CANTO V.---BY PALEMON.

LOVE rules in Heaven---love beheld on Earth,
Is the pure offspring of celestial birth :
Thus Christians felt, as late sincere began,
An holier intercourse 'twixt man and man;
They felt, and feeling, with one effort strong,
Now burst from bigotry's contracted thong,
Sectarians, sever'd long, with hand and heart
Embrac'd as BRETHREN---never more to part.
Union of souls, of effort, and of aim,
Infus'd their actions with a purer flame,
Pure as the motive: all began to feel
Th' omnipotence of well-directed zeal;
That high command, with force unfelt before,
Go, preach the gospel on earth's farthest shore,'
Was now receiv'd, and as its truest test,

Fir'd with fresh impulse ev'ry Christian breast; When, lo! a glorious thought, from heav'n inspir'd,

Hope's rapt'rous and sublimest vision fir'd;
Its aim to circle in one wide embrace,
Of Christian love, the world's degen'rate race,
To send where'er the foot of mortals trod,
The Christian Preacher, and the Book of God.

As he of Patmos, whose high-favour'd glance
Beheld Apocalyptic scenes advance;
The type of years unborn, the glimpse of time,
Yet shrouded in futurity sublime.
When he perceiv'd from heav'n an angel fly,
And bear the truth to all beneath the sky,
That truth, THE GOSPEL, franchised to belong
To every nation, kindred, people, tongue;
And this its sound :---- To God be glory giv'n,
His hour of judgment is announc'd from heav'n;
Hear him, ye Gentiles, Him whose wisdom
guides,

And first ordain'd fire, air, earth, ocean's tides; From him your life, to him at death resign'd, ---Immortal spirits, brethren of mankind.'

Thus from our Isle, where truth its throne
has found,

Is gone abroad the Gospel's cheering sound;
Missions of mercy! see their flags unfurl'd,
Heralds of peace! their port the Heathen world.
Hail heav'nly messengers! in lands untrod,
Save by barbarians, ignorant of God!
The wond'ring Ethiop, whose sable skin
Is not more gloomy than the mind within,
His soul, howe'er degraded, sunk in shame,
Is yet a spark of the eternal flame;
His wilderness of mind, though dark, unwrought,
Teems with the germs and energies of thought,
But rank, luxurious, fallen nature's seeds,
Have sprung in all the luxury of weeds.
--But when the Sun of Righteousness shall
shine,

And warm his desert soul with beams divine;
The word of God---that seed of richest worth,
Shall germinate, sprung (as from fertile earth;)
Redundant bunches shall invest the shoots
Of spiritual branches with immortal fruits,

While moral flowers, unknown before, abound,

And Sharon's rose shall scatter fragrance round.

In ev'ry clime, the truth of God connects
With one eternal cause, the same effects;
On Greenland's shores, where cheerless tempests
blow,

O'er ice-rocks and inhospitable snow;
Where sterile fields are bound in gelid chains,
And nature dwindles on these arctic plains;
Where flick'ring meteors through his half-year's
night,

Chequer the gloom with intermittent light;
Yet nurs'd and cradled in this rig'rous spot,
The Greenlander enjoys his destin'd lot.
O'er this wild region, dawning from above,
A young theocracy with smiles of love,
Extends its sov'reign influence o'er his land,
And sways the sceptre of Divine command.
New hopes are his, religion is his guest;
His hopes in heav'n, his heav'n within his breast;
By faith he sees the rest he hopes to gain,
Beyond the polar star or northern wain.

Nor is Religion's genial influence felt
With purer warmth, where sunbeams never melt
Th' eternal rocks of ice, than where the beams
Of solar fire, in opposite extremes,
Light torrid regions, and the wildest trace
And tiger-fierceness, with unchain'd control,
Has stamp'd the features of the human face,
Raves through the desolation of his soul.
E'en there Britannia's Christian genius reigns,
There flows her life's-blood through its farthest
veins;

Flows to the race she curs'd with slav'ry's strife, ---The tide of charity, the streams of life.

Blesses good England he is slave no more;
There the poor Negro, when the day is o'er,
Hastes from his labour with dilating breast,
To share the cordial of the freeman's rest;
But first, with soften'd heart and anxious ear,
He waits the preacher's sacred voice to hear;
Mingles his pray'rs, and breathes his soul's
complaints,

Enjoys the holy fellowship of saints;
And in the shadow of his native palm,
Joins the sweet music of a Christian psalm;
And God's own Spirit in his soul reveals
Each sacred promise, and the promise seals.

