The pulpit therefore--and I name it, filled With solemn awe, that bids me well beware With what intent I touch that holy thing--The pulpit, when the satirist has at last, Strutting and vapouring in an empty school, Spent all his force, and made no proselyte--I say the pulpit, in the sober use Of its legitimate peculiar powers, Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand, The most important and effectual guard, Support, and ornament of virtue's cause.
There stands the messenger of truth; there stands The legate of the skies; his theme divine, His office sacred, his credentials clear.
By him, the violated Law speaks out Its thunders, and by him, in strains as sweet As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace.
He stablishes the strong, restores the weak, Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart, And, armed himself in panoply complete Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule Of holy discipline, to glorious war, The sacramental host of God's elect.
Are all such teachers? would to heaven all were!
But hark--the Doctor's voice--fast wedged between Two empirics he stands, and with swollen cheeks Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far Than all invective is his bold harangue, While through that public organ of report He hails the clergy, and, defying shame, Announces to the world his own and theirs, He teaches those to read whom schools dismissed, And colleges, untaught; sells accents, tone, And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer The adagio and andante it demands.
He grinds divinity of other days Down into modern use; transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.--Are there who purchase of the Doctor's ware?
Oh name it not in Gath!--it cannot be, That grave and learned Clerks should need such aid.
He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, Assuming thus a rank unknown before, Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the Church.
I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause.
To such I render more than mere respect, Whose actions say that they respect themselves.
But, loose in morals, and in manners vain, In conversation frivolous, in dress Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse, Frequent in park with lady at his side, Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes, But rare at home, and never at his books Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card;Constant at routs, familiar with a round Of ladyships, a stranger to the poor;Ambitions of preferment for its gold, And well prepared by ignorance and sloth, By infidelity and love o' the world, To make God's work a sinecure; a slave To his own pleasures and his patron's pride.--From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, Preserve the Church! and lay not careless hands On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn.
Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own, Paul should himself direct me. I would trace His master-strokes, and draw from his design.
I would express him simple, grave, sincere;In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste, And natural in gesture; much impressed Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too; affectionate in look And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guilty men.
Behold the picture!--Is it like?--Like whom?
The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, And then skip down again; pronounce a text, Cry--Hem; and reading what they never wrote, Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, And with a well-bred whisper close the scene.
In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn;Object of my implacable disgust.
What!--will a man play tricks, will he indulge A silly fond conceit of his fair form And just proportion, fashionable mien, And pretty face, in presence of his God?
Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, As with the diamond on his lily hand, And play his brilliant parts before my eyes, When I am hungry for the Bread of Life?
He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames His noble office, and, instead of truth, Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock!
Therefore, avaunt, all attitude and stare And start theatric, practised at the glass.
I seek divine simplicity in him Who handles things divine; and all beside, Though learned with labour, and though much admired By curious eyes and judgments ill-informed, To me is odious as the nasal twang Heard at conventicle, where worthy men, Misled by custom, strain celestial themes Through the prest nostril, spectacle-bestrid.
Some, decent in demeanour while they preach, That task performed, relapse into themselves, And having spoken wisely, at the close Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye--Whoe'er was edified themselves were not.
Forth comes the pocket mirror. First we stroke An eyebrow; next compose a straggling lock;Then with an air, most gracefully performed, Fall back into our seat; extend an arm, And lay it at its ease with gentle care, With handkerchief in hand, depending low:
The better hand, more busy, gives the nose Its bergamot, or aids the indebted eye With opera glass to watch the moving scene, And recognise the slow-retiring fair.
Now this is fulsome, and offends me more Than in a Churchman slovenly neglect And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind May be indifferent to her house of clay, And slight the hovel as beneath her care.
But how a body so fantastic, trim, And quaint in its deportment and attire, Can lodge a heavenly mind--demands a doubt.
