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MDCCLXVI.
T H E
METHODIST.
Nothing, search all creation round,
Nothing so firmly good is found,
Whose substance, with such closeness knit,
Corruption’s Touch will not admit;
But, spite of all incroaching stains,
Its native purity retains:
Whose texture will nor warp, nor fade,
Though moths and weather shou’d invade,
Which Time’s sharp tooth cannot corrode,
Proof against Accident and Mode;
And, maugre each assailing dart,
Thrown by the hand of Force, or Art,
Remains (let Fate do what it will)
Simple and uncorrupted still.
Virtue, of constitution nice,
Quickly degen’rates into Vice;
Change but the Person, Place, and Time,
And what was Merit turns to Crime.
Wisdom, which men with so much pain,
With so much weariness attain,
May in a little moment quit,
And abdicate the throne of Wit,
And leave, a vacant seat, the brain,
For Folly to usurp and reign.
Should you but discompose the tide,
On which Ideas wont to ride,
Ferment it with a yeasty Storm,
Or with high Floods of Wine deform;
Altho’ Sir Oracle is he,
Who is as wise, as wise can be,
In one short minute we shall find
The wise man gone, a fool behind.
Courage, that is all nerve and heart,
That dares confront Death’s brandish’d dart,
That dares to single Fight defy
The stoutest Hector of the sky,
Whose mettle ne’er was known to slack,
Nor wou’d on thunder turn his back;
How small a matter may controul,
And sooth the fury of his soul!
Shou’d this intrepid Mars, his clay
Dilute with nerve-relaxing Tea,
Thin broths, thin whey, or water-gruel,
He is no longer fierce and cruel,
But mild and gentle as a dove,
The Hero’s melted down to Love.
The juices soften’d, (here we note
More on the juices than the Coat
Depends, to make a valiant Mars
Rich in the heraldry of scars)
The Man is soften’d too, and shews
No fondness for a bloody nose.
When Georgy S—k——le shunn’d the Fray,
He’d swill’d a little too much Tea.
Chastity melts like sun-kiss’d snow,
When Lust’s hot wind begins to blow.
Let but that horrid Creature, Man,
Breathe on a lady thro’ her fan,
Her Virtue thaws, and by and bye
Will of the falling Sickness die.
Lo! Beauty, still more transitory,
Fades in the mid-day of its glory!
For Nature in her kindness swore,
That she who kills, shall kill no more;
And in pure mercy does erase
Each killing feature in the face;
Plucks from the cheek the damask rose,
E’en at the moment that it blows;
Dims the bright lustre of those eyes
To which the Gods wou’d sacrifice;
Dries the moist lip, and pales its hue,
And brushes off its honied dew;
Flattens the proudly swelling chest,
Furrows the round elastic breast,
And all the Loves that on it play’d,
Are in a tomb of wrinkles laid;
Recalls those charms, which she design’d
To please, and not bewitch Mankind;
But with too delicate a touch,
Heightening the Ornaments too much,
She finds her daughters can convert
Blessings to curses, good to hurt,
Proof of parental love to give,
She blots them out that Man may live.
The hour will come (which let not me
Indulgent Nature, live to see!)
The hour will come, when Chloe’s form
Shall with its beauty feed the worm;
That face where troops of Cupids throng,
Whose charms first warm’d me into song,
Shall wrinkle, wither, and decay,
To Age, and to Disease, a prey!
Chloe, in whom are so combin’d
The charms of body and of mind,
As might to Earth elicit Jove,
Thinking his Heav’n well left for Love;
Perfection as she is, the hour
Will come, when she must feel the pow’r
Of Time, and to his wither’d arms,
Resign the rifling of her charms!
Must veil her beauties in a cloud,
A grave her bed, her robe a shroud!
When all her glowing, vivid bloom,
Must fade and wither in the tomb!
When she who bears the ensigns now,
Of Beauty’s Priestess on her brow,
Shall to th’ abhorr’d embrace of Death
Give up the sweetness of her breath!
When worms—but stop, Description, there—
My heart cannot the picture bear—
Sickens to think there is a day,
When Chloe will be made a prey
To Death, a piece-meal feast for him
With rav’nous jaw to tear each limb,
And feature after feature eat,
While Beauty only serves for Meat—
Wretched to know that this is true,
Forbear t’ anticipate the view!
Hence, Observation!—take your leave!—
And kindly, Memory, deceive!
And when some forty years are fled,
And age has on her beauties fed,
Dear Self-Delusion! lend thy skill
To fancy she is Chloe still!
Cities and Empires will decay,
And to Corruption fall a prey!
Athens, of arts the native land,
Cou’d not the stroke of Time withstand;
There Serpents hiss, and ravens croak,
Where Socrates and Plato spoke.
Proud Troy herself (as all things must)
Is crumbled into native dust;
Is now a pasture, where the beast
Strays for his vegetable feast,
Old Priam’s royal palace now
May couch the ox, the ass, the cow.—