav'n inspires,
All that solemnity the Church requires,
Began the sacred order of the day;
The Reverend R — — D did each truth convey,
With such an emphasis as must impart
A sacred pleasure to each pious heart,
With such a cadence he dismiss'd each clause,
As should enforce a God'S eternal laws.

Not as some Priests, who run o'er ev'ry pray'r,
As tho' no truth, or soul, or God were there;
The giddy hearer enters gay and vain,
And unaffected leaves the Church again;
While lesser truths deliver'd on the stage,
Or even fictions will each mind engage,
Because the player labours through his part,
To claim attention, and affect the heart.

If in a tragic character he moves,
And treats of deaths, or disappointed loves,
Then all the horrors consequent on death,
Dart from his eyes, and speak in ev'ry breath;
Does he th' afflicted lover personate,
Then all that softer passion can create,
Solicitude — love — anguish — grief — despair,
Yea ev'ry sigh, and languid look is there,
'Till each spectator's eyes with tears o'erflow,
And thus concludes this scene of fancy'd woe.

But truths eternal, sacred, and divine,
Where goodness, majesty, and justice shine;
Yea truths on which our future hopes depend,
Truths which the most exalted mind transcend;
That awful tragedy in which a God
Pray'd, agoniz'd, & bath'd the ground with blood,
That tragedy from which the Sun withdrew,
Nor wou'd his agonizing Maker view;
That love — stupendous love — surpassing thought,
Which paid our ransom, tho'so dearly bought.
These truths sublime the audience coldly hear,
Nor ever deign to drop a feeling tear;
While at the play each bosom heaves a sigh,
Lo! in the Church unmov'd they fit, — But why?
The Priest to whom the embassy is giv'n,
Who is the high ambassador for Heav'n,
Treats sacred truth with cold indifference,
As tho' 'twere fiction, or impertinence.
Celestial themes, that move a seraph's lyre,
Droop on his tongue, and on his lips expire;
While the wise actor aims by his address,
Each fiction as undoubted truth t'impress.
Would those Divines, whom love cannot induce,
Whose languid hearts no ardor can diffuse,
(Whose feet, perhaps, the church wou'd ne'er frequent,
If not inspir'd by her emolument,)
Would even gain instruction from the stage,
By any means their audience to engage.
Lest months and years should run their ample round,
And when the Master comes, no fruit be found,
No prodigal brought home, no sin subdu'd,
No Saint advanc'd in grace, nor mind renew'd
All's barren ground, when an incensed God
Will from the Priest require his people's blood.