An Ode, On Reading Mr Richardson's History Of Sir Charles Grandison

Say, ye apostate and profane,

Wretches, who blush not to disdain

Allegiance to your God,--

Did e'er your idly wasted love

Of virtue for her sake remove

And lift you from the crowd?

Would you the race of glory run,

Know, the devout, and they alone,

Are equal to the task:

The labours of the illustrious course

Far other than the unaided force

Of human vigour ask,

To arm against reputed ill

The patient heart too brave to feel

The tortures of despair:

Nor safer yet high-crested pride,

When wealth flows in with every tide

To gain admittance there.

To rescue from the tyrant’s sword

The oppress'd; unseen and unimplored,

To cheer the face of woe;

From lawless insult to defend

An orphan's right—a fallen friend,

And a forgiven foe;

These, these distinguish from the crowd,

And these alone, the great and good,

The guardians of mankind;

Whose bosoms with these virtues heave,

O with what matchless speed they leave

The multitude behind!

Then ask ye, from what cause on earth

Virtues like these derive their birth?

Derived from Heaven alone,

Full on that favour’d breast they shine,

Where faith and resignation join

To call the blessing down.

Such is that heart:--but while the muse

Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues,

Her feeble spirits faint;

She cannot reach, and would not wrong,

The subject for an angel’s song,

The hero, and the saint!