No more need hard'ned casuistry toil
To alienate the child of Afric's soil
From Adam's seed; his father's sin he bears,
And he is number'd with salvation's heirs.
No more need pride's elated vot'ry pause,
From known effect refer to unknown cause
Eccentric nature; while his wounded pride,
Bewilder'd here, half doubting to decide,
Or lord of beasts the lofty savage ran,
Or sunk the lowest in the scale of man.
Man! know this truth, he has a soul like thine,
A priceless jewel in fall'n nature's mine.
Redeem'd, accepted, gather'd from afar,
The Gentile converts, bright transcendent star,
Through heav'n's eternal day shall shine a gem,
The brightest in the Saviour's diadem.---
But to my theme, now out of sight so long,
The sweet inspirer of my humble song,
My village theme---this late digressive flight,
Has led me onward with increas'd delight:
But as the eye unus'd to view the sun,
Attempts to pierce the blazing point of noon,
The tide of light effulgent dims its ray,
Too faint to mingle with the source of day,

O'erwhelm'd, it quits the empyrean scene,
To soothe its aching nerves on grateful green.
On such a theme the Muse may candour claim;
Success were glorious, but desertion shame.
Her flight returns, to where she first began,
'Midst those green haunts where Nature walks

with man.

[END OF CANTO V.]

Religion, you say, I have frequently sought, To place in your view, as a subject for thought. The charge I admit,---notwithstanding I see, That in meaning we do not precisely agree.

By creed or by doctrine, I do not conceive
Religion intended,---whate'er we believe.
The creed, or the system, is matter inert,
The body---the carcase---mere organiz'd dirt.
Religion is vital---divine like the soul---
A fire Promethean, that quickens the whole;
Which figure continu'd, will help to explain
A point or two more, that in darkness remain.
From what has been granted, it may be in-
ferr'd,

By one who would settle the question unheard,
That creeds are alike, since alike they are dead,
Till on them a quickening spirit is shed;
Or, since without this, they are merely pretence,
With doctrine and creed we may wholly dis-
pense.

But let him first ponder the thing in his mind--Nay,---e'en without pond'ring, he cannot but find,--

What daily experience must constantly show---
That spirit we only through matter can know.
Since its essence from human research is con-
ceal'd,

And only its properties dimly reveal'd;
The part that's corporeal can n'er be rejected,
While body with soul is so closely connected.
Nor can he conclude, that all creeds are the
same,

Since spirit resides not in ev'ry frame.
He surely would deem it a useless pursuit,
To seek a man's soul in the corpse of a brute :
And many a doctrine he cannot compare
With aught that is human, or aught that is fair.
There is then a limit we must not exceed,

When we speak of the equal pretension of creed;

But charity, although confin'd by this bound, Finds ample domains in the circumscrib'd ground.

What contrast of features we frequently see, "Twixt men who in rational aspect agree! But greater by far were the change, should we go From Athens or Rome to the poor Esquimaux.

penn❜d.

---Though creeds, which are founded on Scripture, may be

Of aspects dissimilar---thought being free,---
This truth I maintain---that Religion alone,
For ever subsists indivisibly one.

And what I assert you'll perhaps understand,
Let this be apply'd to the subject in hand,
---That, although religion I kept in my view,
On doctrine were chiefly my questions to you.
My reason---solicitude lest you should be,---
What a short time ago was reported to me,
A disciple of Zeno---a fatalist quite---
Contending, like Pope, that what is must be
right---

Denying all evil, (as Bolingbroke would,)
Since you say it proceeds from the Fountain of
good:

:--

Thus seeking to break down that barrier between

The bonum and malum, which ever has been.
In short, I was told,---that in forming your creed,
You had chosen a pattern, so monstrous indeed,
That were you to follow with strictness the plan,
The brute would be fashion'd, instead of the man.

With the tenets of Calvin, from me be it far (If you, my dear friend, have espous'd them) to war!

'Tis true that his doctrines I don't comprehend; But that this overthrows them, 'twere vain to pretend.

And although I do unreluctantly say,
That seeming absurdities lie in the way,
I dare not maintain that my vision is true,
Since all may be plain in another man's view;
And he, in the creed of Arminius may see
Inconsistencies which are unnotic'd by me.

"By the Bible," 'tis said, "let the issue be
try'd."

