If pastors more than thrice five minutes preach,
Their sleepy flocks begin to yawn and stretch.
Never presume the name of God to bring
As sacred sanction to a trifling thing.
Before, or after sermon, hymns of praise
Exalt the soul, and true devotion raise.
In songs of wonder celebrate his name,
Who spread the skies, and built the starry frame:
Or thence descending view this globe below,
And praise the source of every bliss we know.
In ancient times, when heaven was to be prais'd,
Our humble ancestors their voices rais'd,
And hymns of thanks from grateful bosoms flow'd,
For ills prevented, or for good bestow'd:
But as the church increas'd in power and pride,
The pomp of found the want of sense supply'd;
Majestic organs then were taught to blow,
And plain religion grew a raree-show:
Strange ceremonious whims, a numerous race,
Were introduc'd, in truth's and virtue's place.
Mysterious turnpikes block up heaven's highway,
And, for a ticket, we our reason pay.
These superstitions quickly introduce
Contempt, neglect, wild satire, and abuse;
Religion and its priests, by every fool
Were thought a jest, and turn'd to ridicule.
Some few indeed found where the medium lay,
And kept the coat but tore the fringe away.
Of preaching well if you expect the fame,
Let truth and virtue be your first great aim.
Your sacred function often call to mind,
And think how great the trust, to teach mankind:
'Tis yours in useful sermons to explain,
Both what we owe to God and what to man.
'Tis yours the charms of liberty to paint,
His country's love in every breast to plant;
Yours every social virtue to improve,
Justice, forbearance, charity, and love;
Yours too the private virtues to augment,
Of prudence, temperance, modesty, content:
When such the man, how amiable the priest;
Of all mankind the worthiest and the best.
Ticklish the point, I grant, and hard to find,
To please the various tempers of mankind.
Some love you should the crabbed points explain
Where texts with texts a dreadful war maintain:
Some love a new, and some the beaten path,
Morals please some, and others points of faith;
But he's the man, he's the admir'd divine,
In whose discourses truth and virtue join:
These are the sermons which will ever live,
By these our Tonsons and our Knaptons thrive;
How such are read, and prais'd, and how they fell,
Let Barrow's, Clarke's, and Butler's sermons tell.
Preachers should either make us good or wise,
Him that does neither, who but must despise?
If all your rules are useful, short and plain,
We soon shall learn them, and shall long retain?
But if on trifies you harangue, away
We turn our heads, and laugh at all you say.
But priests are men, and men are prone to err,
On common failings none should be severe:
All are not masters of the same good sense,
Nor blest with equal powers of eloquence.
'Tis true: and errors with an honest mind,
Will meet with easy pardon from mankind;
But who persists in wrong with stubborn pride,
Him all must censure, many will deride:
Yet few are judges of a fine discourse,
Can see its beauties, or can feel its force;
With equal pleasure some attentive fit,
To sober reasoning, and to shallow wit.
What then? because your audience most are fools,
Will you neglect all method, and all rules?
Or since the pulpit is a sacred place,
Where none dare contradict you to your face,
Will you presume to tell a thousand lies?
If so, we may forgive, but must despise.
In jingling Bev'ridge if I chance to see
One word of sense, I prize the rarity:
But if in Hocker, Sprar or Tillotson,
A thought unworthy of themselves is shown,
I grieve to see it; but 'tis no surprise,
The greatest men are not at all times wife.
Sermons like plays, some please us at the ear,
But never will a serious reading bear;
Some in the closet edify enough,
That from the pulpit seem'd but sorry stuff.
'Tis thus: there are, who by ill-preaching spoil
Young's pointed sense, or Atterbury's style;
Whilst others by the force of eloquence,
Make that seem fine, which scarce is common sense.
In every science, they that hope to rise,
Set great examples still before their eyes.
Young lawyers copy Murray where they can;
Physicians Mead, and surgeons Cheselden;
But all will pench, without the least pretence
To virtue, learning, art, or eloquence.
Why not? you cry: they plainly see, no doubt,
A priest may grow right-reverend without.
Preachers and preaching were at first design'd
For common benefit to all mankind.
Public and private virtues they explain'd,
To goodness courted, and from vice restrain'd:
Love, peace, and union breath'd in each discourse,
And their examples gave their precepts force.
