Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354702" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Dedication</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">To Churchill's Sermons.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The manuscript of this unfinished poem was found among the few papers<br>Churchill left behind him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Health to great Glo'ster!--from a man unknown,<br>Who holds thy health as dearly as his own,<br>Accept this greeting--nor let modest fear<br>Call up one maiden blush--I mean not here<br>To wound with flattery; 'tis a villain's art,<br>And suits not with the frankness of my heart.<br>Truth best becomes an orthodox divine,<br>And, spite of Hell, that character is mine:<br>To speak e'en bitter truths I cannot fear;<br>But truth, my lord, is panegyric here. <br>Health to great Glo'ster!--nor, through love of ease,<br>Which all priests love, let this address displease.<br>I ask no favour, not one _note_ I crave,<br>And when this busy brain rests in the grave,<br>(For till that time it never can have rest)<br>I will not trouble you with one bequest.<br>Some humbler friend, my mortal journey done,<br>More near in blood, a nephew or a son,<br>In that dread hour executor I'll leave,<br>For I, alas! have many to receive; <br>To give, but little.--To great Glo'ster health!<br>Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth<br>Here take a false alarm--in purse though poor,<br>In spirit I'm right proud, nor can endure<br>The mention of a bribe--thy pocket's free:<br>I, though a dedicator, scorn a fee.<br>Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes share;<br>I would not Allen rob, nor Allen's heir.<br>Think not,--a thought unworthy thy great soul,<br>Which pomps of this world never could control, <br>Which never offer'd up at Power's vain shrine,--<br>Think not that pomp and power can work on mine.<br>'Tis not thy name, though that indeed is great,<br>'Tis not the tinsel trumpery of state,<br>'Tis not thy title, Doctor though thou art,<br>'Tis not thy mitre, which hath won my heart.<br>State is a farce; names are but empty things,<br>Degrees are bought, and, by mistaken kings,<br>Titles are oft misplaced; mitres, which shine<br>So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine, <br>Unless set off by virtue; who deceives<br>Under the sacred sanction of lawn sleeves<br>Enhances guilt, commits a double sin;<br>So fair without, and yet so foul within.<br>'Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mien,<br>Thy sweet complacency, thy brow serene,<br>Thy open front, thy love-commanding eye,<br>Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie,<br>Which can from sixty to sixteen impart<br>The force of Love, and point his blunted dart; <br>'Tis not thy face, though that by Nature's made<br>An index to thy soul; though there display'd<br>We see thy mind at large, and through thy skin<br>Peeps out that courtesy which dwells within;<br>'Tis not thy birth, for that is low as mine,<br>Around our heads no lineal glories shine--<br>But what is birth,--when, to delight mankind,<br>Heralds can make those arms they cannot find,<br>When thou art to thyself, thy sire unknown,<br>A whole Welsh genealogy alone? <br>No; 'tis thy inward man, thy proper worth,<br>Thy right just estimation here on earth,<br>Thy life and doctrine uniformly join'd,<br>And flowing from that wholesome source, thy mind;<br>Thy known contempt of Persecution's rod,<br>Thy charity for man, thy love of God,<br>Thy faith in Christ, so well approved 'mongst men,<br>Which now give life and utterance to my pen.<br>Thy virtue, not thy rank, demands my lays;<br>'Tis not the Bishop, but the Saint, I praise: <br>Raised by that theme, I soar on wings more strong,<br>And burst forth into praise withheld too long.<br>Much did I wish, e'en whilst I kept those sheep<br>Which, for my curse, I was ordain'd to keep,--<br>Ordain'd, alas! to keep, through need, not choice,<br>Those sheep which never heard their shepherd's voice,<br>Which did not know, yet would not learn their way,<br>Which stray'd themselves, yet grieved that I should stray;<br>Those sheep which my good father (on his bier<br>Let filial duty drop the pious tear) <br>Kept well, yet starved himself, e'en at that time<br>Whilst I was pure and innocent of rhyme,<br>Whilst, sacred Dulness ever in my view,<br>Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,--<br>Much did I wish, though little could I hope,<br>A friend in him who was the friend of Pope.