Sunday: A Poem

Hail holy day, by heav'nly laws design'd
A consolation to all human kind,
To man and brutes a day of peace and rest,
Wou'd man but own his duty, and be blest:
As when the harp, in Jesse's golden days,
Tun'd ev'ry Sabbath to Jehovah's praise,
By holy prophets, and by virgins strung
When truth and faith inspir'd ev'ry tongue;
Or when his son, with eloquence divine,
(The greatest favorite of the sacred Nine)
Made the proud Saul, whene'er he touch'd his strings,
Bow his stiff neck, and own the King of Kings.

Observe the present age,—how vain, how strange!
How true sang he, who told us, "all things change,"
A puny race of infidels and fools,
True slaves to vice, and fashion's gaudy tools;
Strangers to virtue, enemies to fame,
Except in foreign dress, or foreign name.

My Lord sends forth his hopeful heir to roam
To foreign climes, to bring new fashions home:
Caught with their manners and their taste, he burns,
And after six years travel, he returns
A flimsy fop, a coxcomb and a fool,—
A greater dunce than when he left the school:
Quick at intrigue, to gamble, or to sight,
A debauchee, if not a s—te.

Britain and France with emulation try
T' outdo each other in absurdity.
For here at home what vast excess we see
In city fops, and city quality:
Is there a folly introduc'd at court,
But streight on swiftest pinions of report,
It thro' the city in a trice is fann'd,
And introduc'd,—for taste, at second hand?
With cards and routs their Sunday is employ'd,
And ev'ry Christian virtue is destroy'd.
Mode will bewitch, all eyes may plainly see,
And nothing charms like flimsy gaiety:
In all degrees, at ev'ry age, we find,
There's nought like fashion captivates the mind:
Do but observe the rich Sir Traffick's wife,
Old and deform'd, upon the verge of life,
With fulsome art, she rolls her faded eyes,
And thinks to make a conquest ere she dies;
While in their dress there's no distinction seen
'Tween sixty-six, and she of gay sixteen.

But to my theme; my muse at random strays,
And with a tedious prelude, she delays
My better meaning, and perverts my plan,
I'll tack about, and to it, like a man.—
We raise subscriptions and new churches build,
But heaven knows how seldom they are fill'd.
Shou'd Sunday shine a summer's day, and fair,
Behold what legions round the town repair;
What flocks to Richmond and to Windsor drive,
And buz and sip, like drones about a hive,
At every welcome tavern which they meet,
Affecting bucks, and asses prove complete,
On hackney'd steeds, the giddy blockheads fly,
Who kindly drag 'em home, perhaps, and die:
Of all the slaves dame nature's giv'n us here
There's none so noble, treated so severe
As the kind steed, that's ever yet been curst,
To have his last load greater than his first.
When worn with hunger, slav'ry and age
Finds still a harder journey to engage;
Than when in youth and vigour he wou'd bear
My Lord a mile or two to take the air.
But such is fate, when useless and grown old
To some unfeeling monster he is sold.

Each needy wretch his thirst for taste declares
Whene'er he speaks, but more by what he wears;
Oft is the fancy of some brainless prig
Couch'd in the choice of his enormous wig,
And oft we learn the tenor of the fair
By the sly glance, or belle-affected air.
Is there a nymph that Fortune will not own,
That beauty might indeed have stamp'd have shown?
Behold her sailing in the pink of taste,
Trump'd up with powder, frippery and paste,
Resolv'd 'gainst fortune, beauty's force to try,
(The greatest powers now beneath the sky,)
Rather than fate her conquest shou'd impede,
She'll not retreat, tho' virtue's sure to bleed.

Behold what droves to Bagnigge Wells repair,
Crowding together for the sake of air,
And strictly keeping Sunday's weekly fair.
Sunk in a vale, this fair retreat is plac'd,
And with two mountains on each side is grac'd;
That has for ages, there, in loads been thrown,
Receiving all the rubbish of the town.
Smooth thro' its flat a muddy riv'let streams,
And down its sides a wholsome church-yard teems;
Here, close pent up by thousands, we repair,
And praise the water, liquor and the air:
Here love-sick couples ev'ry Sunday run,
They marry next, and find themselves undone:
Soon shifts the scene, the passion next is cloy'd,
And all their promis'd happiness destroy'd.

Behold a pair, that but two years ago,
She a coquette, and he a city beau,
Now look with sorrow at their former state,
And curse the burden of their present fate.
Marry'd, they walk indifferent and grave,
Whilst worldly cares their ev'ry thought enslave:
He, at a distance, from the crowd retires,
She, at a distance, leaves her gay desires.

See, self-admir'd, Miss, of four feet high,
Display her charms, and with an ogle, try
To captivate some dull unwary spark,
She often shoots, but seldom hits the mark:
For should the rogue some imperfection spy,
Her crooked legs, or bolster'd shape, awry:
If the high shoulder, which she'd fain conceal,
Some thoughtless turn shou'd cruelly reveal,
No new device, how well soe'er 'tis dress'd,
Will win the lover to her strutting breast.

If such a wretch wou'd deal in Hymen's laws,
Let her throw off her frippery and gauze;
Nor vainly try, with self-imagin'd charms,
To win the lover to her stunted arms.
To charm with person, never make pretence,
But try to please with gravity and sense:
Plain be your dress, seem conscious of defect,
Let love subside, and try to win respect.
Shou'd some grave friend of sixty, seek a wife,
A needful helpmate, at the verge of life,
Who's with your virtues, not your person mov'd,
Its better far by such to be approv'd,
Than try with such a form to make a prize,
Or hope in vain to charm a lover's eyes,
Who will but rally, flatter and despise.
Devote no more your Sunday to intrigue,
Nor longer keep your vanity in league;
For where the person and the mind's awry,
We seldom find it catch a lover's eye.

Let not White Conduit, Bagnigge, or the Spaw,
One Sunday more your vain attention draw,
Where swarms of fools, of coxcombs, bucks and beaux,
Adore themselves, and next themselves, their clothes.
Where belles repair to catch, and to be caught,
That never yet gave being to a thought.

You, on whom fortune has been pleas'd to smile,
Lay by your giddy pleasures for a while;
Regard the cries of nature in distress,
Confine awhile your appetite and dress:
Where fortune's giv'n enough, and some to spare,
Let the remainder be the poor man's share.