From these good men, the priests and all their line
Were honour'd with the title of divine.
But soon their proud successors left this path,
Forsook plain morals for dark points of faith:
Till creeds on creeds the warring world inflam'd,
And all mankind, by different priests, were damn'd.
Some ask which is th' essential of a priest,
Virtue or learning? what they ask's a jest:
We daily see dull loads of reverend fat,
Without pretence to either this or that.
But who like Herring or like Hoadly shine,
Must with great learning real virtue join.
He who by preaching hopes to raise a name,
To no small excellence directs his aim.
On every noted preacher he must wait;
The voice, the look, the action imitate:
And when complete in style, and eloquence,
Must then crown all with learning and good sense.
But some with lazy pride disgrace the gown,
And never preach one sermon of their own;
'Tis easier to transcribe than to compose,
So all the week they eat, and drink, and doze.
As quacks with lying puffs the papers fill,
Or hand their own praise in a pocky bill,
Where empty boasts of much superior sense,
Draw from the cheated crowd their idle pence;
So the great H—nley hires for half-a-crown
A quack advertisement to tell the town
Of some strange point to be disputed on:
Where all who love the science of debate,
May hear themselves, or other coxcombs prate.
When dukes or noble lords a chaplain hire,
They first of his capacities inquire.
If stoutly qualify'd to drink and smoke,
If not too nice to hear an impious joke,
If tame enough to be the common jest,
This is a chaplain to his lordship's taste.
If bards to Pope indifferent verses show,
He is too honest not to tell them so.
This is obscure, he cries, and this too rough,
These trifling, or superfluous; strike them off.
How useful every word from such a friend!
But parsons are too proud, their works to mend,
And every fault with arrogance defend:
Think them too sacred to be criticis'd.
And rather choose to let them be despis'd.
He that is wise will not presume to laugh
At priests, or church-affairs; it is not safe.
Think there exists, and let it check your sport,
That dreadful monster call'd a spiritual court.
Into whose cruel jaws if once you fall,
In vain, alas! in vain for aid you call:
Clerks, proctors, priests, voracious round you ply,
Like leeches sticking, till they've suck'd you dry.
Their sleepy flocks begin to yawn and stretch.
Never presume the name of God to bring
As sacred sanction to a trifling thing.
Before, or after sermon, hymns of praise
Exalt the soul, and true devotion raise.
In songs of wonder celebrate his name,
Who spread the skies, and built the starry frame:
Or thence descending view this globe below,
And praise the source of every bliss we know.
In ancient times, when heaven was to be prais'd,
Our humble ancestors their voices rais'd,
And hymns of thanks from grateful bosoms flow'd,
For ills prevented, or for good bestow'd:
But as the church increas'd in power and pride,
The pomp of found the want of sense supply'd;
Majestic organs then were taught to blow,
And plain religion grew a raree-show:
Strange ceremonious whims, a numerous race,
Were introduc'd, in truth's and virtue's place.
Mysterious turnpikes block up heaven's highway,
And, for a ticket, we our reason pay.
These superstitions quickly introduce
Contempt, neglect, wild satire, and abuse;
Religion and its priests, by every fool
Were thought a jest, and turn'd to ridicule.
Some few indeed found where the medium lay,
And kept the coat but tore the fringe away.
Of preaching well if you expect the fame,
Let truth and virtue be your first great aim.
Your sacred function often call to mind,
And think how great the trust, to teach mankind:
'Tis yours in useful sermons to explain,
Both what we owe to God and what to man.
'Tis yours the charms of liberty to paint,
His country's love in every breast to plant;
Yours every social virtue to improve,
Justice, forbearance, charity, and love;
Yours too the private virtues to augment,
Of prudence, temperance, modesty, content:
When such the man, how amiable the priest;
Of all mankind the worthiest and the best.
Ticklish the point, I grant, and hard to find,
To please the various tempers of mankind.
Some love you should the crabbed points explain
Where texts with texts a dreadful war maintain:
Some love a new, and some the beaten path,
Morals please some, and others points of faith;
But he's the man, he's the admir'd divine,
In whose discourses truth and virtue join:
These are the sermons which will ever live,
By these our Tonsons and our Knaptons thrive;
How such are read, and prais'd, and how they fell,
Let Barrow's, Clarke's, and Butler's sermons tell.