<br>His hand, said I, my youthful steps shall guide,<br>And lead me safe where thousands fall beside;<br>His temper, his experience, shall control,<br>And hush to peace the tempest of my soul; <br>His judgment teach me, from the critic school,<br>How not to err, and how to err by rule;<br>Instruct me, mingle profit with delight,<br>Where Pope was wrong, where Shakspeare was not right;<br>Where they are justly praised, and where, through whim,<br>How little's due to them, how much to him.<br>Raised 'bove the slavery of common rules,<br>Of common-sense, of modern, ancient schools,<br>Those feelings banish'd which mislead us all,<br>Fools as we are, and which we Nature call, <br>He by his great example might impart<br>A better something, and baptize it Art;<br>He, all the feelings of my youth forgot,<br>Might show me what is taste by what is not;<br>By him supported, with a proper pride,<br>I might hold all mankind as fools beside;<br>He (should a world, perverse and peevish grown,<br>Explode his maxims and assert their own)<br>Might teach me, like himself, to be content,<br>And let their folly be their punishment; <br>Might, like himself, teach his adopted son,<br>'Gainst all the world, to quote a Warburton.<br>Fool that I was! could I so much deceive<br>My soul with lying hopes? could I believe<br>That he, the servant of his Maker sworn,<br>The servant of his Saviour, would be torn<br>From their embrace, and leave that dear employ,<br>The cure of souls, his duty and his joy,<br>For toys like mine, and waste his precious time,<br>On which so much depended, for a rhyme? <br>Should he forsake the task he undertook,<br>Desert his flock, and break his pastoral crook?<br>Should he (forbid it, Heaven!) so high in place,<br>So rich in knowledge, quit the work of grace,<br>And, idly wandering o'er the Muses' hill,<br>Let the salvation of mankind stand still?<br>Far, far be that from thee--yes, far from thee<br>Be such revolt from grace, and far from me<br>The will to think it--guilt is in the thought--<br>Not so, not so, hath Warburton been taught, <br>Not so learn'd Christ. Recall that day, well known,<br>When (to maintain God's honour, and his own)<br>He call'd blasphemers forth; methinks I now<br>See stern Rebuke enthroned on his brow,<br>And arm'd with tenfold terrors--from his tongue,<br>Where fiery zeal and Christian fury hung,<br>Methinks I hear the deep-toned thunders roll,<br>And chill with horror every sinner's soul,<br>In vain they strive to fly--flight cannot save.<br>And Potter trembles even in his grave-- <br>With all the conscious pride of innocence,<br>Methinks I hear him, in his own defence,<br>Bear witness to himself, whilst all men knew,<br>By gospel rules his witness to be true.<br>O glorious man! thy zeal I must commend,<br>Though it deprived me of my dearest friend;<br>The real motives of thy anger known,<br>Wilkes must the justice of that anger own;<br>And, could thy bosom have been bared to view,<br>Pitied himself, in turn had pitied you. <br>Bred to the law, you wisely took the gown,<br>Which I, like Demas, foolishly laid down;<br>Hence double strength our Holy Mother drew,<br>Me she got rid of, and made prize of you.<br>I, like an idle truant fond of play,<br>Doting on toys, and throwing gems away,<br>Grasping at shadows, let the substance slip;<br>But you, my lord, renounced attorneyship<br>With better purpose, and more noble aim,<br>And wisely played a more substantial game: <br>Nor did Law mourn, bless'd in her younger son,<br>For Mansfield does what Glo'ster would have done.<br>Doctor! Dean! Bishop! Glo'ster! and My Lord!<br>If haply these high titles may accord<br>With thy meek spirit; if the barren sound<br>Of pride delights thee, to the topmost round<br>Of Fortune's ladder got, despise not one<br>For want of smooth hypocrisy undone,<br>Who, far below, turns up his wondering eye,<br>And, without envy, sees thee placed so high: <br>Let not thy brain (as brains less potent might)<br>Dizzy, confounded, giddy with the height,<br>Turn round, and lose distinction, lose her skill<br>And wonted powers of knowing good from ill,<br>Of sifting truth from falsehood, friends from foes;<br>Let Glo'ster well remember how he rose,<br>Nor turn his back on men who made him great;<br>Let him not, gorged with power, and drunk with state,<br>Forget what once he was, though now so high,<br>How low, how mean, and full as poor as I.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charles+Churchill">Charles Churchill</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354702" data-title="Dedication de Charles Churchill" data-description="To Churchill's Sermons.

The manuscript of this unfinished poem was found among the few papers
Churchill left behind him.

Health to great Glo'ster!--from a man unknown,
Who holds thy health as dearly as his own,
Accept this greeting--nor let mode..."></div>
</div>
</div>