I grant it :---but who on the case shall decide? One man uses spectacles colour'd with green, Which change ev'ry object that through them

is seen:

Is worthy attention :---examine it well; For here, by his Spirit, God chooses to dwell. 'Tis possible it may some error contain; But that none of importance there can be, is plain.

And where the great object of faith is possest,
In charity we should surrender the rest.

Since all things our finite conceptions bespeak,
Immaculate systems we vainly shall seek.
This plainly, O Man! does thy Maker decree,---
"Do justice---love mercy---walk humbly with me!"

A Friar there was, Roger Bacon his name,' Who thirsted for knowledge, for wisdom, and fame :

He div'd into nature, and studied her laws,
Still tracing effects, and exploring their cause:
His efforts were meant for the good of man-
kind,

To burst thro' the gloom, and illumine the mind:
His soul was expanded, and caught a bright ray,
Eclipsing in lustre the Monks of his day:
His knowledge was deep, which he brought
from afar,

And wish'd to diffuse it, like some brilliant star.
The Brotherhood now rais'd a loud hue-and-cry,
Because they still grovell'd like swine in the
stye:

Traducing poor Roger, because he dar'd think, And would not, like them, of the puddle still drink:

Whilst they fill'd their paunches, and suck'd in the mud,

He feasted on Science, and that which was good:
They call'd him a wizard, and laid a deep plan,
To have him imprison'd, and ruin the man:
The sentence was pass'd, and denounc'd by the
Pope,

And Roger had nearly been hang'd by a rope.

A Friar there is in Great-Britain to-day, Whose neck is in danger in just the same way: Because he attempts 'bove the vulgar to soar, Still searching for wisdom and heav'nly lore. His brothers look on with a true jaundic'd eye, Because he loves that which for them is too high:

And as he endeavours to live by one Rule, They call him dogmatic, or much like a mule. He's queer, it is true, and he makes the folks

A liquid they sip, which he treats with a sneer, And calls it mere hog-wash, or worse than small beer;

He thinks none can drink it but those that are blind;

It. weakens the stomach, enervates the mind: From depths of pure science rich treasure he brings,

Rejecting all trifles, all chaff, and light things: He shakes off the trammels which others have worn,

And treats superstition most justly with scorn: His scent is so keen, and so sharp is his nose, He smells all that's swinish wherever he goes: What others are fond of, his stomach don't suit, The eaters, he thinks, are akin to the brute : With such sordid creatures he seldom can dine, Whose taste and whose relish are so, like the swine.

His Brotherhood lately have spread an alarm,
And think that this Friar is doing much harm:
The trumpet they blow, and it sounds now
aloud,

To fright'n the noodles and stir up the crowd:
Some tell a strange story, and then give a groan,
And all are directed by old mother Joan:
The Bull is gone forth, and the Conclave will sit,
To punish this Friar as they shall think fit:
Perhaps their decision will leave him to choose,
To perish with hunger, or die by a noose.
Ye sages of Britain, who dare to be wise‡
Who think for yourselves, and can open your

eyes;

Reflect on this bus'ness, and candidly say,
Is the basest of thraldom reviv'd in our day?
Are shackles preparing to fetter our mind,
To make us more servile, more stupid, and
blind?

Is hell's Inquisition new forging its chains,
To plunge in a dungeon the men that have brains?
Pronouncing its shibboleth, laying down rules,
Employing as agents mere dunces or fools?
The effort of genius to crush in the birth,
And keep men in darkness throughout the whole
earth?

This case lies before you, decide as you can,
Pronounce him a guilty, or plain honest man.
A Parallel here you may plainly behold,
'Twixt this British Friar and Roger of old;
And yet that they differ in one thing, you see,
For this man and bacon can never agree!
From Observation-Point,

Feb. 7th, 1804.

PERSPICAX.

In the city of Sienna, in Italy, there is in marble
a representation of the Angel driving Adam and
Eve out of Paradise, with this Inscription.
I have offended
Almighty God, and Posterity.

I am indebted to both :
But neither to me.

by the Pope. Thus the world was for some time deprived of the labours of one of the greatest geniuses, that perhaps was ever in it. His learning was his crime: the ignorant took him for a magician; and he was imprisoned, and ruined, for being a wiser man, and a better scholar, than his contemporaries.

+Alluding to a portrait of him, where he is represented with a hat on his head. Sapere aude. Hor.