Preachers should either make us good or wise,
Him that does neither, who but must despise?
If all your rules are useful, short and plain,
We soon shall learn them, and shall long retain?
But if on trifies you harangue, away
We turn our heads, and laugh at all you say.
But priests are men, and men are prone to err,
On common failings none should be severe:
All are not masters of the same good sense,
Nor blest with equal powers of eloquence.
'Tis true: and errors with an honest mind,
Will meet with easy pardon from mankind;
But who persists in wrong with stubborn pride,
Him all must censure, many will deride:
Yet few are judges of a fine discourse,
Can see its beauties, or can feel its force;
With equal pleasure some attentive fit,
To sober reasoning, and to shallow wit.
What then? because your audience most are fools,
Will you neglect all method, and all rules?
Or since the pulpit is a sacred place,
Where none dare contradict you to your face,
Will you presume to tell a thousand lies?
If so, we may forgive, but must despise.
In jingling Bev'ridge if I chance to see
One word of sense, I prize the rarity:
But if in Hocker, Sprar or Tillotson,
A thought unworthy of themselves is shown,
I grieve to see it; but 'tis no surprise,
The greatest men are not at all times wife.
Sermons like plays, some please us at the ear,
But never will a serious reading bear;
Some in the closet edify enough,
That from the pulpit seem'd but sorry stuff.
'Tis thus: there are, who by ill-preaching spoil
Young's pointed sense, or Atterbury's style;
Whilst others by the force of eloquence,
Make that seem fine, which scarce is common sense.
In every science, they that hope to rise,
Set great examples still before their eyes.
Young lawyers copy Murray where they can;
Physicians Mead, and surgeons Cheselden;
But all will pench, without the least pretence
To virtue, learning, art, or eloquence.
Why not? you cry: they plainly see, no doubt,
A priest may grow right-reverend without.
Preachers and preaching were at first design'd
For common benefit to all mankind.
Public and private virtues they explain'd,
To goodness courted, and from vice restrain'd:
Love, peace, and union breath'd in each discourse,
And their examples gave their precepts force.
From these good men, the priests and all their line
Were honour'd with the title of divine.
But soon their proud successors left this path,
Forsook plain morals for dark points of faith:
Till creeds on creeds the warring world inflam'd,
And all mankind, by different priests, were damn'd.
Some ask which is th' essential of a priest,
Virtue or learning? what they ask's a jest:
We daily see dull loads of reverend fat,
Without pretence to either this or that.
But who like Herring or like Hoadly shine,
Must with great learning real virtue join.
He who by preaching hopes to raise a name,
To no small excellence directs his aim.
On every noted preacher he must wait;
The voice, the look, the action imitate:
And when complete in style, and eloquence,
Must then crown all with learning and good sense.
But some with lazy pride disgrace the gown,
And never preach one sermon of their own;
'Tis easier to transcribe than to compose,
So all the week they eat, and drink, and doze.
As quacks with lying puffs the papers fill,
Or hand their own praise in a pocky bill,
Where empty boasts of much superior sense,
Draw from the cheated crowd their idle pence;
So the great H—nley hires for half-a-crown
A quack advertisement to tell the town
Of some strange point to be disputed on:
Where all who love the science of debate,
May hear themselves, or other coxcombs prate.
When dukes or noble lords a chaplain hire,
They first of his capacities inquire.
If stoutly qualify'd to drink and smoke,
If not too nice to hear an impious joke,
If tame enough to be the common jest,
This is a chaplain to his lordship's taste.
If bards to Pope indifferent verses show,
He is too honest not to tell them so.
This is obscure, he cries, and this too rough,
These trifling, or superfluous; strike them off.
How useful every word from such a friend!
But parsons are too proud, their works to mend,
And every fault with arrogance defend:
Think them too sacred to be criticis'd.
And rather choose to let them be despis'd.
He that is wise will not presume to laugh
At priests, or church-affairs; it is not safe.
Think there exists, and let it check your sport,
That dreadful monster call'd a spiritual court.
Into whose cruel jaws if once you fall,
In vain, alas! in vain for aid you call:
Clerks, proctors, priests, voracious round you ply,
Like leeches sticking, till they've suck'd you dry.